Chapter 8 - Satanic Convention

Note: I had to censor this part to make it fit to post to Fanfiction dot net. The uncensored fanfic can be found on the Gorillaz Adult Live Journal. See my profile for the link.

Founded on April 30, 1966 c.e. by Anton Szandor LaVey, we are the first above-ground organization in history openly dedicated to the acceptance of Man's true nature—that of a carnal beast, living in a cosmos which is permeated and motivated by the Dark Force which we call Satan
- Welcome message on the official Church of Satan site

The boy is a pretty dullard who is nothing but a pawn in my master plan. Hail Satan!
- Murdoc from the Austrian Youth Magazine interview

This is me, in my finery, totally butt naked
- Murdoc from The Morning Alternative Interview

Murdoc knew this bleak, grey moor well. How many times had he walked it in his dreams, cocooned in blowing fog, with Stu-Pot's comatose body in his arms?

But Murdoc was awake.

The Winnebago bumped and jarred its way along the dirt track, the white radiance of headlights pushing back the foggy gloom in the same way that the light from Stu-Pot's body had in his dreams. Murdoc's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he drove past a standing stone and watched it disappear in the rear vision mirror into the fog. He had walked past it in his dreams the night before.

"This is creepy shit, mate. You've dreamed about this moor?" said Stumbo. He gave a nervous twitch, which made the front seat of the Winnie squeak. The speed he had just taken was kicking in, and despite the chill, Murdoc could see sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Murdoc looked at his, pale, badly-drawn friend and decided not to tell him the satanic convention was being held on the destination he had been walking towards in his dreams for so many months. In fact, wished he hadn't told him anything. "Maybe I'm kidding," he said.

Stumbo relaxed, though his legs still jiggled, "Oh, that's alright then. You had me going there, Muds."

Murdoc sighed and turned back to the road, trying to quell a growing sense of unease. He was wearing his best satanic convention-going finery: a long, black velvet cloak, tied at the neck with a silver skull clasp and slightly stained with semen from the last time he had run out of tissues. A silver skull ring gleamed on one finger. Black jeans, polished black boots and a black long-sleeved shirt completed the outfit. His inverted, gold cross swung from his neck.

Stu-Pot was lying, comatose as usual, between Murdoc and Stumbo on the passenger seat. His hair was dyed a particularly bright blue for the occasion and rubbed into soft, blue spikes. He wore black jeans, black boots and a black t-shirt with a red baphomet (the symbol of Satan, an inverted pentacle, with a goat's head inside), a silver baphomet ring on his finger and a silver spiked black leather dog collar around his neck, with smaller ones around his wrists. Murdoc took his eyes off the road for just long enough to glance at Stu-Pot and pat his still body. As far as Murdoc was concerned, Stu-Pot had never looked better. He was certain to attract the ladies tonight, and that meant Murdoc would score. Murdoc wriggled his long tongue in anticipation and chuckled to himself, trying to will away the feeling that he was driving towards a point of spiritual reckoning.

Spiritual reckoning or not, it wasn't the first satanic convention Murdoc had attended. They were held in gothic mansions or abandoned parks. Low rent wiccan conventions, every one of them, with a few satanic overtones, and attended by bubbly , or more commonly, fashionably depressed airhead, crystal-worshipping, incense-burning, black clothed, gothic, promiscuous bimbos. It was the last three aspects that drew Murdoc to satanic conventions like a bee to nectar. His Winnebago could always be found at such conventions. Usually rocking.

The red glow of bonfires appeared in the distance. "There it is," said Stumbo. He fidgeted, his fear of a few moments before forgotten.

Murdoc slowed the Winnie and looked around for a place to park. An area had been fenced off, and the fence was decorated with burning torches. Bonfires shone through the fog, Some of Murdoc's unease left him. It was all so very like every other satanic convention he had ever attended. He parked the Winnie and leaped out, dragging Stu-Pot's limp form behind him. "Come on Stumbo," he said and they carried Stu-Pot between them towards the dancing light of the bonfires.

Silhouetted against the flames were the convention goers. Goths, wearing black, apart from a few blood reds and wine purples. Their chunky silver jewellery, spiked dog collars and face piercings shone red in the light of the bonfires. Women wearing black leather corsets and long velvet skirts strolled by, their heads turning as they caught sight of Stu-Pot. Murdoc winked at them and pulled Stu-Pot's arm a little tighter around his shoulder. He could smell Stu-Pot's sweet butterscotch scent above the smoke of the fires and the burning incense coming from the stalls selling jewellery, cloaks and black candles.

Looming over the entire convention was a carved baphomet. An enormously fat man, wearing blood red monks robes, stood before it as if praying.

"Oh no," muttered Murdoc, recognising the figure in monks robes.

"Wassa matter?" asked Stumbo stopping so fast he nearly dropped Stu-Pot.

"It's Bane. Fucking nutcase. Why did they let him out of the loony bin?" said Murdoc.

"What'd he do?" asked Stumbo.

"He thinks he's the high priest of the Church of Satan. He's not. The real high priest is over in the States." Murdoc's voice trailed off and his head turned as a couple of gorgeous goth girls, with heavy, intricate makeup, walked past, their heads turning as well as they saw Stu-Pot dangling from Murdoc and Stumbo's shoulders. The prettiest spared Murdoc a grin as they walked into the beer tent. Murdoc felt that grin go straight to his groin.

He stared after her, but Stumbo, who hadn't seen her, was still peering at the red monk, "He kinda looks like a high priest."

"Just don't give him any money," Murdoc suggested. "Come on, Stumbo. I need a drink." He dragged Stumbo and Stu-Pot towards the beer tent.


"So yeah, Stu-Pot's just a pawn in my master plan," said Murdoc, sitting at a table in the beer tent, two hours and ten drinks later.

Samantha, the pretty Goth he had followed, nodded with fascination and took a swallow of her vodka. She was flushed and weaving unsteadily on her seat. Her friend, Sally, was whispering in Stumbo's ear and he looked pretty happy about it.

"That's so cool!" said Samantha. "I've got a master plan too, man. I want to open a fortune telling business. I can see auras and I'm really sensitive to locations. So what's your master plan?" she added breathlessly.

"To start a band!" hiccuped Stumbo. Murdoc kicked him under the table.

Murdoc glared at Stumbo and threw his cloak back over his shoulders in a grand gesture. "Nothing less than achieving point four of the late, great Anton LaVey's Pentagonal Revisionism. Stu-Pot is the world's first artificial human companion. The original embodiment of polite, feasible slavery!" he said, giving Stu-Pot a pat. Stu-Pot's warm, sweet body rested against Murdoc's side and his head was resting on Murdoc's shoulder. Murdoc was far too drunk to pretend he didn't like it.

Samantha's eyes widened. "That's so cool, dude! I didn't know that revision stuff about Satanism. I just came here for a dare. But isn't Stu-Pot, like, not artificial?" she said.

"Not since I ran him over. He's all mine now," said Murdoc. His left pupil gave a wicked flicker and he leaned over the table towards her. "So you're not a member of the Church of Satan, Samantha?"

"I'm not, neither is Sally," said Samantha, leaning forward herself.

Putting on his softest, most seductive voice, Murdoc said, "Would you like to join?"

"Uh, huh!" said Samantha, nodding her head.

Murdoc lay Stu-Pot's head down on the table and stood up, sweeping his cape around him, "Follow me!" he said.


Murdoc wanted to ditch Stumbo and Sally, so he was relieved when Sally babbled nervously as they walked to the Winnebago. "Is this going to hurt? Joining the Church of Satan sounds really intense, man. I don't want get sacrificed, or take my clothes off, or go to Hell or anything," she said, looking pale under her heavy makeup. "Ummm, I think I'll go and look at the candle stalls over there." She walked, almost ran, back to the convention.

"I'll go with you!" said Stumbo and hurried after her. Murdoc staggered, as he found himself holding up Stu-Pot by himself.

Samantha turned to follow the others but Murdoc grabbed her hand and tried to stabilize Stu-Pot with the other. "Samantha, there's nothing to worry about," he said. "All you need to do to join the Church of Satan is to look at a candle and say a prayer. That's all. It won't hurt."

"Promise?" said Samantha.

Murdoc grinned, showing green, pointed teeth. "Promise! And if you don't like it, you can leave at any time." He opened the door of the Winnebago and gave a theatrical gesture of invitation, partly spoilt by having to hang onto Stu-Pot and the way the door clanged sideways, partly off its hinges.

Samantha lingered a moment at the door. "What the Hell?" she said at length and stepped inside.

Closing the door behind with one Cuban heeled boot, Murdoc manhandled Stu-Pot onto the long sofa down the side of the Winnebago. He dropped him a little too hard and he bounced, with the springs pinging beneath him. Samantha giggled. She sat herself down at the breakfast table.

"So Stu-Pot's your slave, right? What can he do?" she said.

"He keeps me warm in bed. Much better than a hot water bottle," said Murdoc. The words came out before he could stop them. Murdoc added hastily, "I mean, his girlfriends say that." To cover his embarrassment, he pulled down the blinds.

Samantha giggled again.

"Maybe you'd like to give him a cuddle in bed later on, after you've joined the Church of Satan," Murdoc suggested, turning away from the final blind, sticking out his tongue and giving it a wiggle. He placed a black candle on the table and sat down. He lit the candle with a flourish and put his silver lighter into his shirt pocket. "Are you ready?" he said in a softer, more seductive tone.

The flickering light of the candle lit up Samantha's beautiful face. She nodded, and clasped her hands together.

"Clear your mind," said Murdoc, his voice oozing like warm chocolate. He reached forward and took both her hands. "Focus on the flame and say, "I am ready, oh, Dark Lord. I feel your strength within me and wish to honour you in my life. I am one of the Devil's Own. Hail Satan!"

As Samantha spoke the words, Murdoc looked into the flame and silently spoke a prayer of his own. 'Oh, Dark Lord, I bring you a follower. Answer my prayer. I wish to spend the night with the one I desire most.' He stroked Samantha's hands as he thought this, and couldn't help but grin. Then he whispered aloud, "Concentrate on the flame and on the image of Satan on Stu-Pot's t-shirt. Think of Satan's strength."

"Strength," whispered Samantha, staring into the candle flame like one mesmerised. "Strength," she whispered again. Her lips parted to say the word a third time but she froze in terror.

A roaring gust of icy wind struck the Winnebago. The black candle guttered and nearly went out. Samantha stuck her nails into Murdoc's hands with fright as the gale made the Winnebago rock on its suspension. Murdoc could hear tents flapping and tearing only a few metres away and he released Samantha's hands and yanked up the nearest blind. Outside he could see the convention goers holding their skirts and cloaks and running for cover. The large baphomet loomed over them. But beside the baphomet, his red robes swirling in the gale, his arms raised to the black sky in worship, stood Bane, screaming, "He is here! The Dark Lord is here. Hail Satan!"

"He IS here," said Samantha. Despite her recent fearful grab for Murdoc's hands, she was strangely calm now, as if someone was speaking through her. "He is here and I must go from this place. I'm not welcome." She stood.

"Now wait," said Murdoc desperately, standing as well. "It's only a gust of wind. Only a little change in the weather. No need to be leaving so soon." His plan to spend the night with her seemed to be unravelling and he wondered why his prayer had not been answered. Surely bringing such a woman to Satan would have a magnificent reward of passion?

"I must go, I am one of the Devil's Own and I must go," said Samantha, still with that strange calmness. She looked at Murdoc and he could see a trace of fear in the unnatural calm of her face. "Remember how I told you I can sense an atmosphere of a place. I'm sensing it now. It wants me to leave. Quickly!"

"Samantha, honey, I think you may have had a bit too much to drink. You're better off staying here out of the weather. Have a sit down on my bed and reconsider," said Murdoc.

Samantha turned and looked at the bed. Another gust hit the Winnebago and the candle flared. The light illuminated Murdoc's unmade bed, and the curves and rucks of the blankets formed the exact shape of a leering horned goat's head. The snarling face of Satan himself. Samantha screamed. Then another wuthering blast of wind struck the Winnebago and candle guttered out.

Screaming in the dark, Samantha flung herself away from Murdoc and out of the door, running back towards the satanic convention as fast as she could go, her skirt and hair blowing in the wind.

The door blew shut behind her. Staggering in the dark, towards the breakfast table, Murdoc got his lighter out and relit the candle. He looked first at the bed. From this angle, he could not see the face of Satan in the blanket and the primeval terror that made his very hair stick up a moment before subsided. He started to feel silly.

"Stu-Pot," he said to the still blue-haired figure lying on the sofa, who had not moved at all during the screaming and blasts of wind. "I've met some superstitious bimbos in my life, but she's the worst!" He looked more closely at Stu-Pot and concern made him take a deep breath.

Stu-Pot was shivering like a leaf caught in a storm. Comatose people have trouble regulating their body temperature, Murdoc recalled in alarm. He took Stu-Pot's hand and it was ice cold. His urge to chase straight after Samantha and convince her to return faded as he realised he might lose Stu-Pot in the process. He had to warm him up and fast.

Murdoc ran to the bed, no longer worrying about the leering face, dismissing the very thought of it, and yanked back the blankets. He ran back and picked up Stu-Pot, quickly pulling his clothes, collars and shoes off until he was only clothed in his nappy, all the better to warm him up quickly. He slid Stu-Pot between the covers, pulled off his own clothes and shoes, donned a pair of red pyjama bottoms and slid in beside the chilled, still body, rubbing him with warm hands and pulling the blankets tight around them both.

"I'll just stay long enough to warm you up, Stu-Pot," Murdoc said. "Then I'm going after that Samantha." If Stu-Pot had been conscious, he would have heard the frustration in Murdoc's voice, "I'm supposed to be having a night of passion with the one I most desire. At this rate, I'll end up spending the night with you!"

He lay draped around Stu-Pot, feeling his shivering subside, smelling his sweetness. It was comfortable there in the bed. Murdoc's eyes slid closed and he forced them open again. The long and harrowing drive here on the rough, but horribly familiar track, was catching up with him. He buried his head in Stu-Pot's neck, smelling the soft, sweet skin, feeling the pulse beating and felt a part of him moving on its own. Damn, it! Damn the cold! It was only early, and the convention was still going. It wasn't time to sleep yet. Especially with this raging erection. He had to do something about it. Where was Samantha? Why was he so tired all of a sudden?

Even as he swore to himself, Murdoc fell asleep.

And dreamed that he woke.

He was still lying in bed, in his Winnebago but the chill of the Scottish night had vanished. A warm, red light came from under the blinds and the air itself was warm, a luscious, luxurious heat. Murdoc reached down to push the blankets off his now naked body and found they had turned into the green blankets that had protected the keyboards at Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium from dust. The bloodstains had long since faded and the blankets were clean and soft against his skin and his raging erection.

Stu-Pot lay beside him in the bed. The red light turned his hair purple, and highlighted the delicate planes of his face. Murdoc caught his breath as a fist of desire struck him in the stomach. No, he couldn't. He couldn't do anything to Stu-Pot. He was male, for Satan's sake and unconscious to boot. Where was Samantha?

She had to be outside. Outside the Winnebago was the destination, the place he had been walking towards all these months. Murdoc climbed out of bed, away from Stu-Pot's warm, sweet body and felt bereft. He was glad when the blood handcuffs caught him and he realised he couldn't leave Stu-Pot behind. Of course, he had to come too, some part of Murdoc rationalised. He couldn't leave a comatose man on his own.

He picked Stu-Pot up and lost control for a moment as the warm body pressed against him. He groaned, crushed the man to his chest, pressed his face into his throat, and his hands to his buttocks and thrust his hips at him. It took a few seconds for Murdoc to stop himself, and pull Stu-Pot up in a chaste position in his arms. Control yourself, Murdoc, he thought. What would your brother Hannibal say? Anyway, there's a woman just outside. There has to be.

Outside, the convention had vanished. But the burning red light of bonfires still blazed, morphed and changed into lines of fire. Murdoc's eyes followed the lines, and saw that they formed a gigantic, red, baphomet drawn not in ordinary flame, but in razor slashes through the darkness, and into another dimension of burning fire. It was as if Stu-Pot's t-shirt had come alive and was emblazoned on the top of the hill.

The baphomet was the destination. Inside it, he would find what he was looking for.

Walking towards it, Murdoc felt a powerful sense of joy and anticipation, not to mention a rush of desire that almost doubled him up. He bowed low to the baphomet, with Stu-Pot in his arms. Somehow, he could only look at Stu-Pot's face, as he took the final steps, it was as familiar to him by now, as his own. He looked at the snub nose, the demurely closed eyes.

Murdoc stepped over the first line of flame and placed his left foot into the baphomet.

A shudder went through Stu-Pot and he stirred in Murdoc's arms.

Murdoc put his right foot into the baphomet and stood complete inside it.

The blood handcuffs fell to dust. Stu-Pot took a deep, shuddering breath and his eyes opened, one white, one damaged black. His right arm lifted and went behind Murdoc's neck and his mismatched eyes looked deep into Murdoc's, burning with something Murdoc could not quite make out.

Murdoc froze. Stu-Pot's open eyes always had this effect on him. He waited, with a pain in his chest, for the eyes to close and Stu-Pot to go back to being unconscious.

Stu-Pot stared for a long moment, and then he smiled. "Hi," he said. His voice was not the faint rasp of a semi-comatose man. It was strong and healthy. The arm around Murdoc's neck was warm and stable.

Trembling, Murdoc said, "Hi," back. He waited for Stu-Pot's eyes to close, but Stu-Pot's eyes remained open, looking at Murdoc with an expression that started out tender, then gradually became amused as the moment went on and on and he lay there in Murdoc's arms, showing no sign of falling back into unconsciousness. With the air of a person in a pub trying to start a conversation, and a grin on his face, Stu-Pot put his face close to Murdoc's and said, "Come here often?"

Murdoc laughed and the tension broke. "No, this is my first time," he said. The body in his arms had muscles Murdoc's nursing training told him he shouldn't have after so long in a coma. He set Stu-Pot's feet onto the ground where he stood, without a trace of weakness. He was still wrapped in green blankets and there was a look of utter euphoria on his face. He looked down at his body, tracing his gaze up his legs, over his arms, his open hands and looked at Murdoc, laughing with the sheer joy of being conscious again.

Murdoc laughed for joy too. There seemed no need for words. Stu-Pot was radiant. All thoughts of Samantha left Murdoc completely.

Stu-Pot examined his hands. "How long have I been out?" he said.

"Nearly a year," said Murdoc, wondering at the strangeness of it all. He looked at Stu-Pot and a feeling of guilt stole over him.

"Doesn't feel like a year," said Stu-Pot in a casual tone. He stopped looking at his hands and gave Murdoc a grin.

Murdoc couldn't help himself. "Does to me. Look, Stu-Pot, I'm so sorry I ran you down," he said. "I..." Stu-Pot reached out and touched an index finger to Murdoc's lips, to silence him. It wasn't so much the touch that silenced him but his body's reaction to it. Murdoc's lips tingled and he felt heat rising up into his cheeks and plunging down into his groin.

"I'm not sorry. If you hadn't run me down we wouldn't be together now," said Stu-Pot, seriously. He looked at Murdoc with concern in those vast, mismatched eyes. Then his expression turned cheeky and he gave Murdoc's chest a playful punch. "Cheer up! Betcha can't catch me!" he said, and darted further into the baphomet, holding the green blankets around him, looking behind at Murdoc as he ran.

"Bet I can!" said Murdoc, feeling his mood lift, and set off in hot pursuit, leaping over the burning lines after the lanky, green wrapped figure. Stu-Pot was agile. He ducked out of Murdoc's grasp and ran towards the centre of the baphomet, laughing merrily, but in the centre of the baphomet he paused and turned.

Murdoc saw his chance. He charged at Stu-Pot, grabbing him around the waist. They fell and rolled on the ground, wrestling and laughing, Stu-Pot coming to rest on top of Murdoc. The green blankets came loose around Stu-Pot's body.

He was naked underneath them, his pale skin gleaming in the red light. His mismatched eyes burned and his tongue slipped out from his lips. He was, without a doubt, most beautiful thing that Murdoc had ever seen.

Desire cut through Murdoc like a lightning bolt. He lay under Stu-Pot, who crouched on top of him, his legs on either side of his hips, his arms straight and his hands on Murdoc's shoulders, pinning him down. Stu-Pot was panting, his pale face was flushed, his lips were parted, showing straight, white teeth. Neither of them were laughing anymore.

Lost in Stu-Pot's eyes, Murdoc saw him bending his arms to bring their faces together, and he arched his own body up to meet him. Their lips approached, almost touching.

You fag! You fucking poofter! Murdoc flinched. He had heard his brother Hannibal's voice in his head as loudly as if the bastard had been standing right beside him. The memory of the steel capped boot kicking him repeatedly made him struggle in Stu-Pot's grip. "Sweet Satan! " Murdoc cried out. "What am I doing?"

He thrust Stu-Pot away from him and stood up, turning away, the memories of Hannibal's abuse and his own protests overpowering. He wasn't gay. He wasn't! He couldn't be. The final, the most powerful reason why he couldn't be gay came to him. It wasn't safe for a guy like him! Hannibal, Hell, practically any one of the men he spent time with, the men he called friends, would literally kick him to death if they found out he was bisexual. Murdoc put his head in his hands and groaned.

Then he felt a light touch on his arm. Strong hands moved his own away from his face and made him straighten up. He looked up into Stu-Pot's beautiful face and was caught, mesmerised, once again. He couldn't move as Stu-Pot put both arms around him and drew him into a kiss that melted his insides.

Murdoc struggled weakly, but all the fight was leaving him as desire overcame every single objection he had.

Oh, what the Hell...

Memories of Hannibal faded as Stu-Pot's naked belly and chest pressed into his own. He parted his lips and Stu-Pot's tongue slipped inside, rubbing up against Murdoc's with a passion Murdoc could not believe, even though he shared it. He wrapped his arms around Stu-Pot, unable to stop himself or break away as Stu-Pot took control, biting and nibbling down his throat and chest, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking it hard. Murdoc's knees gave way and both of them fell to the ground onto the green blankets, Murdoc bringing Stu-Pot down on top of him.

There was no more embarrassment. No more second thoughts or guilt. No thoughts of Hannibal and his beatings. None of that existed here, in this dark place, surrounded by tongues of fire. Only desire existed. Murdoc did not even question the way Stu-Pot took control. Murdoc had never liked being controlled. He usually found helplessness terrifying. But not now. Not here.

Afterwards, Murdoc lay there with Stu-Pot in his arms. Never had he felt more spent, more satisfied and relaxed as he did now. He couldn't move, except to hug Stu-Pot more closely, close his eyes and listen to their panting subside. Utter bliss.

For a long time they lay together. Wordless. Holding each other. Murdoc opened his eyes, "I want to stay like this," he said.

He felt Stu-Pot's fingers trailing up and down his back. "I want to stay too," he said. "But I can't."

"What can I do to make you stay?" said Murdoc in a plaintive tone, laying a hand on Stu-Pot's cheek.

There was a look of strange concentration on Stu-Pot's face, as if he listened to a voice only he could hear. "You need to say my name aloud. If you say my name, my real name, all will be well," he said slowly.

"That's easy," said Murdoc. "Stu-Pot!"

The black earth beneath them rumbled with an earthquake that got stronger and stronger. The tongues of fire around them began to die down.

"I don't think that was the right name," said Stu-Pot, sitting up in a hurry.

Murdoc sat up too, and raised is arms in frustration at the fading, shaking black and red world around them. "What the fuck is this? The Neverending Story? That was a stupid film. You want his real name? OK, how about...Stuart? Stuart Tusspot? Mr Tusspot? One Dint?" The reds and blacks around them faded to a dull grey. The earthquake strengthened and the entire world seemed about to split into two. Murdoc hung onto the shaking ground and turned to Stu-Pot. "Help me out here. Did you have any nicknames in school?"

"More than I could count," said Stu-Pot.

"Quick, say them before I lose you!"

But Stu-Pot was shaking his head and again seemed to be listening to a voice only he could hear. "It's not one of the nicknames I had in school." He added in a despairing tone, "If you don't know it, then it doesn't exist yet. That means I can't be awake. Oh no...!"

With a crack of thunder, the grey world split, right down the middle between Murdoc and Stu-Pot. Murdoc made a grab for Stu-Pot but it was too late. He had a last, despairing glimpse of Stu-Pot, his arms held out, trying to reach him. Then the grey light covered everything and he was gone.


The grey light of morning was coming from under the blinds. Murdoc yelled himself awake, still reaching for Stu-Pot. He didn't have to reach far. He was holding Stu-Pot in his arms. Murdoc sighed with relief. He hadn't lost him after all. What a night! He had just let Stu-Pot make love to him, had given himself whole-heartedly to the man and it was WONDERFUL. The greatest night of his life.

Murdoc sprang fully awake. Yelling and panting with horror, he sat up. He was in his own bed, in the Winnebago. The blankets around him were their usual purple, not green. Cold morning air swirled around his bare chest and the warm air of the night before, no, the dream, it had to be, had gone. Murdoc caught his breath. The Winnebago was empty, apart from Stu-Pot, lying still at his side. There was no sign of Samantha. No sign of Stumbo, he must have got lucky with Sally and ended up in her car.

The dregs of the dream faded and reality crowded in. No, Murdoc hadn't made love with Stu-Pot. He'd never! Never, ever even touch a man! What a ridiculous dream! What a nightmare!

His pyjama pants were sticky. Murdoc grumbled in embarrassment and tugged at them. It was time to check if Stu-Pot needed to be changed and change his own pants and try to forget about what had caused the mess.

The air was chilly when Murdoc pushed back the blankets, picked Stu-Pot up and carried him to the bathroom. Goose bumps appeared on Stu-Pot's flesh and Murdoc realised he should hurry, but when he checked Stu-Pot's nappy, he stopped still, unable to believe his eyes.

Stu-Pot's nappy was just as sticky as Murdoc's pyjamas.

A feeling of horror came over Murdoc and he had an image of the two of them, lying in his bed, both unconscious, and rubbing together in the night until they both came in each other's arms. That was what had happened. It was the only explanation.

Forget wuthering wind, mad high priests and Satan's face in the blankets. As far as Murdoc was concerned, this was the scariest thing that had happened to him during the entire satanic convention.