1. Lit at Both Ends

Endtroducing the band, and Demon Decades for that matter.

2D's POV

Disclaimer: I don't own Gorillaz, nor any of their subdivision genious rationale, character, or tracks.


The dull red glow bathed the room in a less than solemn interior lighting; some circle of hell, as it were. Weary eyes overlooked the same old tired scene; a dogpile of bodies, scattered across the layout of the vast cathedral-esque space, sprawled over tables and snubbed cigarettes. Stygian smoke drifted lazily, inhaled and exhaled with no forethought required- as easy as breathing. Leaning back in his simple throne, downward stares were cast at the muted podium. His Magnum Opus, the same mantra delivered again and again like clockwork. By now, he was merely perfunctorizing. The words ingrained into his very fibre of being, so much so that he could not distinguish his own thoughts from the stemming tide of the lyric, crashing like a tsunami wave over that inner voice, and drowning it out. Snuffed, like a candle in the rain.

But it was mainly the smell that did him in. Cheap Marlboro intermingled with the heavy scent of Montecristo, the chronic stale liquor, and the acrid sweat burrowed new holes in the nasal cavities, an IOU of instant gratification in sight. Or smell anyway. Maybe it was all in his head. Last he recalled, he couldn't smell a thing due to his cold. But it was warm here. More than lukewarm, though luke had at one occasion to screw all, and turn the heating all the way up. Which did more than something certainly to increase the sweating. Bucket-loads of it, he noted as the floor started getting patchy from such copious amounts. Which didn't help the smell at all. Then again, it was all just in his head right?

Out of bounds. Whether an encore would be called for anytime soon, he didn't know. To curse his luck would have indicated he had once enjoyed its bittersweet fruits. No. No question nor doubt about it. Leaving was imminent- or was it? He'd tried before, tugging at the bulkhead doors until his arms ached and his muscles feebly protested, before giving out. Crawling back to his chair was all he could do. Even then, talking to Russel and Murdoc after. The three had, after a while, bared a certain brand of passion to break rank and just book it out of there. But Murdoc, of course, fell for the whole get-up hook, line, and sinker. Literally. Hookers, lines of cocaine and other intoxicants, sinking heavy-lidded into the mountains of flesh and other decorum. Enough to drive a preacher from his duty to God and defile an Amazonian warrior. A silent agreement was slowly borne; and even Russel shared Murdoc's sentiments by then. And by then, it was too late. Too late to drive the rusted nail out of the coffin, the first spike out the rail.

A voice- his own. He barely recognized his voice, though he never really bothered to get in tune with his. Only the pounding of his head deserved a fierce antipathy, the droning stamped out by the white pills, his saviours in caps lock. Knights in capsule armour, brushing down his throat to alleviate the entropy throbbing in more than one place.

Stiffening, he noticed he was still singing, the instruments still on the decibel level which required his vocals. He didn't need to think though: His voice was on auto-pilot by now. But that meant he'd have to take his pills later. He turned to stare out the window, as big as a cinema screen. Nevertheless, the sight it portrayed was better than any technicolour zombie flick. The cerulean sky shone in unadulterated, yet the room was too vile and defiled to let such purity in its bounds. Therefore, though outside it looked like a sparkling child's depiction of heaven, wisps of pale clouds floating below twinkling satellites far away; the serene light it emitted never came to caress his skin, nor touch the dirty shagged carpet.

A curse it was as well, to gaze out at the vast expanse of freedom that lay tantalizingly close within his reach.

Through the looking glass, he thought to himself. It don't look so bad.

A thick pane of glass and a set of interlocking rusted bars stood between the lone singer and his liberty. Yet still, the hardest prison to escape was still the mind, which he had long since thrown away the key to, into some abyss he'd long forgotten. The past as a passerby, brushing shoulders momentarily before turning up her collar and striding past lest a bare glance back. Acceptance was all that remained left of him to do, burn the last bridge before unpleasant rationale crossed. Docility like a dog.

These demon decades like scented candles lit at both ends...

Rasping the last words out, he slinked back to his self-assigned chair, collapsing semi-coherently into the trusty confines of the tight space.

Feel Good... And you can shake it, shake it... Feel Good