A/N: hrm, love some Murdoc Angst in the morning. As to the slang and such...I'm not British but I Tried lol.
Warnings: I'm not gonna put these over any of the other chapters, so listen up. This fic contains explicit sexual assault and rape, lack of sex safety (yknow, spit and blood as lube and such), semi-public sex, humiliation, physical violence, homophobic slurs, internalized homophobia, references to past child sexual abuse (and mild ones to physical child abuse), paranoia, and self-hatred and self-destruction.
Also Murdoc is gross and obnoxious as hell, he is a deeply unpleasant man and I refuse to sugar coat that lmfao (though clearly I sympathize with him; tis the point of the fic after all)
The gents' in the club was about exactly how Murdoc picture it - broken twitching flouresents, those nasty open metal cubicles, most of them with clearly broken doors, carved and scrawled out letters on every surface, deep scratches in the paint on the walls casting shadows in the dim lighting. More you couldn't see, he was certain. The floor was covered in shining liquid and sludge, which he didn't care to identify.
All in all, a perfect shithole.
It more or less it matched the rest of the, ahem, fine establishment. He would love to say at least the drinks were cheap, but they were remarkably overpriced given their locale.
Well, whatever. It was nothing to him. He'd seen worse. He'd used worse. Hell, he'd fucked in worse.
Murdoc's shoes make a squelching noise as he walked across the broken tile. He stepped in a particularly wet spot and cursed. Now that was where he drew the line. He'd rather drink whatever was down there than have it stain his cuban heels.
He shook off his shoe, making a disgusted sound. He reached down and wiped it off with his sleeve. Hrm, better.
The lavatory was unoccupied, which was a nice break from the throbbing music and rowdy clubbers. That and his bandmates.
2d was as brainless and irritating as ever, prattling on about gormless nonsense and going after girls Murdoc was chatting up, little bint. All he needed was a vacant smile and some dumbarse comment and the birds were all bloody over him. That dopey, innocent grin... like he didn't know what the fuck he was up to.
That and Murdoc didn't think Russel even touched his drink, just sat in the corner with a scowl on his face, often enough directed at him. Every time he was enjoying himself, he'd look over and Russel's preternatural, milky white eyes would be fixed on him, a disapproving frown below them. The bloke was young but he was stodgy as they came. Couldn't Murdoc have any fun? Fuckin' killjoy.
He was beginning to think he'd never really get to just fucking relish his life, the real start of it, all shiny and new, fame, fortune, and all. Not if he had to drag these bloody sods around the rest of his days.
Murdoc stepped up to a urinal and unzipped his pants. He cut loose and groaned sloppily, his tongue lolling out. The worst part of drinking was the piss, but at least it felt good to get it all out. Life's little pleasures he supposed. If it wasn't such a cockblocker, alcohol really would be the perfect intoxicant. Well it was close enough, wasn't it?
He heard the door open and some blokes walk into to lav behind him. The blaring music followed them - some rubbish pop song with inane and incessantly repeated lyrics and the bass boosted too much - until the door swung shut, and Murdoc twitched. He wasn't really excited to go back out there; the night hadn't been as fun as he thought it'd be. He considered ditching his bandmates and stealing off to a club or bar with a more suitable atmosphere, spending the night there. Hrm. a nice little dive where nobody knew him and that he could drink dry, that might be alright.
Murdoc put his cock away and wiped his hands on his jeans. He walked over to the basins and took a look in the mirrors. He ran his fingers through his mussed hair, fixing the strands here and there. He saw something caught in his teeth and picked it out with a jagged nail. Oh, hrm...speaking of which, 'bout time he spruced up the polish.
He gathered up some saliva and spat into the sink. When he looked up, he saw the men who'd entered before hovering over him.
Oh great. Just what he needed, people who recognized him. Fame was a curse.
He was in too foul a mood to be too friendly, but he'd rather not alienate them, in case they were fans and not some paparazzi wankers. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and tried on something of a neutral expression. "Can I help you chaps with anything?"
They didn't respond.
Impatience took over. "What, enjoying the view, are we? Usually that costs, mates."
Still nothing. He didn't like the looks on their faces.
Warning alarms were beginning to blare in his mind. He still had enemies after all. He pissed plenty of people off on the regular, even now.
He eyed the door, then took one last comb through his hair so as not to make it too obvious. He turned and flashed a smile, his heart starting to pound. "Well, best be going, lads. Nights still young an all."
Murdoc stepped perhaps a little too hastily towards the door.
He felt his arm being grabbed, far too tight.
He yelped, which he turned to a growl. "Oi! Bugger off, you ugly bastard!" He drove one of his heels into the man's shoe.
The man shrieked and cursed. He was unhanded, and he took off towards the exit.
He got to it, but that was all he got. He heard a blow rather than felt it, his vision blackening briefly.
When he roused, blinking, he felt the hand around his arm again. Murdoc turned, and there his two attackers stood, leering at him. The door was right behind him, his back pressed against it, but of course, of course it had to swing fucking inwards. What inane tosser thought that one up?
He reached for the handle with his free hand, trying to keep the fear off his face.
The man closest slapped him.
He yelped, his hand going to the assaulted portion of his cheek. "Fuck! You bloody -"
He was smacked again, quite soundly, and pulled from the door. The other man had hold of his other arm. They dragged him into the center of the room.
Fuck. fuck this was bad.
He thought his days of getting roughed up were behind him, but it looked like he was wrong.
He kicked as he was dragged. They both had a few stones on him, and maybe a quarter of a meter each. Their grips were vicelike on his arms. He was sure to have bruises on there later.
He shouted obscenities while he balled his fists, kicking and swinging at whatever he could get at, whatever was nearest. For that he took another blow to the head, and then one to the ribs. He cried out and doubled over. "Bastards…" he hissed.
He was yanked towards one of the cubicles. They pulled him in and shut the door.