Chapter 2 - Nasty Bad Boy Crew
Murdoc
used to hang out with a bunch of rough types (who helped him ram-raid
Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium, where 2D worked) but seemingly ditched
them on forming Gorillaz, as no more was heard about them after that
-
Unofficial Murdoc Biography
Life was a joke to Murdoc Niccals. After all, you had to laugh, didn't you? The other option was unthinkable, and it could get you beaten up or killed. Might as well come to terms with the fact that Satan was Lord, life was Hell, and the only thing you could do was laugh about it all.
Murdoc was certainly laughing as he walked through the rain and thought of what had happened back in Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Sandy Beach? What a stupid name! And that geeky mullet head boy and his fat boss had bought it. The cheek of that geeky boy, that Stu-Pot, asking for a makeover! As if it wasn't perfectly obvious that he needed to put a gap in that thick, black monobrow, shave off his beard, let his hair grow out of that damned mullet, stand up straight and put some decent clothes on. For a moment, Murdoc wondered if he should have told him. The kid could really sing and play, after all. But, naaah. He'd never see Stu-Pot again, so what was the point?
Flipping the toothpick over and over in his mouth, he walked across the parking lot to his tatty Vauxhall Astra. Murdoc didn't care about the cars he drove. Not for him a massive 4-wheel-drive that never went near a dirt track, or a flashy, red, convertible sportscar. He was of the opinion that the bigger and more expensive the car a man drove, the smaller his penis.
Judging from the condition of the Vauxhall Astra, Murdoc's penis was six feet long.
Death metal thundered through the Astra's steamed up windows. Murdoc's cronies, his nasty bad boy crew, were waiting for him. Murdoc opened the driver's side door and smoke poured out into the rainy air. Crusher's vast, bear-like body filled the passenger seat. In the back, Billy-Boy, the blue haired dimwit pretty boy lead guitarist, was sucking on a bong, while Tiny the lanky, mowhawked, speed freak guitar player twitched, and Rocky, the would-be keyboard player sat inscrutable in very dark sunglasses, even though the sun wasn't out. Rocky's head was bandaged around the hilt of a knife that Rocky had always boasted that doctors were unwilling to remove. At least, that was his story. Crushed into the front seat next to his larger brother was Munch, shaven-headed and bearded, and the only talented one out of the whole motley crew. Unfortunately, he did not sing or play any instruments. He was the band's artist.
The nasty bad boy crew all looked at Murdoc expectantly as he climbed into the driver's seat.
"So how did it go?" asked Billy-Boy, putting down the bong. He was as high as a kite and his pupils were pinpoints.
Murdoc grinned, "All set. There aren't any video cameras. There's an alarm but, so what? We won't be hanging around. In, grab the keyboards, and out. I know exactly which set of keyboards we need. The Saturday boy, Stu-Pot, showed me." Murdoc laughed. "The front window is piss weak," he went on. "No security grill, and normal glass not toughened glass. The car will go through it like that!" He clicked his fingers. "We'll do it tonight. There won't be anyone there and the filth will be busy with the football game. We'll have plenty of time to get away."
"Are you sure this old bomb can handle smashing through a window?" asked Billy-Boy.
"Don't call it a bomb, unless you want to walk,"
"Sorry, do you think this…car…can handle it?"
Murdoc patted the steering wheel, "You bet. We'll be in there and out of there with the keyboards faster than you can say ram raid. All we need to do is wait for tonight."
A police car siren started up, only a block away. The nasty bad boy crew winced and hunched down below the level of the windows. The sound faded into the distance and everyone relaxed and sat up again.
"A bit jumpy, aren't you?" muttered Murdoc, in the driver's seat. He was the only one who hadn't moved when the siren went off.
"We're not sure if this is the best idea you've ever had, Murdoc. You're stealing keyboards for Rocky and he doesn't even know how to play," Billy said.
"I'm learning!" said Rocky defensively. "I can do scales already."
Murdoc snorted, "Rocky, I could replace you with Stu-Pot in no time flat. Stu-Pot can play keyboards and sing like a fucking angel. He was begging to join too."
"Well, why don't you replace me then?" said Rocky sulkily, folding his arms.
Murdoc grinned, "You're no pretty boy, Rocky, but at least you don't have a head like a toilet brush, like Stu-Pot. But you'd better fucking practice when I get you that keyboard. Stu-Pot in the shop picked it out specially."
"Listen to you talking about Stu-Pot," snigged Crusher.
Murdoc punched Crusher, though his fist bounced off Crusher's solid cheekbone without doing damage to anything but Murdoc's knuckles. "He's got talent, which is more than I can say for you. Learned to play the drums only last year, didn't you?"
Crusher rubbed his face. "Well at least I'm better than Rocky."
Murdoc, Billy-Boy, Crusher and Tiny all started shouting at each other at once.
"This is pointless," came Munch's voice, cutting through the noise. The other band members were silent. Munch, the skilled artist, rarely spoke, and when he did everyone listened. "We need those keyboards. Let's go to the pub and see how we feel about the ram raid in a few hours."
"Good idea," said Murdoc.
Innumerable pints and several hours later, there was no more dissent. "To ram raiding!" shouted Crusher, holding his glass up high. The rest of the nasty bad boy crew cheered and raised their glasses.
"To ram raiding!"
Murdoc winced behind the empty pint glasses covering the table. "Shut the Hell up, will you?" he hissed. As leader and getaway driver, he'd only had a couple of drinks, and he was nearly sober, a state of mind he found unfamiliar and irritating. People in the pub were staring at the shouting, would-be ram raiders and in his more paranoid moments, Murdoc expected the police to crash in the door and arrest them at any moment. He peered through the steamy pub window. Night had fallen and the rain had stopped. The pub televisions showed that the football game had started.
Murdoc got to his feet. "Time to go," he said.
"We're going! We're going ram raiding!" shouted Crusher at the watching pub crowd.
Murdoc looked back at the suspicious faces lining the bar and gave them a grin that he hoped didn't look desperate, "He's so full of shit," he said.
Somehow, Murdoc got his nasty bad boy crew out of the pub. They staggered their way out, grabbing chairs and door jams for support, weaved their way to the Vauxhall Astra and all but fell into it. Murdoc plonked himself in the driver's seat and started the car, listening to his friends cheering around him. Their mood had done a 180 degree turn since they were last in the car and listening, Murdoc began to chuckle to himself. He could feel the old sense of glee coming back. This was going to be a fun night.
Murdoc drove off, with tyres burning, and tore through the streets, both hands clamped on the steering wheel, his back pushed into his chair by the acceleration. Death metal thumped through the speakers. The nasty bad boy crew laughed and smoked and the Nottingham streets rolled past.
Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium came into view and Murdoc stopped the Vauxhall Astra, revving the engine. "This is it!" he said.
"The lights are on. Someone must still be in there," said Munch, frowning.
"Who'd still be hanging around their work on a Saturday night?" said Murdoc.
"Someone with no social life?" Munch offered, looking uncertain, but he was immediately thrust back in his seat as Murdoc accelerated towards the store window.
"Brace yourselves," growled Murdoc. He was laughing as the car hit the gutter and bounced sharply up onto the footpath. The window was only a couple of metres away.
Then Murdoc saw him. Stu-Pot. Cleaning the window. In front of the car. Time slowed to a crawl.
Stu-Pot froze, wide-eyed, staring at the oncoming car, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
Murdoc slammed on the brakes but the car was still moving forward. It went through the window, sending shards of glass flying. Murdoc could make out everything. The flying glass. The way Stu-Pot dropped the cloth and window wash bottle. The way he was poised, about to flee, but too late.
The car hit Stu-Pot with a bone-shaking thud. Mismatched eyes met white eyes filled with pain, shock and fear. Then Stu-Pot slid down and out of sight.
A sense of unreality came over Murdoc as he felt the car roll over Stu-Pot's head and he felt Stu-Pot's skull bones crushing beneath his tyres. Then car stopped moving.
From underneath the car came a scream. If Murdoc had ever had any doubts about Stu-Pot's vocal powers, they were dispelled now, along with a large chunk of sanity. The power, the volume, the pain and despair in that scream took Murdoc and shook him until he was as weak as a rag doll.
Then the scream stopped.
Life was usually a joke to Murdoc Niccals but the humour had just gone out of it.
