Save Our Souls: 2Doc

Jailz Barz

Wormwood Scrubs prison, London, 2018, 20:00 PM:

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

Exasperated, Murdoc let out an exaggerated sigh - would someone stop that bloody dripping? This cell was driving him loony, well, so were the guards

and the food,

and the courtyard,

and well, everything actually.

It was really just insulting that not only was he wrongfully imprisoned by some dodgy demon, hellbent on making him 'atone for his sins', but that also, the British Magistrate's (or 'Mag' as he endearingly referred to them) would be so careless as to underestimate him and send him to a 'Category B' men's prison - only B? Granted, this made his inevitable escape much easier, but the least they could of done was acknowledge all of the ingenious and totally violent crimes he'd committed - he'd practically committed war crimes for Satan's sake! Still, Murdoc shuddered to think how bad the conditions in a Category A prison would be - this place was probably the most dingy, dismal and utterly disheveled place he had ever had the misfortune of residing, and he'd literally lived on a floating island made of landfill.

Lethargically tugging down the sleeves of his coarse, orange jumpsuit, Murdoc closed his eyes, so as to avoid setting off any of the brainless skinheads, who dragged their lard-filled bodies through the common areas of the prison, as he thought. Initially, this was hard due to the primitive grunting and hollering that filled the stifling air, making the inmates seem more primate than any of his Gorillaz. Eventually however, he was able to concentrate. Murdoc knew that his campaigns - much like every other thing he'd ever done in his life - were incredibly successful in managing to rile up hoardes of his adoring fans; hashtags demanding his freedom circulated all manners of social media whilst the more technologically advanced of his followers were preparing to seize control of Wormwood's PA system and cause a distraction for his very own great escape. This would take a while though, and in the meantime, all the satanist could do was reply to the flurry of questions sent in by fans - EMI had smuggled him a phone so that he could maintain hype for Gorillaz' new album 'The Now Now'. It wasn't anything new from them - it was just like Dungeon Abbey except less solitary - what was different though, was the fact that he'd had no part in making any of this album. Actually, Murdoc found it to be quite the piss take. Any time he'd been missing a member (through no fault of his own he might add) he'd only ever 'replaced' them with some machinery, in Noodle's case he'd practically just made another her - never in a million years would he think to replace them with a completely different person. As Murdoc switched on his phone, he wondered whether loyalty meant anything to his bandmates.

Suddenly, a flash of white, ripped across the prisoner's face - another message, this time it was from some Yank reporter. Murdoc's digit hovered over the notification, eager to dismiss the query and shove a proverbial middle finger in the proverbial face of EMI, when he hesitated...

'Do you miss the band?'

Shit.

Briefly, Murdoc stared at the message, his brows furrowed creating deep trenches on his forehead (not that this was visible beneath his luxurious mane) his eyes, already bloodshot from lack of sleep, started to well with tears - he shouldn't miss those bastards. Swiftly, he scrunched up his face, refusing to dwell on it, before feverishly typing his response:

'Like the clap.'

This was the most pleasant reaction Murdoc could give, in fact, he'd deleted the majority of his initial message, which included quite a lot more profanity. He wanted to say that he'd rather have a terminal case of the clap, than ever see those jokes for 'mates' again. The same 'mates' who couldn't even be arsed to visit him - the most interaction he'd recieved from them was a single bloody thumbs up emoji from Noodle. The same 'mates' who didn't even brief him on the fact that they'd decided to substitute him for a sentient runner bean; and the same 'mates' who were asked the exact same fucking question and didn't care!

Frustrated, Murdoc collapsed onto his bunk (the top bunk due to him being 'a little prick', 'a bitch' and 'not really suffering from seizures'). He curled up facing the wall in order to conceal his pathetic display of distress as he buried his face deep into his pillow. He had to get out of here.

Eventually, the feelings had subsided, leaving the satanist with only his horrible, berating intrusive thoughts, and the urge to piss. Cautiously, he began to lower himself onto the bottom bunk, before realising he was Murdoc Niccals who didn't give a fuck , and plummeting down on the bed frame - much to the dismay of his cellmate who, too exhausted to do anything, merely growled in response. Groggily sauntering over to the prisons excuse for a toilet, he felt the air become humid - almost suffocating - as an ominous black fog, like wisps of ash, desperately clung to his trousers.

It couldn't be - not again...

The rising smoke quickly enveloped the man, frantically attempting to claw his way out of his cell - this was the same fog he'd encountered at Plastic Beach - the black cloud... As Murdoc's vison became impaired, burning beneath the oppressive film of smog, he viciously began to shake the other inmates to no avail. It was too late. Instantly, a scorching bolt of crimson erupted from the darkness, swelling and expanding until it had taken up half of the already cramped cell, whilst Murdoc scuttled into the corner beside the door. Gradually, the room cooled as it materialised, a tall withered man, his face completely obscured by his hood as he spoke:

"Long time no see, Murdoc."