Psychic City: I'm sorry that it has been a little while since I've uploaded any part of this. I'm working on a few personal projects for myself at the moment, so I took a bit of time away. Now I'm glad to finally have this chapter back up to you.

Thank you to: Va Vonne, LE Candeh, McLanna, Lively Mc Brighten, Carl, whats-up-people, Gimmie back that fillet o' fish, WordWrytha, XxproperxsadxladyxsilentxX, ryon, iTSMOllYxoxo, AkinaTakesora, and TsukiUchiha13!


Chapter Ten
The Devil and Paula Cracker

Murdoc Niccals never once in his life thought that he would ever find himself in the position that he was in currently. Legs slumped downwards, eyes scanning the sight of ten pairs of nursing home patients, he avoided glancing sideways at Stu Pot drooling next to him. The meeting that he had been assigned to attend had been put together by the administration at the nursing home as if to only just punish Murdoc further. And while they'd insisted that it had been just the usual schedule, Murdoc was certain that they were lying to him. He blinked his mismatched eyes, waiting for the instructor to arrive in the empty seat at the head of the circle that he was seated in. The patients in front of him were paired with a family member, friend, or spouse; they fidgeted with every passing moment. But Murdoc only found grievance in the fact that the group leader was late and, with an impatient hand, he reached for the packet of cigarettes that had been calling to him since he'd arrived there.

"You can't smoke in here." The bass player looked up. Glaring in his direction was the face of an old and wrinkly woman, her gray hair loose around her shoulders. She wore a pink nightgown and matching slippers, yet the scowl on her visage made her appear bitter and stoney. She was hunched forward in her chair, next to her young granddaughter at her side. For a moment, Murdoc stole a glance at her partner, whose hands rest about the shoulders of her grandmother wearily. She was mousy haired, fat, and clad in a pair of black baggy trousers. She did not object to her grandmother's harsh statement.

Shrugging his shoulders, Murdoc popped the fag between his lips anyways. He continued to lock eyes with both the females and ignored the older woman when she turned to her granddaughter in a whiney plea. "I don't want to do this with him," she said, extending a lengthly crooked finger out in his direction, "I know what he is... he's the devil."

Responsively, Murdoc flashed the senile old bat his set of rotting teeth, winking back at her sarcastically. When he reached into his trousers and pulled out his lighter, he flicked light onto the butt of the cigarette conclusively. "You're too kind," said the devil.

Defeated, the crazy old woman pulled away, shrinking down into the chest of her chubby relative. She avoided continuous eye-contact with the man, though secretly murmured quick little prayers under her breath. Her skinny fingers wrapped up around the cross necklace around her flabby neck and she held it out ahead of her, waiting for the bassist to be dragged back to Hell. However, Murdoc's presence only remained in front of her. He cocked an eye at her foolishness, feeling superior, and dug the end of his Cuban heel into the tiled floorboards. Yet he did not focus on the woman for much longer. Instead, he surveyed the rest of the nursing home patients with bitter curiosity. Aside from Stu, they were all alert, aware, and awake. In their seats next to their more sane partners, they eyed Murdoc up and down as a group.

"Why're you here?" said a man farthest away from Murdoc. He was in a wheelchair and dressed in a pair of track pants. His jacket bore the headache-inducing vision of bright colours and across the breast a label read 'Track and Field'. He was not old, but middle-aged and miserable. He looked crushed from his legs down and sat upon the chair as if he were slanted, despite the dangling silver whistle that had been draped around his shoulders. "I've never seen you here before."

It took a moment for Murdoc to answer. Instead, he sucked greedily at the end of his cigarette and tilted his head lightly. Out of the nine other patients around him, this man seemed to be at least the most level headed. Nonetheless, the scowl that he gave to Murdoc was one that the Satanist recognized all too often. Yet his feelings were not hurt; he was, of course, only fueled by such displays of distaste towards him. Thus, he pried the cigarette from his mouth and narrowed his set of mismatched eyes. "'M 'ere with Stu, coach," Murdoc finally stated, cocking a thumb towards the boy next to him. He did not look at Stu, however; he hadn't actually really looked at him at all that morning.

"Rachel's usually with Stuart," replied the man, eyeing the comatose boy slightly. He looked over his shoulder as if hoping to spot the boy's large-breasted mother in the room so that she could replace Murdoc and their session could carry on as normal. However, Rachel was nowhere to be seen. Nonetheless, when the door behind him opened and a brunette and uniformed woman stood in the doorframe, the man seemed to perk up, his hope reformed. He locked eyes with her approaching figure and cocked his head back towards Murdoc with a spiteful jerk. "What's he doin' here?"

The woman in white glanced over towards Murdoc. "Ah, this is Murdoc Niccals. He will be taking Mrs. Pot's place for a couple of weeks," she informed them. She smiled down at Murdoc, who only rolled his eyes and smiled back tauntingly at the wheelchair-bound track coach opposite him. "Sorry I'm late," the woman added. Still, Murdoc sarcastically surveyed her, all too angry with the lengthy time period she had added to the session. She was short, pugdy, and rugged; her nose was pointed and outstretched. Her face had a tint of red to it and her fat fingers gripped her notebooks carefully. When she dipped down low in front of Murdoc to place a hand longingly on Stu-Pot's forehead, Murdoc was certain that she'd wanted to fuck his brains out. "How ya doin', Stu?" she asked, ruffling up his blue hair with a flashy smile.

"Spectacular," muttered Murdoc for Stu-Pot in a mockingly dry tone. However, the woman did not seem to pay him much attention. Instead, she leaned forward and dabbed at Stu's face with a wash cloth that she pulled out from her coat. Then, without a word, she plucked Murdoc's cigarette from his fingers and outted it on the floor with her sole of her shoes. "Bitch," Murdoc grumbled.

Nonetheless, the woman strode over to her seat where she positioned her large backside into the bottom of it readily. Her name tag glistened in the light above her: Patrica Haughtly. Her eyes seemed to linger around the room before she turned back to the crowd before her again. "Shall we get started, then?" she asked, crossing her large thigh over the other. Murdoc shuttered. The least they could have done was hired a beautiful woman to conduct the sessions. But no, instead they'd picked Patrica Haughtly, the woman who was perhaps a whale in disguise.

Not a soul seemed to move around the room. Their eyes still focused on Murdoc Niccals, a second wheel-chaired woman in the back shifted in her seat. Murdoc hadn't noticed her before, but she was young and disgustingly obese. He wondered how he had not seen her there, skin drooping over the edges of the only sort of chair to support her. At her side sat her buff husband, who was only a fraction of her size, and he looked repulsed and bitter behind his face of anxiety. "Where did Rachel go?" hissed the woman, her large face fixed up in a hissy.

Patricia frowned, though did not look upset with the woman in the slightest. In the most understanding and polite way, she turned her body back towards the woman at her right. Murdoc wondered how she did it; he had only lasted a half an hour with these lunatics and already he had begun counting the ways that he could wipe them off. "Rachel has work to take care of. She's a nurse, remember, Ms. McClean? Besides," she continued, "Mr. Niccals is not the only new supporter we have with us today, hm. Ms. Cracker, would you like to introduce yourself?"

Murdoc swiveled around. In the seat in front of him sat a boney woman, dark hair covered her face almost completely. She wore her sunglasses above her head, and crossed her thin legs at the ankle. She had been perhaps the only one in the room that had not paid Murdoc any attention whatsoever. Instead, she seemed to be more perplexed on the state of her scuffed boots than anything else in the room. "'M Paula," she mumbled breifly, slightly bringing her eyes over to Stu before snatching them away. Yet no one seemed to protest in the appearance of Paula Cracker. Instead, their vendetta remained solely towards Murdoc.

"Paula's here with her great grandfather, Mick," clarified Patricia. She gestured towards the aging man at her side. He looked bitter and resentful, though his miserable expression seemed to match Paula's as well. Neither of the two looked as if they had wanted to be there, or if they had even fancied one another very much. "Thank you for coming today, Paula, that was very kind of you."

"Yeah, well," Paula scoffed, "at least someone appreciates it." With that, she passed a distinct scowl over towards the man nearest her who, in turn, flipped her the bird. Paula's eyes soared into the back of her head and she pushed the black hair away from her face with an unimpressed huff. "Bleedin' bastard."

Murdoc watched the girl attentively. She was slightly wonky-looking, though something about her made him interested- though he was certain it was only because she was the most attractive female in the room with him. He watched her as she crossed her arms across her chest, leaning back into her seat and waiting for the remainder of the nursing home's session to begin. Yet every so often Murdoc was sure that he saw her look up, stare curiously at both he and Stu, before retracting and glancing hastily away before she was certain that he could notice her scrutiny. Thus, the Niccals man readjusted himself in his seat, cocking a final eyebrow back at Paula before, in turn, glancing away as well. She looked like a right bitch anyways.

Patricia shuffled her papers, surveying the group for the last time. "Who would like to start us off today, hm?" she asked. A slight bout of whimpering begun from the woman in the nightgown. She had not let her fingers go from the bulk of her cross necklace and seemed to be loosing hope that Murdoc would soon return to his place in Hell. "What about you, Mr. McClean? How's your relationship with your wife been going?" Patricia asked with earnest, a smile crossing her face as she turned towards the married couple. She looked peaceful within herself, ready to start a positive and empowering session for the day. Yet she did not notice when he man's face dropped into a scowl, seemed oblivious to the blatant expression of distaste he had etched onto his face.

The muscular man crossed his arms across his abdomen. He shook his head, looking disgusted as the moments passed. "Still keeps gettin' fatta'," he stated.

"Fuck you," Mrs. McClean retorted; Murdoc sincerely had to stifle the fit of laughter he could feel rising up in his throat.

Patricia's face fell flatly. "Uh, right... err, Paula," she settled, turning away from the fuming couple within the instant, "have you noticed any improvement with your great grandfather's health?"

"'E's still as batty as 'e's always been," Paula responded. She looked as if she were counting down the moments until the man dropped dead. Although, she seemed to notice the tried look on Patrica's face and she adjusted herself, attempting to start again. She chewed decisively on her lower lip, trying to think of something slightly more helpful to brighten the situation. When she had finiahed mulling her options over, she looked up with a rather blank visage. "But, uh... 'e's been taking 'is medications, 'e 'as."

"Only 'cause your putrid muvva pours 'em down me throat!" crocked the dying old geezer.

Murdoc stole a second glance at Paula whil he was sure that she wasn't looking. She looked about nineteen, Stu's age, and seemed to act as if she had somewhere more important to head off to. Murdoc was certain that she did not. Despite her miserable demeanor, she remained seated in the chair before her, taking the chance to dig through her purse without truly pulling anything of importance out from it. He noticed within the bag that she'd supported a pack of cigarettes, a red and black striped tie, and a pair of frilly pink underwear that set her off completely. Pink?, thought Murdoc, shifting eagerly. However, he remained floored. Seems more like a bit of a 'commando' kind of girl to me...

Patrica's smile broadened. "Murdoc, what about you?"

"Huh." Surprised by the sudden attention, Murdoc jolted upright, directing his eyes away from the underwear in Paula's purse. "Oh, yeah, Stu." Murdoc did not even address the boy. Instead, he looked around at the others, finally deciding to focus on the group leader instead. "We get on err... real well. Famously, perhaps."

"Are you finding that the care of him has grown easier?" asked Patrica, taking slight notice that Murdoc had not once glanced in Stu's direction. She did not seem to dwell on the fact, however, and she also did not notice Paula. The girl's expression shifted; she seemed more and more perplexed with Stu-Pot than ever. She looked as if she might have known him prior. But that was impossible, Murdoc decided. Stu Pot did not talk to any girls; he didn't even know of any. Yet the look in Paula Crack's eyes were blatant. With every passing moment, Murdoc felt himself grow slightly uneasy.

Although the silence in the room went completely unnoticed to him. He only seemed to linger on Paula, more curious by the minute. Sure Stu Pot had certainly received his attention from woman all around, but something about the way she was looking at him was different. He noticed her raised eyebrow and her narrowed eyes. She squinted at him as if only trying to get a better look. Every so often, she chewed on her lower lip, considering him slightly. Then, when she was certain that she could not quite figure him out, she would turn away, leaving Murdoc completely in the dust.

Patrica waited for a response. "Ah'm... err, gettin' used t' it," Murdoc lied, only to have something acceptable to say in the first place.

"You're getting used to it, are you?" recoiled the fat woman in the corner. She turned away from her husband and surveyed Murdoc up and down. The expression on her face was all the more demeaning. And while she definitely loathed her husband with a burning passion, it was blatant that she hated Murdoc even more. "How d' you think he feels about all this, then?" She cocked what could have been called her chin in an upwards motion. Her beady eyes rested upon Stu and her face reddened in response.

Something shifted next to Murdoc, forcing his attention away from Paula. Slouched down in his wheelchair, Stuart gave a timid little moan and rest his head at the side of the backboard at his seat. The dark bruises around his eyes were beginning to fade, yet his expression was unaffected. Eyes open, he stared around the room without any true focus. On impact, the entire atmosphere of the room deflated. Everyone seemed to hold their breath and Murdoc wondered if Stu had never really opened his eyes during the sessions before with his mother. He wondered what the big deal was and why everyone had been acting so strangely. Even Paula froze in her seat, her eyes bugging out of her head responsively.

It had been the first time Murdoc had looked at Stu since his arrival that morning into the nursing home. Murdoc noticed that Stu Pot had been dressed in his own clothes, making his look even further more like a complete tosser. He wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a short-sleeved yellow top over a long-sleeved white one. Someone had tied a long cloth across his chest to catch his spit. His eyes flickered slightly, as if trying with difficulty to keep them open. Then Murdoc adjusted himself. "Wot about 'im?" he asked carefully, "'e doesn' feel a thing..."

"Spawn of Satan!" hissed the older woman at his side, and Murdoc tossed his hands up in defeat. Sure, he'd loved being given such a title as much as the next guy, but now he was beginning to think that the entire room was in on Stu's situation. "Look what you've done to him," scoffed the woman, her hands still outstretched in front of her. She had not released the necklace since she had picked it up earlier. Murdoc rolled his eyes. It wasn't like the woman knew Stu Pot before he was a vegetable. There was absolutely no need for her to take his condition to heart.

"They should 'ave put you in the slammer," spat the buff man, tilting his head to one side. "Runnin' a kid over with a bloody car, for fuck's sake..."

Murdoc tilted his head over to Patricia, eyes narrowing. "Way to be discrete," he hissed, however the woman did not respond. Of course they had known all about Murdoc and Stu; they had seen the man come in to the nursing home every day, supplies in hand, with a grimace on his otherwise ugly visage. At the realization, Murdoc thrust his head back, huffing sarcastically before crossing his own arms across his chest. "I'm goin' t' need a bloody fag in abo' two seconds for 'his shit," he said truthfully.

Stu gave a second little groan and his blue hair looked floppy against his pale face. "He might as well be dead," crocked the fat woman, whose husband nodded.

"Alright, tha's it..." Murdoc growled, rolling his eyes. It was certainly a strange feeling to be so analyzed. Sure, he hadn't helped Stu-Pot's situation, but surely they hadn't passed all the blame on to him. Of course, Murdoc considered that they were only selfish- focusing only on Stu's predicament rather than his, as well. Yeah, Stu hadn't been able to do anything on his own anymore, but at least he didn't have to sit through an entire group session at the nursery home. At least, he didn't realize that he had to, anyways.

Murdoc scooted away from the crowd, ignoring the religious woman's grateful prayer before flicking her cross necklace from her grip and watching it clamor to the floor. He didn't wait for Patricia to protest. Instead, he stumbled up from his seat and, habitually, took ahold of Stu Pot's wheelchair handles. He noticed Paula Cracker, in particular. Her almond eyes followed the two of them, watching suspiciously as their figured retreated, before Murdoc finally vanished from the scene completely.


His back against the outside of the nursing home building, Murdoc clicked the heel of his Cuban boot up against the sidewalk. He strung his long tongue against his teeth and then struck a second cigarette back between his lips. From the looks of the light inside, the remainder of the group session in the nursing home had continued without him or Stuart. Flinching, the man stole a look at the comatose kid at his side. He had wheeled Stu Pot out through the doors with him, murmuring a list of swears under his rancid breath. Stu hadn't even flinched; as suspected, he remained immune to the outside world around him.

But the boy only hung low in his wheelchair seat. His breath curled out before him, responding to the freezing cold weather of outside. He wasn't dressed for the winter, and the tip of his nose had turned bright red in the intense cold. Murdoc, however, remained content with the heat of the cigarette between his lips. When he glanced back down at Stu-Pot and stared into his vacant expression, he rolled his eyes and said sternly, "don' look a' me like tha', for fuck's sake..."

The boy may have been a complete git, but even Murdoc realized that he did not belong in the lunatic house with the rest of those wankers. Sure, he didn't talk or act on much, but Murdoc decided once and for all that his situation was a whole lot more tolerable than any of the other patients in the nursing home. Thus, feeling a tad bit generous, he pulled a second cigarette from his packet and bent down low. Squatted down at Stu's level, Murdoc titled his head to his side, analyzing the boy's face. He whisked away the blue hair that was stuck dried to his cheek and grabbed his chin with the bulk of his own calloused fingertips. Making Stu's mouth open into a slight 'O', Murdoc pried a spare cigarette between his lips and patted him on the chin with the back of his hand. "At least you go' one thing goin' for you... silent and mysterious, birds dig tha', you know." He backed away slightly, dusting off his trousers. "Tha' Paula Cracker sure seemed to, anyways."

"Paula Cracker seems t' wot?" Murdoc jumped, his heart racing. He stumbled backwards and came to clash within the legs of a darkened figure standing behind him. He glanced upwards, holding his pounding chest, only to look into the face of Paula herself. She didn't smile. Instead, she looked only more curious than she had before. There was something about her face that watched both Murdoc and Stuart at the same time. Only, she managed to inch forward without saying anything else whatsoever.

Murdoc glanced back at the girl, his hands shoved back down into his pockets. He hadn't had a chance to light Stu's limp cigarette, but he had forgotten all about it in the first place. He looked the girl up and down; bundled up in a jacket, she seemed oblivious to the continued group session that had carried on indoors. Instead, she remained standing, as if the chilly outdoors were perhaps a better place for her to remain. Up close, Murdoc could see that her face was not as pretty. She had a set of furiously bucked teeth, and she smelt as if she hadn't showered in a matter of days. Her black hair was greasy, and it sat atop her skull like an unkempt little mop.

He only stared back at her in scrutiny, his face soft until she spoke aloud again. "Tha' sweet of you, you know," she said after a while of his blank staring. "Talkin' t' 'im like tha'..."

Murdoc stiffened. He'd had enough of people and their assumptions with what went on between him and the coma-ridden kid. Immediately, he took offense to her suggestion, feeling all too bitter to find that she had snuck up on him in the first place. However, he had not meant to offend her when he spoke again. Nonetheless, Murdoc leaned forward, trying on a fraction of his charm when he mused very sincerely, "wot's with yer face, lovey?"

"Wot," hissed Paula, obviously taking offense. She shifted her weight, folding her pencil-arms across her breasts and looking very hostile.

"Tha' look on yer face," Murdoc challenged. He eyed her defensively, quite taken aback for a second. "Don' think I 'aven't noticed ya lookin' a Stu an' I the entire time in there..."

However, it was Paula's turn to be dumbstruck. Her face reddened, embarrassed, and she pulled the hair from her face, relaxing a bit to know that he had not particularly insulted her. She tugged on the sleeves of her jacket, readjusting herself for the sake of giving her body something to do. When she had finally stopped fiddling, she said, "I think I know yer friend..."

"Ya think, do you?"

"Well, I'm not certain," Paula confirmed, peering over Murdoc's shoulder to get a bit of a better look at Stuart. "Ah used t' know of a Stu Pot a bit ago... like a couple o' months? 'E worked in a music shop I used to get me picks from, we talked a bit."

The bassist's face drained, "did ya now?"

Paula nodded, "and 'e 'ad blue 'air, too, jus' like tha'..." Finally her face crunched up a bit, considering her options. "'Ow'd you say you met Stu again?"

Murdoc's face contorted. She hadn't known? Of course she hadn't known; it had only been her first time inside the nursing home in the first place. Other than the obvious grievances that the others had towards him, Paula had been only left to speculate as to why it was that they did not like him in the slightest. Thus, Murdoc weighed his options. He could either tell her the truth, or he could lie his arse off like he did with the others. He thought quickly on his feet, considering that, despite Paula's bucked teeth and arguably greasy skin, he very much wondered what she looked like without any clothing on.

He took the first route he could think of and shifted his weight approximately. "We 'aven't officially met yet," he told her, lying without much consciousness. "Ah wos shopping at the music store that 'e worked at when 'e got 'it in the head by a car... stayed with 'im 'till the ambulance arrived." To make himself sound more convincing, Murdoc rested his palm in the middle of Stu-Pot's shaggy blue hair. He ruffled up the mess of it, making it stick out further in all different directions. Then, as if truly a generous soul, he plopped down at lit the end of the boy's cigarette for him like a true gentleman.

Paula's eyes widened. "'E is the same Stu, then!" she exclaimed, locking eyes with Stu's slouchy figure before turning back to Murdoc. "Ah went back in the shop an' it had been completely smashed t' bits! Ah heard abou' the accident but... " her sentence trailed off into the chilly breeze outside. Only, she stood still at the outskirts of the nursing home, perplexed. Her face had drained of any colour, but when her eyes finally found Murdoc she looked appreciative and generous. "Tha's very nice o' you, Mr. err...?"

"Niccals, love," Murdoc beamed, winking at her, despite her ill-expression.

She reached forward and shook his hand. When she had finished with the handshake, she walked towards the wall and leaned against it, next to Murdoc. Her eyes were glossy and she rummaged into her purse, withdrawing the pack of fags that Murdoc had noticed earlier. "Ah had t' get outta there," she said, breathing out so that smoke danced around her nostrils. "It's a bloody nightmare." Then, she turned back to Murdoc, noticing the forlorn look that Stu had on his face. His eyes searched around, though he looked without real purpose. He moaned slightly before sobbing and fixing his face up into a pout. His lost eyes seemed to water with every passing minute. Paula shook her head, addressing Murdoc timidly. "Ah don' know 'ow you do it..." Then, she added, "'e really wos very sweet."

"Oh Ah've 'eard," Murdoc mumbled, glancing back towards the door without conviction. As he looked through the window, however, he noticed the figure of Rachel Pot in the distance. She seemed to scan the group session, noting that her son was not present. He smiled at the shocked look that she had taken in, yet her eyes found Murdoc outdoors within the instant and her expression dropped. "Shit." Murdoc bent down hastily, retrieved the cigarette from Stu's lips and whirled back around to grasp the handles of the boy's wheelchair.

He noticed the fuming mother make her way out towards the back, but Paula stood only perplexed. "Oi," she inquired, watching Murdoc make off back into the nursing home, tossing his own fag over his shoulder. "Wot's a matta?"

"Things t' take care o, lovey!" Murdoc called, trying to appear collected for Rachel at the other end of the door. "Stu needs me indoors." And with that, he was gone, sucked into the harsh light of the nursing home altogether.


"Look, I'm telling you, Muds, people in comas can't 'ear someone else talking." In his slumped over position on Murdoc Niccals' couch, Tiny's eyes rolled tirelessly back into his head. Somewhere between the late hours of eleven and twelve, his tone of voice had taken a slightly aggressive tone and, bitterly, he stuffed the remains of his food into his open mouth. "You've been at this shite for eight months now," he hissed, "and all 'e ever does is moan, for fuck's sake!" Then, whole-heartedly, Tiny's flabby body gave a discrete little twitch and he plummeted back down onto cushions. However, his anger had passed through the room as, quite frankly, understood. For the third time that week, Murdoc Niccals had chosen to stay home from the pub. Instead, his nights had been spent around Stu, coaxing his arousal with the smell of food, ache of punches, and attempt of threats.

Yet the bassist was far too desperate to give up. He ignored Tiny, turned back to the fold-out kitchen table behind him, and waved a handful of dried cereal in front of Stu's nostrils. "I don' think 'at 'e's too into food, if you know wha' I mean, Muds," said Billy-Boy, gesturing to Stuart's lanky figure before deflating as well.

The past eight months had been tiring for the two beefy men. Since they had relied on the comatose Stu Pot for their midnight women, they'd been required to follow Murdoc and the boy around in its entirety. Where Stu Pot was forced to go, they followed. Yet they could sense something horrifically anxious behind the eyes of their once unbreakable mate. Murdoc Niccals' diminishing social life had finally begun to get the best of him. His desperation to wake up the immobile Stu Pot had become something of an unhealthy obsession. Their eyes scanned the wreckage at the shag carpet of Murdoc's living room floor, noting the supplies he had laid out for the kid on impulse. With his foot, Billy-Boy nudged the pail of water next to him. "I don' think that splashin' 'im is going t'do the trick..."

Murdoc's eyes found Billy-Boy's, a stern expression floating about his gaze. He appeared for a moment as if he were about to lash out at him, however, he only whisked himself back around and snatched the water pail up from the carpet greedily. "Ye of little faith," Murdoc sneered, cradling the bucket in his lap and tilting his head back to one side. Fractionally, he analyzed the boy, gnawing devilishly on his lower lip.

Admittedly, he'd done quite the number on Stu Pot over their past eight months together. Though Stu's facial bruises were finally beginning to heal, the boy had still managed to look like an absolute mess. Nonetheless, Murdoc hadn't helped much to begin with. Over the last hour, his attempts to snap the boy out of his coma had garnered him an ample amount of fresh new scrapes to arrive back at the nursing home with. A slight hint of sympathy tingled in Murdoc's dark chest before washing away within the instant. Though guilt was never truly a sincere emotion of Murdoc Niccals, he couldn't help but feel a slight amount of pity for the boy in front of him. By all means, his situation was, quite frankly, rather humiliating...

He, Murdoc Niccals, had seen Stu Pot during what could have possibly be considered perhaps his most embarrassing moments. He'd lugged him around and wiped the drool from off of his face. If Stu Pot was ever going to wake up, he owed Murdoc plenty. However still, the Satanist's twinge of sorrow plucked at him hesitantly. Perhaps the boy's pathetic state had gotten old and tiring. He'd even felt a bout of slight sympathy at the memory of the group sessions at the nursing home just hours before. And while both Tiny and Billy-Boy found it to be immensely hilarious, Murdoc's determination had only grown ten-fold. But besides, child care had never been one of Murdoc's favourite hobbies.

But the look about Stu held him back for a moment; with his fingernails still on the edge of the metal pail, Murdoc froze in his position. He took in the sloppy sight of Stu's messy blue hair and the permanently black and blue bruises he'd had circling around his eyes. Though the boy's mouth had been only partly opened, Murdoc could see the missing teeth in the minute hole that separated his lips. Along the surface of his barely-moving and white chest, the crooked slant of multiple harsh scrapes were bright red and clearly visible. Though Stu had been propped upwards in his seat, his head shifted downwards, only doubling the look of his weary expression. The boy had been strapped to the plastic chair with a set of Tiny and Billy-Boy's belts- both big enough to wrap around Stu multiple times. His long arms were held down by the leather, as well, and only his feet were free; they joined together at the knee and struck out in opposite directions.

Desperation tripling, Murdoc squinted tiredly. His hope to rid himself of the boy's burden remained strong and consistent. He'd grown exhausted over hauling Stu around, over having to carry a duffle bag full of the boy's supplies, over having to spoon feed him meals that lasted for hours. He wanted rid of Stu Pot and it wasn't because he couldn't handle the guilt; though Billy and Tiny had to argue otherwise. Their suspicion had grown over the past several weeks and it certainly had not helped Murdoc's matters much. Relentless, they'd seemed to catch on cleverly, despite the bass player's insisting of otherwise. But, Murdoc was certain, still; over the months that Stu Pot had spent with him, the boy hadn't shown a single sign of waking up. Thus, guilty feelings or not, Murdoc was more than determined to chance his chances.

The green-skinned musician fixed his ponderous expression. "Hold your breath," he warned the kid, and thrust the contents of the metal bucket back into Stu's face with full force. The liquid splashed up against Stuart's tilted head, instantly dousing him in cold water. His blue hair flattened against his scalp and the front of his stupid pyjama shirt clung to his shakily rising chest. However, other than causing the boy to appear physically drained, Murdoc's water solution had done nothing further to revive the boy. Instead, he had only managed to ruin his carpet.

Tiny peered over Stu's figure, pinching the boy's sopping wet chin and ignoring the hissing inhales coming from Murdoc's aggravated direction. He brought the nineteen year old's face up into the flimsy kitchen light and pushed his blue hair from his eyes invasively. Then, dumbly, he stated the obvious; "nothing happened."

Murdoc's eyes narrowed. He glanced back down at the dripping wet boy and then gestured to the door with his chin. "Get the fuck out o' my house," he informed the two men. Within minutes, they had gathered their things and scrambled, both warned and threatened by the grimacing look on Murdoc's face. They tripped over their feet as they scattered, thus leaving Murdoc alone with Stu-Pot, further convinced of eventual damnation.