A/N: I decided to do a sequel, actually I WAS going to do a sequel in the first place. I know some people are pissed at me for having a sad ending, but hey I'm sort of a sucker for melancholy every now and again. Though once again yeah I've been planning on a sequel with this one, if I don't update quickly on this or any other story it's because I dont' have Microsoft Word and sometimes I just get lazy. So enough of my author note; I'll get to the story.

5 Years Later

Murdoc hardly had any money, but he figured that he had enough to go to the pub and get completely drunk. He had a motto that there was always time and money for alcohol, because he really didn't have too much else going for him. He sat at the bar ordering shot after shot, he could tell the old man behind the bar wanted to tell him he should stop and just go home, but as long as he kept paying him the bartender wouldn't speak a single word. He looked around the room every now and again just to see what kind of people were here; not that many, that was the reason why he liked the place so much. It was so empty most times, he noticed how when he would look at somebody especially a woman they would get nervous and look away from him. He couldn't help, but smile to himself at that; none of them knew him. He was just some creepy bloke with off colored skin, crooked teeth, and discolored eyes; being ignored wasn't a totally new concept to the man. He liked it better that way, besides he was better than them; fuck them. He took another shot and pulled out the last of his money handing it to the old man. He gave himself a moment to gather himself before he attempted to get up off of the bar stool, he had to hold onto the counter top to keep from falling on his ass. People glanced at him, stared, whispered, and a few laughed; he was too blasted to glare or to snap at them for acting like such immature pricks. He stumbled his way out of the establishment and to his car; a beat up old Camaro he had sloppily painted black. He patted the hood of the car smiling at it, it was one of two things in this life he actually did love and care about; one of the two things that never abandoned him no matter how drunk or dumb he was. He fumbled with his keys for a bit eventually being able to unlock the door, he sighed with relief when he got inside of the car and sat behind the steering wheel. Should he drive home? No, but that hadn't really stopped him the hundred other times he had done this; he knew no cop, bar keep, or random stranger would stop him. He bet money those bastards were looking out the windows at him, all having a good laugh at the creepy looking drunk bastard who was probably going to wreck and break his damn neck. He pondered for a second who if anyone would come to the funeral; that was assuming there would be a funeral, his father would never shell out the money for such a pitiful expense. He laughed to himself at the thought of it, his father would just tell them to burn him; fuck it he wasn't good enough to be buried or put in some cruddy cheap old suit.

He started up the car, backed out, and managed to get out onto the street. If he wasn't so drunk and so busy thinking about his imaginary funeral he would have thought he was quite lucky the streets were rather empty decreasing his chances of crashing. His flat was only twenty minutes away, a crappy one floor place in a crappy neighborhood; he never even bothered locking the front door, because he pitied whatever foolish bastard would break into that hell hole expecting to find something worth some dough.

The car swerved several times, he nearly hit a lamp post at one point, but still managed to make it back home without any actual damages. He sat in the drive, shut off the ignition, and laughed for a bit; sadly enough some part of him wished he had fucking wrecked, just to see what would happen. He knew it'd hurt like Hell, but he was used to pain, everything came with pain. He got out of the car and stumbled up to the front door, he opened it, and went inside of the darkened living room. He kicked off his boots before collapsing on the sofa that sat right near the door, he didn't even bother shutting the front door; it made no difference if it was shut or not. He noticed a little red light blinking on the other side of the room, the answering machine telling him someone had called. He knew it was either his father, his latest boss firing him, his brother calling him from prison, or his band mates calling to yell at him for never showing up to band practice; fuck all of them and everything else. He was too drunk to get up, too drunk to listen to some bastard yell at him or threaten him, he rolled over onto his side facing away from the stupid little machine. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep dreamless sleep, he refused to sleep without being drunk because if he slept without a single drink in him then he would have dreams and that was something he avoided quite avidly.