The Gorillaz favorite ride, otherwise known as Stylo, reeked of alcohol, fags and past shags. She roared down the open highway on an empty gas tank, running on fumes, and as she finally reached the gas station, she let out a mighty growl of discontent, and shut off. A dark figure stumbled out of the driver's side, flung the door closed with a loud clunk, and stood in a stupor as he tried to regain sense of the world around him.
Murdoc, as usual, had spent the night alone at his favorite pub binging on cheap beer and eying the crowd. He had mastered driving intoxicated, but walking was another matter entirely.
Scowling at the door of the dinky convenient store a short distance away, he was about to take his chance stumbling toward it, when a second later, it had burst open and a man with long brown hair and a green backpack grasped in his fist sprinted out. He was followed by a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, screaming and cursing.
Murdoc tilted his head and watched the scene with drunken curiosity. He was leaning back against his Stylo to keep himself from collapsing onto the pavement. "Dave, wait! No!" She screamed, chasing after the man with pure fury in her eyes. He slid himself into a white paneled van that was buried in the shadows of the store and slammed the door. She pounded on the driver's window, but that didn't stop him from nearly hitting her and peeling out and down the road and into the darkness.
She watched where the van had been. And Murdoc watched her. Both in silence, for quite a while. Honestly, Murdoc was barely thinking much at all. He was still quite drunk, and though what had occurred seemed to play back in his mind several times, it still didn't process.
"Oi!" he called to her after what seemed like a good ten minutes; she was still planted in the same spot, arms stiff at her sides. She was a pretty girl, with shoulder length copper hair and a nice figure. Maybe, just maybe, he could get a good shag tonight too. "What t'e fuck was t'at abou'?"
At the sound of the stranger's voice, her body shuddered. He sounded abrasive and mean, something she certainly didn't need right now. She kept her distance from him, and didn't even look at the man until she was fully ready. Slender and rough, Murdoc was a not someone you would pass without glancing at. He had a harsh, evil, glazed stare, and he looked like a Nazi. She was too frightened to speak.
The Satanist rolled his multi-colored gaze and ventured a walk. One foot. In front of. The other. As he got closer, he felt more confident. His heavy Doc Martens stomped against the ground. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. He stopped dead center, staring her down, scrutinizing. She couldn't keep eye-contact. Looking down, she gritted her teeth and breathed heavily. She could see his shadow teetering. She could smell the alcohol emitting from his body. The overhead lights buzzed annoyingly.
"I said… wha'… was t'at… abou'," he repeated slowly, accent thick and dripping. She had no choice now. She could answer, or she could be killed. Or raped. Or worse.
"That man…" She sounded desperate, quiet, and breathless. "is my brother. He got angry and took my bag. It…" She finally had the strength to look up at him, and when she did, she was staring straight into two burning, quivering pits of hell. She averted her eyes once more. "It has my passport in it. I'm stuck."