The following is a story I wrote in 2002 for a fanfiction contest held at fans.gorillaz. It won honourable mention. Some small edits have been made to account for a better grasp of grammar since then as well as continuity errors. The original authors' notes are at the end.
SINCE THERE HAS BEEN (I guess) SOME CONFUSION AS TO WHY THIS STORY HAS THE SAME TITLE AS SOME OTHER STORY IN THE DEPTHS OF THE INTERWEB: It was for a contest, our prompts were the titles, chill out.
Rating is present solely for language because Murdoc swears a lot.
--
THE HAUNTED FISHTANK.
an attempt at a Gorillaz fanfic, writ by subgirl.
--
Strolling down the corridors with a vague intent to perhaps lethally injure someone, Murdoc cracked his knuckles in agitation. He had been searching for a certain blue-haired singer for the better part of the half-hour, and his irritation at not being able to find his target was slowly erasing the origin of the aggression. Of course, he told himself, it wouldn't matter; it wasn't like Stu-pot asked for an explanation or anything whenever he decided it was a good idea to give his already-damaged skull a sound thumping.
Muttering indistinctly about general methods of inducing pain upon his hapless bandmate, Murdoc stopped in mid-stride, boot suspended in mid-air, and spun around on his heel. A door was open. A door that was typically locked was open. A door that was always locked was open.
Without giving a thought to whatever perils may have been lurking beyond the ajar door (and actually secretly hoping that they were being burgled; beating on Stu-pot got slightly repetitive after the first thousand or so square-goes), Murdoc knocked the door open. It banged against the wall. Swung back. And closed again.
After staring, bemused, for a moment or two (something in the back of his head told him that maybe he shouldn't have mixed Stoli and whatever pills he had nicked from 2-D's room), he slammed open the door once again with an almighty Cuban-heeled kick.
For a fleeting moment, Murdoc thought of exactly why he decided to confront any undetermined number of would-be burglars with little to no weaponry at his disposal. The thought was quickly dismissed, however, as the adrenaline kicked in and slammed toward his brain.
This, too, subsided quite abruptly, as he realised that what he faced behind the Mystery Door was not anything with even the remotest potential for being kicking-worthy.
Unless he felt like slicing up his feet to shit.
In front of Murdoc, in a completely unfurnished room (that he couldn't recall ever actually seeing before), was a rather large fishtank, complete with a small school of silver fish. They happily swam about in their glass home, unaware of the vast temperature change that had just occurred within Murdoc's blood.
"What … the … fuuuuck …"
He wasn't so much angry at the fishtank or the fish inside as much as he was angry at the fact that he had wasted even more time distracting himself from severely beating anything. And then there was the whole thing about someone … some sadistic person who had just decided to stroll into his home base, easily pop open an unlocked door and leave …
"A fishtank. Who the fuck," Murdoc growled to himself, leaning toward the ominous tank, "does that?" He scowled at the fish, which swam about obliviously.
Despite the fact that it made absolutely no sense, it wasn't anything particularly life-threatening. They were, after all, just swimming there. Filing it in the back of his head, Murdoc took one last dubious glance at the fishtank, turned, and exited in order to continue his quest.
--
Russel nonchalantly passed by the lobby and its contents of a man dressed in black using a flick knife to threaten a taller, pale kid, in search of supplies to make the Greatest Sandwich Known to Man. Of course, as naturally sadistic fate would have it, he hardly put two paces between himself and the other two when an "oi Russel!" interrupted his search.
Being a generally good-natured person, Mr Hobbs still found it incredibly difficult to ignore the urge to continue walking at a quicker pace. But his amicable tendencies got the better of him in the end, although the tiny voice of absolute fucking anarchy was screaming itself raw inside of his head. Besides, he had already paused too long, and it would look suspicious to continue walking if he had supposedly not heard his name called and had stopped anyway.
Gritting his teeth and trying his best to ignore the protesting grumbles coming from his stomach, Russel turned around on his sneaker and trudged the short distance back to the lobby. Murdoc had stopped waving his knife in 2-D's face, although the singer was still pinned up against the wall and seemed to have acquired a black eye.
Russel crossed his arms and did his best to look annoyed, yet not as annoyed as he truly felt. (Damn it, he was hungry. So very hungry.) "What?" he said roughly, raising an eyebrow at 2-D, who rolled his dead eyes to the side and shrugged that he was okay.
"Russ," Murdoc hissed with care, "absently" rapping his knuckles against 2-D's forehead with the hand that wasn't preoccupied with pinning him to the wall, "you wouldn't know about anything … unique going on about the locked rooms, would you?"
Russel's stomach screeched for blood.
"The locked rooms," he asked flatly.
"Yessss," Murdoc said as if speaking to a child. A rather cranky-due-to-food-deprivation child. "The locked rooms. Do you. Know anything. About them."
"They're locked," Russel said, glancing at 2-D again. The sticky-up haired one was too busy wincing every time he got knocked in the head to respond.
"Well ob-obviously, fuck-wit. I meant, anything about them that would constitute as being suspicious. Fishy, one might say." Apparently this was some sort of example of masterful wit, because Murdoc paused with his hygienically unsound mouth partially open, waiting for the standard audience applause. Russel just stared at him.
"Nooo, not that I'm aware of," Russel said slowly.
"Hm," Murdoc grunted, ceasing his assault on the migraine-ravaged forehead. 2-D sighed in relief, but was almost immediately cuffed. He squeaked quietly in surprise and cowered away from Murdoc, his arms thrown over his head. Murdoc ignored him and let him squirm out of his grasp. He mimed Russel by folding his arms across his chest as well. "You're sure?"
"What the hell," Russel nearly growled, letting his shoulders slump as he stared a little harder at the bassist. "Why do you keep asking?"
"cos we already asked this nearly-sentient being composed of shit and Chuck Taylors, and he had no idea what we was talking about." Murdoc scratched at his chin.
"Neither do I. You're still confusing the hell outta me," Russel said, losing what little patience his stomach had allowed him to keep.
"What? Oh … yesyesyes, that's right; I didn't even say anything, did I."
"Aside from asking me really vague questions, no, not really. You overlooked that part."
"Well, come on then. I'll show you," Murdoc said, swaggering toward the corridor. Russel was about to open his mouth to protest when Murdoc interrupted him and pointed blindly in the direction of 2-D. "An' don't you even think about going any-bloody-where, you twat. I'm not done yet."
Russel looked over at 2-D, who had a look akin to absolute terror on his face. Giving the singer a sympathetic frown, he followed Murdoc. "And why can't you just tell me what's so fuckin' amazing about this room?"
"Simple," Murdoc growled over his shoulder, "I have to make sure I've not gone schizophrenic, don't I. Of course," he added as an undertone, "maybe that'd be good news for the dullard. Might finally convince me to lay off his medication."
--
Without very much explanation, Murdoc and Russ had hurried past Noodle on their way to, as she understood it, a surprise. Naturally, Noodle wanted to come along as well and see what it was that made Murdoc look so anxious and Russ so grumpy. But they had brushed past her with a very terse hello, and continued down the corridor. And while Noodle found this to be incredibly rude, she decided that they were boys and were allowed to act thusly because of it.
As she watched the backs of her friends get smaller as they walked quickly away, the thought of a boy who wasn't so rude entered her head. She decided, after a moment's pause to play a game of catch-the-reflection on the tiled floor, that she would go find 2-D. If she couldn't tag along and get a surprise, at least she could amuse herself with talking to her addle-brained friend.
And (she thought to herself as she Ninja-sneaked through the corridor, fending off invisible demons like in the Shogun programmes on the television), if she knew her 2-D like she was sure she did, he would be lonely anyway. Although (she paused here to un-stick her shoe from where it had landed when she had kicked a goblin that apparently dissolved into a large wad of gum) he probably wouldn't notice how lonely he was until someone pointed it out to him. That made Noodle feel slightly guilty, because if she left him alone, he wouldn't even know that he was supposed to be unhappy. On the other hand, if she talked with him, he wouldn't feel unhappy anymore, and neither would she.
Making up her mind to stop being so conflicted about a simple visit, Noodle eased out of her fighting positions and bid the shadow demons farewell as they disappeared (or however already-invisible things became invisible). She strolled along the corridor, humming something that she had heard blasting out of 2-D's room the other night. (Murdoc, of course, got very upset and did something to the record player involving 2-D's head; Noodle saw the bits of plastic in the blue spikes in the morning.)
As she burst out from humming into loudly singing whatever lyrics she could remember ("Sisters, brothers, lend a hand; increase the population. Grab that groove thang by the throat and throw it in the oh-shan!"), she thought she felt something cold brush up against her leg. Stopping in mid-sentence ("Come out your house an' dance that dance; shake that fash-ist groove thang"), she stared ahead before realisation hit her. Of course! One of the goblins had refused to disappear like the others. Furious, she prepared to give it a swift kick in one of its three heads …
When she remembered that she shouldn't be able to actually feel her imaginary opponents in the first place.
--
"Annnnnd, so what?"
Murdoc waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the centre of the formerly locked room, checking over his shoulder. He was sure he heard a noise. "Well, doesn't that strike you as odd?"
"Odd like … how?" Russel said.
"Odd like it's fucking -- not THERE. What the fuck," Murdoc hissed in a slight panic, staring at what seemed to be, and was, a completely unfurnished room. Sans fishtank. He quickly stalked to the centre of the room and turned around in a full circle, as if the tank had sprouted legs and had hidden inconspicuously in a corner. "Fucking … mother of … of all the … Satan … bloody … "
Russel stood in the doorway, arms folded, regarding Murdoc with the kind of expression someone uses when looking at a child who had just marched across the kitchen singing "Karma Chameleon" at the top of his lungs. "What's supposed to be here?"
"Unngh," Murdoc grunted, smacking the heels of his hands onto his forehead, callused fingers gripping at locks of greasy black hair. "Never mind then. You know, maybe you were right about us recklessly consuming mass quantities of unknown chemicals." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Russel grin. Despite this, his voice somehow managed to carry a serious tone to it.
"But what was supposed to be here in the first place?"
Murdoc loosened his fingers from his hair and pretended not to hear him, but Russel asked again.
"Mmn … fffshtnck," Murdoc mumbled.
"What?" Russel asked.
"Fishkaff," Murdoc coughed.
"What?" Russel asked.
"A bloody fishtank, awright?" Murdoc fumed.
Russel raised his brow high above his lamplike eyes, now regarding Murdoc as one would look at a child who had just stabbed a small toad sixty-two times with a blunted pencil. "I … see."
Murdoc balled his fists at his sides in an attempt to not start punching things.
"So," Russel said slowly. He gave the impression of rolling his eyes to one side, although it was impossible to tell. "A fish --"
"A fishtank, yesyesyes, I'm crazy, okay, now shut up." Murdoc started toward the door, arms locked and fists still tightly clenched.
Russel shrugged a little, shoving his hands in the pockets of his Tommy Hilfiger's. "It's okay, you know. Like you said, it probably had something to do with all those chemicals and shit."
"Shut up," Murdoc growled.
Russel nodded to Murdoc's back as they started down the corridor once again. After a few moments of silence, Russel added, "Although I hope you know that 2-D doesn't go through seeing fishtanks or anything like that. Demonic rabbits, sure --"
"Shut UP," Murdoc snarled over his shoulder.
"Because I mean, a fishtank --"
"Shut up!"
"That's pretty retarded --"
"SHUT UP."
Although Murdoc was too furious to turn around and look at him, he knew that Russel was grinning his stupid face off.
--
2-D started, hearing what he thought distinctly sounded like Noodle screaming.
He had been staring quite vapidly at the opposing wall, wondering why he didn't just go along with Murdoc and Russ. He had only dwelt on this for a few seconds, or maybe a minute, until his mind started branching off into different directions; their sporadic segues enhanced by the massive quantities of benzodiazepine that he had taken earlier. He had somehow jumped from a minimoog that he had been in love with to Vegan tacos, when Noodle's scream had peeled back the lovely furry film covering his brain and stabbed it repeatedly with a penknife.
Staring in the direction that he thought her shriek had originated in, 2-D strained his ears to hear any indication that it had been a completely innocent scream of terror. Of course, that didn't seem to be the case.
Chewing nervously on his lower lip, 2-D used the wall as a support and hoisted himself to his feet, still staring slightly to his right. The corridor he had heard Noodle in was blocked from his view by a wall.
Murdoc had told him not to move. He gnawed on his lip with more vigour, although he was technically gumming it due to his missing teeth. But he was worried. And Noodle hadn't appeared to reassure him that she was okay, which, he thought, was a sure sign that something was wrong; Noodle was always concerned with his wellbeing. He always appreciated it, since Murdoc did his best to exploit 2-D's constant state of brain scrambledosity, and Russel was only vaguely patient with it.
2-D tripped over his foot, snapping himself out of his reverie. He realised, after a few seconds, that he had been slowly advancing toward the corridor. And as he realised this, and that he was approaching what could possibly be some horrible, ungodly threat (it had taken out Kung-Fu master Noodle, after all), he actually felt his heart bang around against his ribcage. What if Noodle was hurt? What if she had only been playing a trick on him, and he would look like an idiot? (Even moreso than usual, anyway.) What if she wasn't there? If she had been abducted by aliens, or zapped into an alternate reality? Or an alternate reality populated by alien abductors! Absently, he wondered if he should get his olanzapine prescription increased. He took a deep breath and rounded the corner.
Quickly scanning the corridor for any signs of Noodle, and finding none, he breathed out with relief. But, as he took a step forward, his foot touched something.
Shit, his brain said.
He looked down.
There was Noodle.
Kneeling beside her unconscious form, he checked for her pulse like he had learnt in grade nine health class, hoping that he remembered to do it right. She was breathing, and seemed to be absolutely fine, other than the fact that she wasn't awake. Knitting his brow, 2-D gently brushed loose strands of hair out of her face.
"Satan's arsecrack, Stu-pot, what the fuck did you do this time!"
2-D started once again, standing up so sharply that he immediately fell backward and landed on his back. "Ow," he murmured to himself, turning his head with an eye squinted. Murdoc and Russ were sideways as they walked toward him, Russel with an unreadable expression and Murdoc looking like he had just swallowed two stones of sand. They left his field of vision, except for Murdoc's right calf, and he assumed that they were checking on Noodle.
"Erm, she's alright," 2-D said loudly, pushing himself up into a sitting position and crossing his legs at the ankles. He looked back and forth between Russ and Murdoc pensively. "I dunno what 'appened, though … "
"She's probably faking it," Murdoc offered, hovering behind Russ, who was kneeling over the fainted girl.
"What?" 2-D asked, looking from Murdoc to Russel again. Why would she fake a thing like that?
"She's probably upset," Murdoc answered 2-D's silent question, "cos we didn't take her with to see the … er." He broke off, glancing sharply at Russ.
"The what, the invisible fishtank that you dragged me across the Studios to not look at?" Russel sounded annoyed. He continued looking over Noodle. "She doesn't look hurt at all … It looks like she just passed out."
"Told you, she's fakin'," Murdoc grumbled. "Ever read Arthur Miller, Russ?"
"Probably," Russel said.
"I haven't," 2-D piped up.
"Shut up," Russel and Murdoc suggested.
Murdoc glanced back over to Russel. "The whole thing in The Crucible with that bird fakin' her possession and all, roight?" he said.
"Oh yeah, I remember," Russel said vaguely.
"Wait, Arthur Miller. … the bloke on Happy Days?"
"That's Arthur Fonzarelli, D," Russel said after he and Murdoc exchanged pained looks.
"Crabtree, then?" 2-D tried.
"Arthur Bostrom," Murdoc said, his voice muffled by the hand that he had just slapped over his face.
"Oh."
"I think I'm gonna take her to her room," Russel said slowly, shifting his weight.
"I told you, she's fakin'. Just threaten burning some of her Muse albums and she'll come out of it." Murdoc's voice was no longer muffled.
"Murdoc, I don't think --"
"The bloke who was married to the woman with the horrible voice, then?" 2-D interrupted.
Murdoc and Russ stared at him.
"You know," 2-D said, looking blankly at the pair. "They played on that really awful piano at the beginning."
"Archie Bunker," Russel said flatly.
"I don't believe you haven't heard of Arthur Miller, face-ache," Murdoc hissed.
"Yeah, don't you read? At all?" Russel added.
"Arthur Miller?" 2-D asked, still looking at them blankly.
"Yes," Murdoc and Russ said simultaneously.
"Well," 2-D said thoughtfully, creasing his forehead, "if The Crucible wasn't made into a television programme, it can't be very good, can it?"
The other two looked at each other for a long time. After thirty seconds, Russel scooped Noodle up in his arms and carried her off toward her room. Murdoc smacked 2-D across the back of the head.
--
"Oi Russel," Murdoc said softly (or as softly as he could muster), knocking on the door to Noodle's room as he entered. The drummer had been worrying over the girl for the past two hours, and Murdoc had gotten quite sick of only having Stu-pot to talk to for that long.
Russel grunted in response, vacant eyes focused on Noodle. Murdoc stood in the doorway, arms folded behind his back, for a number of seconds. He then cleared his throat, showing some form of tact for reasons that he chose not to explore, lest he lose his public image.
"What?" Russel asked, turning around to face the door. He didn't say it sharply, but he just seemed very tired. Murdoc felt a twinge of resentment toward the American for being so goddamned caring. Terrible habit, caring.
Wordlessly, the bassist held out his arm. Between thumb and forefinger was a silver-looking fish of some sort. It was wet, although it appeared to be quite dead.
"Muds. This isn't time for you to be proving to me you're not psychotic," Russel said slowly, a disapproving expression on his face.
"Nnnoooo," Murdoc said slowly, waggling the fish back and forth like some biological cat toy. "This little bugger was lying right around where Noodle was."
Russel quirked an eyebrow. "You think she slipped?"
Murdoc shrugged. "I think it's got something to do with that fishtank that WAS there," he interrupted Russel before he even opened his mouth, "but I don't know exactly what."
Shrugging, Russel stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, it is a coincidence, but I don't know. I mean, it ain't exactly weird to have shit like this happen. Almost as if we're characters in a poorly-written story by an insane fan, whose only source of amusement is to put us through as much emotional and mental torment as creatively possible."
It was Murdoc's turn to quirk his eyebrow.
"At any rate," Russel said hastily, clearing his throat, "it's pretty much normal."
Murdoc opened his mouth, but at that very moment, 2-D's scream penetrated the air. The two looked at each other for a brief second, then bolted toward the door of Noodle's room.
After a minute of running to the source of the scream (which was much longer than it usually took to go down the corridor and turn left; they had gotten stuck in the doorway when they tried to fit through simultaneously), they reached a wall. Silently cursing Russel for his massive and completely unnecessary weight, Murdoc spun on his heel and started back toward Noodle's room.
"Hang on, Muds … "
Murdoc turned around to look at Russel. The drummer was staring at the ceiling. Slowly, Murdoc lifted his eyes, following Russel's gaze.
2-D was somehow attached to the ceiling, very unconscious, and smelling distinctly of fish.
"Don't-don't you fucking tell me that's normal," Murdoc said, the pitch of his voice rising slightly. Not that he particularly thought that seeing Stu-pot suspended from the ceiling wasn't terribly amusing, but the fact that Murdoc himself could be the next victim of … whateverthehell was doing this …
"I think maybe we should -- oof," Russel grunted, having had a skinny keyboard player fall on his head. He caught 2-D by the arm before his head hit the ground. (Not that it would have made much of a difference, Murdoc privately thought.) "Oh … sick, man," Russel shuddered, quickly let 2-D drop to the ground, albeit gently.
Murdoc looked at him quizzically.
"He's all … slimy," Russel said quietly. "Eurrgh."
Murdoc shrugged. "Well, he is a sub-human creature, inn'e."
Russel leaned toward the unconscious Stu-pot, frowning slightly. He glanced back up at Murdoc and said, "Fish oil."
"He's covered in fish oil," Murdoc repeated dully.
"Seems that way."
"I suppose that's what made 'im stick to the ceiling like that, yeah?"
"I guess," Russel shrugged.
Murdoc had to literally bite his tongue to keep from throwing his hands in the air and shouting expletives at the top of his lungs. Instead, he folded his arms and said, "I don't think fish oil usually does that."
But Russel was ignoring him. He was preoccupied with lifting 2-D up and hoisting him over his massive shoulder. "I'm gonna go put him by Noodle."
"Just as long as he doesn't start stinking up anywhere near me with his … fish stench," Murdoc growled, rocking back on his heels.
"Actually," Russel said over his shoulder, "it's sort of gone away for some reason …"
Murdoc just grunted in response, watching Russel disappear around a corner. He couldn't stop thinking about how stupid this all was. They were being attacked, one by one, by something unexplainable that liked leaving little bits of marine life behind at the scene of the crime.
… fishtank.
Murdoc stared at his toes.
Fishtank.
There had to be some connection. Fuck, there WAS a connection. He just didn't know what the hell it was. But maybe it --
Murdoc blinked, once. Something cold had just hit him across the back of the head. He looked down beside his left boot, and saw a small silver-scaled fish, much like the one he had found near Noodle.
"Uhh." Murdoc glanced around quickly, then started off in a sort of undignified jogging-run-walk, which actually looked quite like he had sprained his ankle or twisted something important. Something like his entire skeletal structure. "R-russ, wait a s-s-second …"
--
2-D bolted upright, gasping, just wanting to get the cold tightness out of his lungs and out of his head …
He blinked, then, suddenly aware of the fact that he had no idea where he was. Everything was black, but it seemed white somehow; he was in some dark room with a misty fog all around. Sort of like the fuzzy lenses that they used on Barbara Walters specials so she wouldn't look like she really was two hundred years old.
He cleared his throat, looking around for anyone to speak to. Or anyone to explain where he was. He glanced down. … or anyone to explain why he was floating in the air.
2-D experimentally straightened himself into a standing position, and found that he was indeed hovering about two feet off of the ground. Finding this very strange, but not so much that he had to stand there dwelling on it, 2-D attempted to move. Of course, he tried walking, but he didn't move at all. It just looked like he was struggling to do the Running Man. Lifting his eyebrow, 2-D stared at what he thought was the ground, just short of a yard below him. He couldn't actually see it, because everything was that same black colour with the smoky veil of whiteness, but for some reason he just knew it was there. After a moment, 2-D let himself go limp, and was floating in a suspended kneel (at the same height off the "ground"), his hands at his sides. Shrugging inwardly, he focused his mind on movingforward …
Much to his surprise, it worked. He was moving along at a slow walking pace, bobbing up and down in the air subtly with what he assumed were some sort of non-existent thermal updrafts, as he felt no breeze at all. In fact, he realised, he may not have even been moving at all, since the room looked exactly the same no matter where he "went".
After clearing his throat once again, 2-D called out into the nothingness. "H-hello? 's anyone there?"
There was no response, but he tried again.
"Hello? I don't know where I am, and I seem to be … er, a ghost or sumpfink --"
SMACK.
2-D's eyebrow twitched slightly. Everything went completely black, with no white fog surrounding him. There was a fish over his face. A rather wet fish. Deliberately, 2-D peeled the thing off of his face and gently dropped it beside him. He didn't hear it hit the invisible ground, and worried that maybe there was no ground after all.
"Um, hello? I'm sorry'f I upset you or sumfing, but I rilly just don't know where I -- "
SMACK.
Another fish. 2-D peeled this off as well, and flung it aside. He was getting slightly cross. "Er, could you maybe stop throwin' the fish at me? It sorta hurts, like …"
Acting on instinct, 2-D tilted his head a few degrees to the right, just as another fish whizzed past his ear.
"Look," he said hotly, brow furrowed, head still canted, "if you could just, maybe, stop throwing those things at me and tell me where we are …"
There was no response, but at least there were no more fish. Only a still silence, in which 2-D slowly straightened his neck. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered to himself, floating around in a small circle, looking for some brightly-lit EXIT sign in the smoky room.
He thought he saw one in the form of brief glimmering silver, and he sped toward it. As it got bigger, he thought, triumphantly, that he was moving after all --
"Oh, for Chrissake."
2-D stopped and strafed to the left. What he thought was an exit sign was actually another fish. He waited, watching it, to see if he had moved far enough out of the way. But the fish wasn't moving. He blinked at it. It was just floating there, subtly bobbing around on indistinguishable thermal updrafts. It stared back at him.
Dismissing the fact that he knew it was slightly foolish, 2-D decided to call out to the thing. "Er. Hello."
The fish seemed to tilt its head to one side, as if listening. 2-D decided that he was just seeing things in the fog. It was sort of like London, except London wasn't quite as black, what with the blinding city lights and so forth. And there were no floating fish, unless he took the wrong medication, in which case there were flying blenders as well. He wondered if he were, in fact, dead. He could possibly haunt that occult bookstore in Soho that Murdoc was so fond of. It seemed like a fun place to hang out anyway. Never mind the fact that he would be able to scare away all of the stupid little teenaged, spotty-faced gits who dressed in bondage pants and wore shirts with inverted pentagrams, all announcing loudly about how hardcore and anarchic they were, and how unafraid they were to sacrifice their little sisters to the Dark Lord Marilyn Manson --
"I said, hello."
2-D stared.
The fish was talking.
Startled, and maybe a bit terrified, 2-D somehow managed to stumble backwards in the air. Suppressing the urge to burst out with the question of Are you the disembodied spirit of the Billy Bass Murdoc gutted last Christmas, 2-D swallowed thickly. "Er. Uh. Er. Hello."
The fish smiled -- or it seemed to smile. 2-D really couldn't tell. He just then realised that fish had no lips.
"Are you the most recent one, then?" the fish asked. It had a posh accent.
"Erm. I really donno wot you're talking about, sorry," 2-D said honestly.
The fish seemed to smile again. "Quite alright," it said. "I believe that you are, at any rate. We've already spoken to the young one. She's already awakened. Couldn't really understand a word she was saying, so she was not of much use to us."
2-D nodded slowly, desperately wishing that he understood what exactly was going on. "Um, help with what?" he blurted dumbly.
"We are trying to find a member of ours," the fish said.
"A member … um, we rilly haven't got many fishes around here," 2-D said, scratching at the back of his head. "Unless you count the couple that whacked me in the face right now. Oh, oh, and the one that Noodle had imported from Japan but somefing happened to it. I fink Murdoc used it in a religious ceremony or somefing, but -- oh, sorry, you probably don't want to hear about that …"
"Quite," the fish said tersely. "When I say member, I do not mean a fish, however."
"Well, Muds also killed a toad last week, but I don't fink …"
"What I mean," the fish interrupted coolly, "by member, is a member of the spiritually-inclined."
"Um." 2-D scratched his head again. Why did a talking fish make his head hurt all of the sudden? "Well, I'm a Buddhist, kinda … Muds is Pagan … and --"
"A ghost," the fish interrupted again, sounding a bit impatient. "Are there any ghosts around this area? We have reason to believe that there are."
"Oh. You mean Del. Yeah," 2-D said, lacing his fingers together. "He lives in Russel's head. Russ is the big American bloke with the trainers."
"Ah. Much obliged," the fish said.
"Yeah," 2-D answered. They floated in silence for a moment or so. "Er," 2-D said.
"Yes?"
"How exactly do I get out of here?" he asked, turning his head to look around. "There ain't any doors or nuffing …"
"Ah. Well, I brought you into this plane, so I suppose I could bring you back to your own if you wanted," the fish said, seeming to shrug.
"Yeah, that'd be wicked."
"Okay then." The fish paused. It suddenly gave the impression of a malicious grin. "This may hurt a bit."
--
Russel stared at 2-D, who had bolted upright off of Noodle's bed, screaming.
"Whoa, D," he said, firmly gripping the singer's shoulders in his massive hands. "Are you okay, man?"
2-D's screaming tapered off into a quiet sort of whimpering, and he nodded feebly at his friend. "Uh, huh …"
Russel was looking at the singer, concerned, when Noodle bolted into the room, slightly out of breath. "Rasseru," she panted, leaning her hands against her upper thighs as she struggled to catch her breath, "Kikoeru 2-D …"
Before Russ could reply, she switched her attention to directly behind him, gasped quietly, and darted to 2-D. "2-D wa ogenki dekka?"
2-D nodded, looking quite dazed. "Yeah … yeah, I'm fine, Noodle."
Noodle regarded him carefully, narrowing her eyes. She leaned toward him conspiratorially. "2-D … does it … dream?"
2-D nodded, some focus coming back into his expression. "Yes …"
"Sou," Noodle grunted, jumping up onto the bed and kneeling in front of 2-D. She leaned toward him even moreso than before, eyes still narrowed. "Dream is … sakana?"
2-D shook his head. "I donno what that means …"
"Anou," Noodle frowned, looking off to one side momentarily. Her dark eyes snapped back. "Sakana … f… fishu?"
He stared at her. "Fish … yes …"
Russel stared at the both of them. "Um. What the hell?"
"Russ," 2-D said, turning slowly toward the American. "I had a dream … fing. I'm not sure if it was a dream or if it was real. You know?"
"Not really," Russel said dubiously, "but go on."
"Well … in my dream, there was this fish. And it was like, talking to me or sommat, and it said somefin' about wanting to talk to you or somefin' about Del … It was some kinday spooky ghost fish bit, I reckon."
Noodle nodded vigorously. Russel gathered that she had had a similar dream when she was unconscious as well. (She had woken up a few hours before 2-D had.) He lifted an eyebrow outwardly as well as inwardly, toward the spectral counterpart possessing his head. "Okaaaay …"
Del "stared" at Russel, shrugging in somewhat of an unconvincing manner.
What does that mean? Russ asked Del suspiciously.
Del shrugged again, suddenly growing very interested in something on the other side of Russel's head. Russel was about to keep pestering him about it, but Murdoc interrupted.
"What's this little love-fest, then?" the bassist said loudly as he entered Noodle's room with folded arms. "Stu-pot, you've come out of your coma, I see. Too bad." 2-D waved idiotically at Murdoc. "Hello, Noodle. Russel, I've found more …"
Russ's eyebrows went slightly more askew. "Exactly how much is more?"
Murdoc rolled his shoulder in a bored shrug. "Look for yourself." He gestured toward the door.
2-D and Noodle looked at each other, bemused. Russel glanced over at them, glanced back at Murdoc, and sighed. Murdoc rolled his shoulder again and turned lazily out the door. Russel followed him. He was led down the short stretch of remaining corridor, to the closed lift doors. Murdoc pushed the 'down' arrow and folded his arms behind his back, staring at the chrome sliding doors.
Russel cleared his throat. "Uh, what --"
"Shhh. Doors," Murdoc said pointedly, nodding toward them.
Russel raised his eyebrow. "Um."
"Shhh," Murdoc hissed.
And it was then that Russel considered that maybe Murdoc wasn't kidding about possibly being a paranoid schizophrenic. But he stood alongside-slightly-behind the Niccals in silence, mostly to humour him (and partially so he wouldn't get his eyes clawed out). After a few more seconds, the doors slid open. Murdoc stepped aside, and Russel was about to ask why, when --
FWOOOSHPLORRRCH.
Russel was suddenly waist-deep in glistening, silver fish.
"What … the … fuck?"
Murdoc nodded from the safety of the non-fish portion of the floor, a very psychotic-looking grin plastered on his face. "Exactly. Great, innit?"
"How the hell is this great!" Russel was stepping high over the fish, scowling at his contaminated trainers.
"Well," Murdoc said, eyebrows raised in a mock-innocence, "at least I know me noggin ain't completely fucked up, right?"
Russel was muttering something under his breath along the lines of fucking up Murdoc's head for him, when something very peculiar happened.
He was attempting to get a rather large fish out of his side pocket, when one of the fish near Murdoc's feet floated into the air and hovered a few inches above his clashing eyes. Murdoc stared at it, eyebrow twitching subtly. "Fukkit. That sort of rules out me being sane, don't it?"
Russel stared at the airborne fish, which had its near-two dimensional face pointed at him. "This has got to be the most whacked-out dayever," said Russel.
A voice seemed to come from the fish at that moment. "Apologies," it said without moving its fishlips.
"Oh, hello again," 2-D said from behind Russel.
Russ twisted around and looked at the singer, who must have followed Murdoc. Noodle hung back slightly, apparently shy. Of a fish, Russel thought dully.
"D," he said slowly, "let me guess. This is the … uh, talking … from your dream …"
"Yep," 2-D said cheerfully, waving at the suspended fish.
Russel twisted back around. "Uh. Did you … want something? Or …"
"Actually, yes. Thank you. Are you … er, Russel?" said the fish.
"Yeeeess," Russ said carefully.
"Could I possibly have a word with the spirit currently taking residence in your being?"
Russel stared. "You want to talk to Del."
"If at all possible," the fish said politely.
Russel really wanted Murdoc's reckless abandon with drugs and alcohol at that moment. "Um, sure. Yeah. Hang on."
"Quite," the fish said.
Del, Russel said flatly to the inside of his brainmeats, is there any reason a floating, speaking fish wants to talk to you?
Um. Nnn … nnno?
Get out there before I kill you again.
--
Russel went vaguely unconscious, as was the typical thing, as soon as Del appeared. He looked slightly nervous, and was twiddling his ghostly fingers.
"Ah. There you are," the fish said pleasantly. "I've had a devil of a time trying to find you."
Murdoc snorted, but the fish ignored him.
"What … do you want?" Del said slowly.
"I've come here to speak to you about your permit," the fish said simply.
"Well, I --"
"Waitwaitwait!" Murdoc interrupted, becoming animated. "You mean," he said darkly, "a-all of this shit has been happening just cos Delly boy forgot to apply for a fuckin' green card? Fuck me!"
Del shrugged, sheepish.
"I didn't even fink there were possession permits," said 2-D, a baffled expression across his face.
"Well, we couldn't have every ghost and spectre possessing whomever he or she fancies, now could we?" the fish said. "You see, every haunting is very meticulously documented by our agency. Either that, or the hauntee is just, er, crazy or making shit up."
"Huh," Murdoc grunted. "So Del is in tubby's head illegally, yeah? Fucking rock on, brother."
"Russ's head is a squat," 2-D said cheerfully.
"But … why is fish?" Noodle piped up quietly.
The fish seemed to shrug. "It's nothing particular. My life was so long ago that I've forgotten what I actually looked like. I died in a rather strange fish cleaning accident, however, so I choose this form."
"A … fish cleaning accident," Murdoc said dully.
"Yes. The tanks that say 'do not tap on glass'? Don't," the fish said. "Now then, Mr Del. If you could just sign here …"
A ghostly paper was conjured out of nowhere, and a translucent pen appeared in Del's hand. He blinked his vacant eyes, leaned forward, and scribbled his signature. The fish looked it over, and seemed to smile professionally. "Thank you," it said, and disappeared.
Del looked over at Murdoc with a blank expression, then returned into Russel's head. The drummer shook slightly, noticing that the fish on the ground were gone.
"Well," Murdoc said. "I think I'll agree with you, Russ. Stupidest day ever."
"I said most whacked-out."
"Whatever, man. I need some booze. I like my fucked-up world to be derived from chemicals on my own terms, ta very bloody much." He paused. "And sans the fish."
--
Author's notes :
standard copyright disclaimer procedure thing applies, etcetera and so forth. As I write this, i swear to god my eyes are on fire. This story is a product of almost pure insomnia, and also my impeccable ability to procrastinate like a heroin addict with his visits to the methadone clinic. Hang on, that doesn't work. Oh, you know what i mean. I like Heaven-17, so shut up. Benzodiazepine a highly addictive anti-depressant. Olanzapine is an anti-paranoia drug. Well, technically anti-psychotic, but shut up still. I apologise to Douglas Adams and Jhonen Vasquez. (Also to Jamie Hewlett but that goes without saying.) I don't apologise to Arthur Miller because if he wasn't dead, I would kill him. I blame the public school system for my intense hatred of that man. I WANT RETRIBUTION, DAMN YOU. … ehh. Thanks for reading. I'm not crazy, I swear.