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I woke up this morning under the pretenses of having all my clothes on.

Hnnngh.  Somewhat of a rare phenomenon...  [ He may actually sound a bit perturbed by this. ]

SO.

Guess what I managed to get my grimy little grabbers on?  El Diablo.  My one and only true true true TRUER than true love.  And all that rubbish.  

She needs an amp though.  Considering hijacking one off of those supposed Elvis clones...  Might be able to snag a decent Gibson.  Errr.  Harrrruko was it?  How's about we find ourselves some firepower and go on a field trip?  Or anyone else who might be in on a little... huhuhuh.  Fun.

((ooc; peeling offa'  my hiatus.  Let me know if you want me to continue any backlogging! )))
[ After a desperate attempt to sooth his maddening alcoholism with Egon's trusty bottle of isopropanol, he feels a bit queasy.

It's not like he doesn't know he just guzzled a potentially lethal dose medicinal booze. Heavens no! He just gathers have 40 plus years of ingesting spoiled milk, rancid oatmeal, maggot-infested prime rib, crushed glass, clumpy sink grime, and 2D's tears, he might just survive this one.

Well that and it cured the hangover. At least temporarily.

NEVERTHELESS, between seismic stomach aches, chills, upchucking, downchucking, sidewayschucking, and otherwise not-so-sunny side effects, Murdoc's feeling like he'd like to pay ol' Lucy a visit. Perhaps check up on his debt. Maybe get one of those fiery inferno-type physicals. Uhuhuh--

he dies.

RIP. ]
1. [THE REMAINS OF 7136 BROOK STREET.]

[ One second, he's fuddling around with the dump of a phonograph the house has. Hes finding a plethora of horrible doo wop and rockabilly albums and... nothing of any value. Just as he's getting to the end of the rather limited selection of music... everything is suddenly gone. Not just gone.

Obliterated.

He's just standing there. In ONCE AGAIN, nothing but his underpants, ogling the newly renovated home. ]


Errr... thinking this might be the shrooms again.  Though, this event's somewhat more uplifting.  Uhuh---hmmm.  

2. [ SOMEWHERE 'ROUND YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD. ]

[ Murdoc's shambling about, air-guitaring (er, bassing) as he makes his way down the center of the now obliterated street. He's cheerfully belting out the lyrics too "Happiness is a Worn Pun" by The Super Furry Animals. ]

And the sasquatch says roOOooO-ARRRR--AH-OooOOOAR.

[ He proceeds in carrying out the rest of the song, dabbling in the instrumentals here and there. ]

Err.

[ PAUSES. To scratch his butt. THEN... ]

WE'RE WROOONG. WE'RE WROOONG...

[ ON HE GOES.  ]
[ PHONE ]

Well look at that!  A LOVELY holiday feast.  Doing my best to starve the little shit who I'm supposed to call "son" here, which, mind you, wouldn't surprise me one bit.  ANYHOW.  He's having some trouble comprehending the "NO PETS" rule.  Though I suppose I could always make an exception for eels... uhuhuhuh.

Er--WHERE WAS I?  Oh.  RIGHT. So all these festivities are somewhat beyond me.  Given I enjoy doing this sort of thing on a daily basis--BRRRAAAPPPPP.

[ belches. ]

But I suppose it's got some sort of significance here.  Something about stuffing your faces on the brink of committing mass genocide and shuffling your way to taking over the world.  OH.  And fur trading!  That was a thing, yeah?  Skinning live animals and wrapping yourself in their bloody pelts?  And squash!  Something about squash and errr... shaming his majesty. Bless this country.  

And I don't know what the whole fuss eating this delicious plucked corpse is.  It's exceptionally juicy and--BURRRpPPPPppPP.

[ AND ANOTHER. ]

Also. You can now call me DOCTOR Niccals. I'm offerin' PRO BONO examinations if you just sign some paperwork uhuhuhuh. Err. RIGHT. Or you can just pay me in copious amounts and I'll lose the paperwork.

OH.  Colonoscopies and gynecological exams are always always free, uhuhuh.

LASTLY. And perhaps most importantly!  Whereabouts do you go about purchasing your musical pleasures round here?
[Action 1: The backyard AND inside of 7136 Brooks Street]

[ Murdoc's in the back yard, finishing off whatever the most recent alcoholic beverage he could find is. As he begins to head up the back porch's steps, he pauses. Looking down between where the lawn and the steps meet, he sees some... colorful fungus. Oooh.

Oh yes. He's on this.

He doesn't give them any more thought than: they're mushrooms, they're purple, what the hell! And before he knows it, he's stuffing one in his mouth, smacking his lips like he just devoured some drool-worthy pastry.

Then! He heads back into the house, prepared to raid the fridge for more alcohol and HOPEFULLY start experiencing whatever magical side effects that shroom may or may not have. As he walks in the house he hears... music? Oi. Since when was there--

It gets louder.

And becomes the unimstakeably dreaded tune of...


DUN DUN DUNCollapse )

]

Oh HELL. No no NO!

[ He must be really pissed. It was only his seventh drink for the day! Immediately, he's massaging his temples, grumbling something to himself and... it just gets louder. ]

I haaaaaaaaaaate this bloody song! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IIIIIIIT. UuuUuuUugh.

[ These not so fond memories get the better of him and he stumbles outside for some fresh air and preferably... no more music. ]

[ACTION 2: The front yard of 7136 Brooks Street]

[ As soon as he gets outside the music becomes SURROUND SOUND. AND... he's not outside. HELL. He's on the wing of a plane. Looks like his tour jet--OH! No no. They're in flight. Really REALLY high up. Oh SHIT. No no. He's over this fear, COMPLETELY over it. Except. He's ON THE FUCKING WING OF A PLANE. And losing his balance.

He manages to stumble up to the cabin window near said wing and begins pounding wildly on it.

In reality. This happens to be his mailbox. Or one of his neighbors. YOU DECIDE. ]


OI! 2D you slackjawed trout! LET ME IN or--or land the plane. HELL. I don't know.

[ He peers in and sees his bandmates, merrily enjoying the flight without a bassist.

Wait no.

NO THERE IS A BASSIST.

IT'S THE SODDING MIDGET HIPPIE, LITTLE JIMMY MANSON.

And in reality, Murdoc is now pressing his face into the mailbox, flailing his arms wildly. ]


OI! OI! I'm right here. RIGHT HERE. Toss that div out the hatch and LET ME IN.

[ Oh god oh god oh god HE'S FALLING.




ALL OF THIS JUST IN HIS UNDERWEAR.]

Hnnngh. Sweet Satan's tits. What's all this, then? Must've been some helluva show... hangover ain't even that bad. Just the average ordinary migraine. Ergh--guuuh. RIGHT.

HULLO there, ladies and germs! Murdoc Niccals here. You know. That one bassist from that one band. Or more specifically, the most notoriously BRILLIANT bassist in history frontmanning the greatest band to ever grace the stages of THIS HERE planet. THAT SAID---

... I seem to be a bit lost. Don't remember much about anything really but uhuhuhuh, that's no real surprise.

While I'm at it, I thought I might ask about these lovely photographs I'm looking at. I'm not disapproving of this fine vixen with fantastically proportioned knockers. Mmmm no no... quite enjoying that. More so talking about the little cod face lingering around a few of these. I feel like this is some wicked sort of scheme to get me to pay for child support.  This just in: NOT GONNA HAPPEN. In ooooother news...

WHAT THE HELL AM I WEARING?!  Pissing flea infested monkeys I---

[ Shuffling noises as he undresses. ]

Just need to air out a tad... mmm yes. There we go. ER. WOT? Where are my whities? What're these striped space pants I've got beneath my--WELP. Off they go as well. 

MUCH BETTER!

Er. Oops. Left the old dog and bone off the hook there. Uhuhuhuh. You lucky sods got a treat there. Mmmm. Yeah.

HMD/CONCRIT

Augh.  I should have posted this before I did the massive friend add.  Apologies for spamming up your pages guys.

Regardless, HMD HERE.  

Anon enabled, ip logging off, all posts will be screened!  Have at it!

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