Disclaimer: The usual, babe.
Author's Note: Sorry if the first little bits have been slow. It's meant to build. It's like... "Enter Sandman." Only it's not a song, it's a dance... With a Satan worshipper and a blue-haired Buddhist. XD
By the way, there's a certain reader out there--WINK WINK, ANNA--who should be watching for foreshadowing in this chapter. Heehee.
Have fun. ;D
The drive back is pure silence.
The two had taken the Winnie because, of course, Murdoc had expected a lovely lady (or perhaps even two… or seven) to be brought back in tow with them. But, of course, boyfriend issues and 2D puking his nonexistent brains out hadn't been factored into the equation. Huh. Murdoc needs to start doing more math. He hadn't gotten a Ph.D. in Mexican jail for nothing, after all.
Meanwhile, 2D stares out the window, watching telephone poles and other cars and people passing by at an incalculable speed. In his half-minded state, they all look so blurry, the colors melding and melting together in a jumble of odd, funny lines, like the way a glowstick looks when a picture is taken of it. It's all so insubstantial, so unreal. Like there's the pretty picture on top, but if 2D were to squint, he'd find some sort of deeper, cosmic meaning to it all. It's… weird…
What exactly was he going to say to Murdoc back at the bar? The thought is escaping him quickly, and he knows it had been something important—something important enough to get him angry and to give him headaches so powerful that he needed all those pills that made him throw up. (After all, beer alone wouldn't make him do that). It's all sort of… hazy now. Maybe if he goes to sleep and sorts it out in a dream, he might think of it…
As Murdoc drives on, the silence begins to make him itch.
"…Hey, numbnuts, mind if I play a few tunes?"
No answer.
Good.
Murdoc puts in an 8-track tape and just lets it roll. When it gets to a real fast song, he feels his blood boil, his hands tighten on the wheel, his foot become lead on the gas. He licks his lips and prays to Beelzebub that the cops don't catch on to his antics.
He allows his eyes to flick over to the sleeping figure, cautiously and only briefly, as though he's doing something dirty or illegal. Fucking Satan, sometimes… sometimes he just wants to tell him…
Oh, but never.
Never would he speak those words.