Save Our Souls: 2Doc

Hollywood

"Fuck!"

Murdoc groaned, drunkenly smashing his digits into the phone keypad for room service. He needed more booze - some rum or whiskey preferably, but at this point he didn't care as long as it would keep him from thinking; thinking about how, if he's found, he'll probably be charged on three felonies now: escaping confinement, criminal trespassing and whatever you can be charged with for breaking into someone else's hotel room. Actually, considering the fact that this place was meant to be 'prestige', it was depressingly easy to get into (like most women, Murdoc found.) Anyways, unlike most places he stayed, this hotel was what he'd call 'swanky':

Seriously-wanky.

Groggily, the bassist rummaged around the complimentary bar, fondling all of the empty bottles, groping at their lids imploring remaining droplets of Tequila to fall into his dry maw. Either the owner of this room was a generous host, or the L.A heat had caused it to evaporate - much like Murdoc's patience.

Unsuccessful in scavenging for more alcohol, the satanist draped himself over the immaculately laid queen-sized bed, adorned in beautiful silks which reminded the bassist of his Egyptian bedspread in the Winnebago back home. Similarly to how he laid in 'Winne', face down and on the verge of suffocation, Niccals debated whether he should just go to sleep, or persevere in finding more ethanol to drown his senses in - which was a 'Catch-22' situation because he couldn't get to sleep through constant overthinking and the overwhelming desire to be absolutely smashed. The bassist stumbled out of the bed, unfazed by the creased, askew, slightly damp state he left the duvet in and trudged over to the balcony in order to spy a nearby off-licence.

Frustratedly scanning the landscape of Venice Beach, half-fledged thoughts of how he should be appreciating the view flirted with his senses, and Murdoc was always partial to a bit of flirting. Eventually, the satanist collapsed to the floor and sat, watching the calm breeze play with a tempestuous sea, the various neon lights shimmered with life - he longed for the feeling of living. Subdued, Murdoc merely stared on - these moments were increasingly rare, due to the fact that he couldn't stand anything but numbness, though as the cold air washed over him, he was helpless to do anything. Dazed, the bassist, pressed his hands against the glass separating him from the beach and continued to gaze, defeated, at that lively sea.

...

That was until he noticed a reflection.

The faint sight of scuffed Oxford shoes and formal trousers, turned up at the ankles, met the satanist, who - too inebriated to comprehend what deep shit he was in - chose to ignore the interruption and, unperturbed, turn his attention back to the sea, though this time he listened pensively to the man's breathing, which had become incredibly laboured.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The man stuttered, and the satanist couldn't tell whether each word shook with a primal fear, or if years of blaring speakers had finally destroyed his hearing. Unsteadily, he spun himself around to see a mountain - well, bean-pole of a man - stood before him, chest rising and falling rapidly as he ran his pale hands through Azure blue hair.

Oh shit.

Torrents of half-baked thoughts hurtled through the bassist's mind so fast he felt like he was going to hurl, thoughts like: 'I knew I should have stayed at a Motel', 'I'm not ready for this conversation' and 'I really need to piss again'. Nevertheless, he wouldn't let his singer know this wasn't at all part of his plan and, still in the midst of a drunken stupor, Murdoc attempted to alleviate the situation with a cool "'Ello, face ache!" opening his arms wide to greet the singer who instinctively retreated into the corner of the suite, drained of all colour.

"You need to leave." 2D demanded, causing the satanists arms to flop back down to his sides, the harsh 'thwack' noise this motion created forced the singer to flinch, welding his eyes shut. Murdoc couldn't take rejection, simply because Murdoc Niccals never got rejected, and so, he continued to meander towards the alarmed frontman. He'd look weak if he backed down now, and Murdoc grew tired of that particular aesthetic after the idiot he made of himself bargaining for his soul.