Psychic City: Chapter five, finally! I would love to hear from you all: thoughts, questions, comments... constructive criticism? Anything is greatly welcomed!
Thank you for all the reviews on the past chapter. Special thanks to: ryon, Dreamm Weaver, Le Candeh, Va Vonne, Kitkat313optonline, AkinaTakesona, MCLanna, and LivelyMcBrighten. I appreciate all the comments greatly!
Chapter Five:
Something of an Existence
"So you're what," said a near by voice, rather close to Murdoc; perhaps too close for comfort. The voice, thickly accented, paused a moment to make sure he'd had the attention of the rest of the men at the table. Thus, readying himself up, he cleared his voice and continued, "you're like... a nanny now, Muds?" Slippery, his eyes moved towards the man at his right and watched him spastically as he tried to control his own fit of giggles that tickled the back of his throat. However, besides being incomprehensibly thick, the large man was also weak. Unable to stifle the laughter in his mouth, he doubled over, slamming his fist on the table, and erupted in a bout of dry chuckles. He did not seem to notice his partner's green fingers ball up into a tight fist underneath the table top. If one thing was for absolutely certain, it was the he, Murdoc Faust Niccals, was not anyone's babysitter.
The Satanist turned his black mop-toped head towards the shaking fat man, who had been far too caught up in his hand liquor to notice his steaming. Roughly, he narrowed his eyes together and lifted his fist, positioning it directly underneath the man's flabby chin. His teeth ground down furiously in his mouth and the man stopped, gazing down at Murdoc's hand with true fear. "Wot was tha' you said, Billy-Boy?" Niccals grumbled, flashing him a bitter smile and showing to him his jagged and rotting teeth.
Billy's eyes flicked around. There in the dimly lit pub, he knew that Murdoc Niccals would have absolutely no problem knocking him a good one. In the back of his mind, he knew that the bass player was, quite admittedly, rather psychotic. He glanced over towards the biggest of the three, Tiny, for help; yet he came up solo. Over the years he had known the deranged Murdoc, he had learned to stay on his good side. Besides, he'd ran over a living man, for fuck's sake. Thus, flinching anxiously, he held his massive hands up in a surrender. "Was nothin', Murdoc," he gulped, relived to find that Murdoc had snatched his hand away with a dissatisfied huff. "I was only just talkin' about that kid, is all."
Murdoc's face fell and, in the little light, he seemed to have aged quite significantly. At thirty-nine years old, the man looked as if he had seen a fair share of his more grueling days. Still, he sat upon his barstool sloppily, both defeated and very, very pissed off. But there was not much he could really do about his situation. After days of drawing up charts and thinking up theories, he had finally come to the conclusion that he was very much stuck in his situation with Stu-Pot. Thanks to his unreliable droogs, Tiny and Billy-Boy, he was in on it alone, as well. Bloody gits they were, leaving Murdoc to fend for himself, to take all the dirty work.
Tiny's large body flinched as he made a quick grab for his glass. Under the dangling pub light, Murdoc could make out the heavy black eye that circled his puffy eyes. With a swelling pride of satisfaction, Murdoc felt only a tad bit better at the thought of his useless mates getting exactly what they'd deserved. Although, the two of them seemed more fascinated with the subject of the Saturday boy, waiting carefully for their leader to answer them. He felt a pathetic burst of sorrow, mostly for himself, and rolled his tired eyes. Then, Murdoc Niccals took a big swig of his transparent alcohol. "Don't remind me."
Tiny nudged Billy-Boy in the ribs, a smile spreading off his fat face. Apparently, he had not gotten the gist of Murdoc's obvious anger. "Aw, look at 'im. Somebody's a bit angry..."
"Fuckin' right I'm a bit angry!" Murdoc roared, slamming his drinking cup on the table top, seething. The two men straighten up, once again hiding their amusement; as a pair, they'd found the bassist's situation more humorous than serious. "You should 'ave seen that bloody list!" Murdoc continued, breaking his hands apart to estimate the size of the thing. His chest rose, fell, and then rose again; perhaps wildly overheated by the topic of their conversation. He ran a hand through his hair, both bitter and miserable. Yet, his next complication of speech came out in a rather wuiet mumble. Sourly, he announced, "that fucking arsehole's ruining my life."
"Oi! Barbra!" Tiny shouted. He had exchanged looks with Billy-Boy, secret with their edgy little grins, and snapped wildly in the air to get the curvaceous working woman's attention.
Somewhere over in the corner of the dingy little place, the blonde woman stiffened. She was bent over in a curious manner, that tightened her arse in her jeans, but dually made her stomach pool over the edges of them. She turned her face over her shoulder and glanced over at the lot of three, spotting Murdoc's slouched body within the instant. Her mind rebooted itself- Murdoc Niccals, perhaps her best and most loyal customer. Better yet, he looked as if he were about to down the entire store in that very moment; she could tell just by the look in his unflattering eyes. Thus, a casual smile spread across her face and she whipped out her notepad with clear enthusiasm.
Barbra, who might have been once somewhat attractive, leaned down and positioned her palm squarely on Billy-Boy's broad shoulder, making him stiffen. His face reddened, though Murdoc had remained the only one to have truly gone all the way with Barbra in the first place. "Err," stammered Billy, nonetheless, "I, uh, think Mudsy 'ere is in dire need of something hard to drink."
The woman nodded, gladly, and shifted her weight. "Wot's it tha's got ya down, Muds?" she asked, already penning down an order of several drinks for the boys in her pad.
Tiny gave a joyful little chuckle. He took to ignoring the previous spat that had happened only minutes early and clamped a hand down hard on Murdoc's slumped shoulder. He answered for Murdoc, rather proudly. "'E's a babysitta' now, Barb." Then, smiling toothily, he turned towards his sizzling mate. "Ain't tha' righ', Murdoc?"
Still, Barbra didn't give Murdoc a chance to bash the foolish man's skull in. Her devious demeanor softened and she stopped chomping on her chewing gum for a moment to say sweetly, "aw, well tha's very nice a' you, Murdoc!"
The gloomy bassist slid down at the table, moaning and thrusting his throbbing head into his hands. His head hurt, thanks to that unconscious little brute. Stu Pot, with his stupid black eye and his rail of freshly missing teeth, was making Murdoc's life a living hell. And, just look at him! What was he doing in the late night at an empty pub with mates that he loathed? It was far too late to pick up on any birds, that was certain. No longer would Murdoc be free to troll the pubs in search of an easy catch for the night. No longer would Murdoc be just one lass closer to nailing every single chick in this bleeding town. He writhed with a brand new onset of furious anger. Stuart bloody Pot; he was ruining Murdoc Niccal's sex life.
"Trust me, Baarrrb," Murdoc drawled, glancing towards Tiny and shooting him a warning shot. "'S not by choice."
"Wot?" searched Barbra. "You fatherin' some young kid tha' I dun' know about?"
Murdoc's expression vividly shrunk, further igniting the grins of Billy and Tiny's faces. "Hardly," he spat.
But Barbra's curiosity only brought her so far. She hung around for a moment, waiting for him to explain, but came up empty handed. Thus, shrugging it off, she turned around on her heel, approaching the bar to grab the men their drinks. When she'd returned back, however, she arrived to the sight of an anxious looking Murdoc. His eyes were intensively glued to the ticking clock on the dark wall of the pub, and he looked torn between two ugly looking options. He mumbled something obscene under his liquor-laced breath. "Goin' somewhere?" Barbra asked, watching the clock, and then Murdoc, who quickly returned back to his own drink and downed it without a problem.
The bitter taste rushed through Murdoc's throat whirlingly, and he winced on impact. However, used to the burning sensation, he wiped his mouth dry and emitted a heart-felt swallow. "Shit," he groaned, and glanced up at Barbra, three drinks cradled in her hand like an odd professional.
"Yeah, Muds," Tiny croaked, grinning from ear to ear, "you act like, I dunno... like you've gotta be someplace early tomorrow or somethin'."
Bastards. Murdoc Niccals strode up from his seat and reached quickly towards one of the drinks, rapidly pouring it down the gaping hole of his open mouth within the instant. Then, without warning, he reached again towards Tiny's, doing the same. "Ay!" screeched the man, who had only just looked up in the midst of his laughter to see Murdoc now casually dive towards Billy-Boy's glass. But Murdoc was far too quick and, within moments, he'd finished the job for the two of them combined.
Stingily, Murdoc placed the last glass back on the table top, shoving it towards his foul mates bitterly. Then he leaned back down and snatched up his black coat in the process. "The bill's on them," he proclaimed sloppily and, with that, staggered towards the front door and out of sight.
Two Months Later...
"Alright, Stu, just a little pinch. Not going to hurt a bit, promise."
In the mist of Stu Pot's white and hazy delirium, he heard the familiar voice of the same woman he'd been hearing for weeks. She sounded nice enough, though old, and whenever she leaned forward towards him, he got the scent of peppermint. She had soft and warm hands that were comforting and gentle as they wrapped around him, turning him over once in a while and fluffing the soft cloud behind his aching neck. This time, however, her hands moved quickly and rushed. She smoothed away the skin on his forearm and dabbed something against it that made him feel cold and empty. Then, with a sudden prick, she allowed something sharp and edgy to break through his skin; and it hurt. Internally, Stuart felt his head throb and a massive amount of bile rise in his chest. It hurt real bad, and she'd promised that it wouldn't...
And that's when Stu Pot realized that he didn't really know this woman or the other figures that visited him at all. While they whispered nice things in his ear and stroked his hair, they also paced around him, toying with his limbs and poking at his eye. They made him cold with wet sponges, and dressed and redressed him constantly; they put long tubes down his throat and gave him shots. They told his mother when she could come and go, and even once pulled her off of his bed at night, when really he was too scared to be alone. And when they all left him alone, where ever he was, Stu Pot felt like he was the only one existing in the entire world.
The old woman finally pulled the cold torn from Stuart's arm and she pet his wrist as if she were sorry. "See?" she said softly, still rubbing Stuart's weak and sore wrist back and forth, "that wasn't so bad, was it?" The sway of nausea floated around him, still persisting in his weary head. Obviously it had hurt, and she had lied; but Stu wasn't so much focused on the pain as he was on the concept of his sheer existence. Days went by where he saw nothing but white, or heard nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. Those days, he could feel the thick edges of the tubes in his throat, the tight wrappings of whatever had been wound over his head, his torso, and his eye. On those days, he panicked, and called out, and cried; not a single person ever heard him.
The other days, where he felt himself less aware and, in turn, more numb, were the days that he could hear the voices. His mother's was the one that he'd initially recognized, and he felt comfort in the hours that she'd spend on his cloud reading him books, and magazines, and newspapers. She would reach down and position his throbbing head up against her lap and warm up his icy palms. But it was the other sounds that had taken him far longer to get used to. The old woman and a cluster of others were always at his side, telling him that they were "on his side", or that they were "rooting for him". The ladies would bend down and feel his face, feigning sweetness before they turned it all around on him.
Yet, still, it was one unique slur that had made him the most curious. The whiskey laced voice was one that Stuart only vaguely recognized, though he could not place a finger on it for the life of him. Most days, he heard the voice grumble as he broke into Stuart's personal space, nudging himself on his cloud as if it were a task. He did his job briefly and, for that Stuart found himself gracious for the man and his generosity. And Stuart had a theory, too; this miserable man was being forced. He did not want to hurt him with needles, sponges, and tubes. The people around him, they were making him do it. Despite his moaning, they handed him task after task, in turn making him furious with Stuart. But really, Stu couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. He didn't want him to be mad or angry with him. Instead, he wanted to snap his eyes open, or mutter and apology.
He was sorry that this man, whomever he was, was being forced to do something that he certainly did not want to do. The comatose boy knew- this man didn't want to hurt Stuart Pot. He just wanted to go home to his own house and live his life. And, for that, Stu felt that the two had very much in common.
The footsteps of the aged woman echoed throughout his ears. Even the sound of it made him envious. Everyone walked around him with their working legs; they spoke so easily and lived so casually. However, Stu was nowhere near being used to his new existence, and he wondered if he ever would be. Over the course of what he'd overheard had been weeks, he'd been flipped around and positioned constantly. His life was structural; around the same time he was certain he was fed, then drugged, and given shots. They'd run water over his torso and fiddle with the hole he felt gnawing at his head. Occasionally, they'd change the bags at his ankles and swap whatever it was around his head for something new.
When a couple more weeks had gone by, he had heard one of the voices declare him in a vegetative state. His mother was in the room, coddling his head and squeezing his fists. He'd recalled the conversation being jerky and tearful, as her body would flinch up against him with every profound sob. He wanted her to stop crying, because her crying only made him even more sad; but he managed to only sit there and listen as the voice of what Stu recognized as his childhood doctor say, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Pot."
"Proof!" he'd heard his mother yelp. She had only just been caught off guard by the doctor, who had broken her the news in a slow and vitally careful manner. His mother, Rachel, had allowed the book to slip from her hands and she'd reached for the plush teddy bear, fixing it tighter into her son's loose grip. "Y-You h-have no proof that he's... a-a v-vegetable!"
Dr. Osgood's long sigh echoed around Stu Pot's universe. He seemed to regain himself, knowing that the situation truly was a stingy one. "Mrs. Pot, Murdoc Niccals..."
"Oh, don't you dare start with me about Murdoc Niccals!" For whatever reason or another, Stu knew that his mother did not like Murdoc Niccals in the slightest. However, Stu knew him as the voice- the one different from all the others. He remembered the name in a minute sort of manner, though nothing specific came to him. Yet, he managed to feel somewhat at ease around the man, despite his mother's blatant distaste towards him.
"Stu's behavior around him is, well, profound, to say the least," Dr. Osgood continued.
"I don't believe a word that comes out of that.. that demon's mouth!"
During the blurry mess that whirled through the conversation, Stu could feel his mother pull forward. She cuddled him closer to her chest, propping him up slightly so that he leaned on her for support. She replaced Stu's hands into hers and rubbed them as if she'd expected him to squeeze back. But his body only went along with the ride, as usual. He slumped around with whatever direction she'd led him in, mouth dangling open slightly. She sobbed the hardest at the times she had to reach down and wipe the drool from his face. Still, Dr. Osgood kept his pace. He cleared his throat, but sounded wearily distance. "He's been moving his limbs around Mr. Niccals the most... opening his eyes... muttering things!" he said. "I've seen it."
Rachel Pot sniffed loudly. She huffed, her large bosomed chest rising and falling with ever dramatic pump. She swallowed and shifted her own stature. Yet she released her grip on her son's limp arms and instead made a slow grab towards his lowered chin. Cupping his face, she stared into her son's bruised and closed eyes, inhaling readily. "Alright," she said cautiously, "come on, Stewie, come on. Mummy's here, okay? She wants you to wake up now... can, c-can you do t-that for mum?"
Aching and desperate, Stu Pot tried to wake himself up. He felt his eyes slip open, though the act was involuntary, as it had been so often. But he could see anything clearly. The vision of an overwhelming sense of white blocked out any possibility of seeing another figure, thus making him feel that much more alone. Helpless, he tried to yell something back and, though he felt his mouth move, not a single word escaped him. In his blurred sense of whiteness, he felt his eyes well up and water, but Stu Pot's body didn't move.
It took a while for Dr. Osgood to say anything. Yet, when he finally spoke, he said, "this is... common with patients in... in Stuart's condition. I-It's all involuntary. He's been grabbing for things, crying, groaning. He's experiencing sleep cycles." He didn't mention that Stuart had been screaming; the thought would have terrified her, and he didn't want her to know.
Rachel Pot, however, had stopped listening a long time ago. She remained focused on Stu, her one and only son, still trapped between a veil of unconsciousness. Her soft hands continued to hold up his chin, and she smoothed back his hair lovingly. After a while, she set his upper torso back down and fixated him on his back properly. She stuffed the silly toy bear underneath his arm and made sure that he was holding it close to his chest. Her hands wiped at her face, brushing her cheeks clear of tears before she curled back into him, this time resting her own head on his slender and boney chest. "You said," she hoarsely replied after a while, "that this is a good thing?"
Mulling it over, Dr. Osgood gripped tightly onto his clipboard. Stu was in for a bath at any moment, but he waited kindly to see that Mrs. Pot would regain herself. "It could very well be, Mrs. Pot."
"And he's been... been moving the most around Mr. Niccals?" There was a sense of hatred and hopefulness mixed into her broken tone.
"He's been smiling, even," noted Dr. Osgood, feeling happy to offer the woman any amount of hope.
Mrs. Pot gave a timid and defeated little twitch. "Well, then," she said carefully, taking one last look at her damaged son, "I'd... I'd like to try and work something out..."
Psychic City: I'd love to hear from you all!
