EPILOGUE
-2D-
It's funny, the things you get nightmares about. When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about the couch in the sitting room coming to life and eating me. To be fair, it was a pretty scary couch, all big and red and puffy—just like the inside of a whale's mouth. It didn't help that the white throw pillows mum used to keep on it looked like teeth. Big, lumpy whale teeth just waiting to chew me up and swallow me down. Mum tried telling me once that most whales don't even have teeth, but I know that if they did those pillows are exactly what they would look like. Except less squishy-comfy and more stabby-ouchy.
It's even funnier the things you don't get nightmares about. You'd think that none of us would have been able to sleep again after everything we'd been through with the zombies and the invisible friends and the power outages and the crazy man who wanted to kill us. But then you'd be wrong. OK, I can't vouch for the others, but I know that I never had any nightmares about what happened. I probably would have in those first couple of nights if it hadn't have been for the meds, though.
For the first couple of days, I was on some pretty strong stuff. So strong I couldn't feel my body or much of anything else, either. It was Nice. Or at least, I think it was. I can't remember much of anything from when I on that stuff. Wish they'd have let me take some of it with me when I left the hospital so I could take it for my next migraine. None of the doctors or nurses seemed to think that was a good idea, though.
I woke up a lot more once they took me off those meds. That was Not So Nice. Before, I had a vague sense that something wasn't quite right and that the "something" probably hurt, but it was a funny, faraway pain, like what you get when the dentist shoots your mouth full of Novocain. It was easy to pretend that the doctors were talking about somebody else when they said "concussion" or "broken ribs." It was a whole lot harder to do that when my head was throbbing and my chest was screaming at me to STOP BREATHING SO DEEP BECAUSE THAT HURTS! On the plus side, I was so busy thinking about my head and my chest I didn't have much time to think about any of the other stuff that hurt.
Officially, I had a concussion, four broken ribs (and three cracked, just for fun), mild hypothermia, a cracked jaw, and a crapload of cuts and bruises. All that because some psycho wanted my hair. Really, if he'd wanted it that badly he should have just asked. It would have been easier to just cut some of it off myself, and a whole lot less painful.
I wasn't the only one hurt, though. Noodle had her arm in a sling for a while. I know I shouldn't be surprised by her general awesomeness by now, but I still have no idea how she could have called the police, climbed out of the elevator shaft, and knocked the psycho flat with some mindbending kung fu without even using both arms. I try not to think too much about what probably would have happened if she hadn't managed to do all those things. Or if she'd done any of them just a few seconds slower, for that matter.
Russel ended up having to hobble along on crutches that were about three sizes too small for him while his leg was healing up. I'd have probably felt sorrier for him if it didn't look so funny.
Murdoc had it worst—a ruptured spleen or something along those lines. He milked it for all it was worth, too. As soon as he was awake, he made sure all the reporters came to his room so he could tell them all the gruesome details about his near-death experience, whether they wanted to hear them or—
…
…
-Murdoc-
I know what you're thinking. Ooooohhh noooo! Where's 2D? It's his tuuuuuuurrrrn! Honestly, did you think I'd allow this story to end without putting in my two pence? (And honestly, did you really want to see that nimrod floundering to come up with a proper ending? I mean, look at him—he can scarcely even string together two words as it is. Besides, who better to wrap things up than your dashing, brave, ingenious, all-knowing, all-powerful Uncle Mudsy? Even if I was…ah…asleep for the latter half of the action.)
To answer your question about 2D: he's off smoking a fag. So while he's busy with that, I'll just ease on in here and tie off those loose ends. Now where were we? Ah. The reporters.
Lovely little bloodsuckers they are. Contrary to what 2D (the cheeky little bugger) would have you believe, I never once insisted that they come to my hospital room. They were drawn there solely on the merits of my good looks and witty charm, I assure you. (Well, that and the several hundred "anonymous" phone calls I made from my hospital room to every newspaper and tabloid I could think of informing them which hospital they needed to visit if they wanted an interview with the heroic, world-famous band that caught the dreaded Essex scalper. What can I say? Publicity is publicity, after all.)
While I was busy fielding all the PR (and let me tell you, managing a pack of thirty different reporters all from different magazines and news stations is no easy task. It's like managing a pit of rabid voles, I kid you not), Noodle showed the police where all the bodies were. She and Russel ended up having to stay in that shithole of a hotel room while the police did their thing, but the investigation cooled down enough for them to move back into Kong by the time 2D was out of the hospital. By the time I was out of the hospital, the bodies were already gone and the police were all but finished with what they needed to do. (A relief, that. Much as I appreciate their saving my life, coppers and I just never seem to sit right with each other.)
I didn't actively follow the Essex Scalper trial (I'd had quite enough of that bastard by then and all I wanted to do was get back to the business of recording our extremely late album), but Noodle, Russel, and even 2D watched the news reports religiously. They wouldn't shut up about it, either, so I picked up all the important bits through involuntary osmosis. Here's the quick and dirty:
The trial lasted three weeks. The full list of victims was probably incomplete, but the official count was seventeen. He confessed to (or rather, proudly took credit for) everything the moment he was on the stand. The jury deliberated for less than two hours before finding him unanimously guilty on grounds of insanity. He was sentenced to life in prison. No worries, though. I'll be sure to find him and make sure he gets what he really deserves when I see him in hell.
Once the police stopped poking around, we were back to recording—Noodle with her mind-blowing guitar riffs and superhuman musical sense (which was cultivated and refined by yours truly, of course), Russel banging away on his drum set (though if you ask me, he could have used some help from his big blue friend. Shame Del went and got himself exorcised), and 2D being an idiot (What can I say there? At least he's good for drawing the teenyboppers into our tangled web of corruption and destruction). And of course, ME—Murdoc Niccals, the world's greatest bassist and man behind the band; the puppet master who dealt with agents and producers, set tour dates, and saw to it that we got our music video footage filmed properly, all while putting out a little album called Demon Days, which is only the greatest album the world has ever seen. (Quite seriously, if you don't own it you've either been living under a dead moose or brain dead—and even that's no excuse, so quit reading and go purchase it now. I'll wait.)
So there you have it. The story of Gorillaz versus the madman complete. Finito. All wrapped up and tied off clean and tidy. Nothing more to say except: sayonara suckers, adios amigos, and goodnight from Gorillaz, masters of rock, rap, hip hop, trip hop, funk, and what have you.
…
…
…
…
-2D-
Well, there's not really much else to talk about since Murdoc kindly explained about the investigation and the trial and recording the album. That's OK, though. I didn't really want to talk about any of that, anyways. There's one thing I did want to talk about that he missed, though.
The last time I ever saw Taro-kun was two weeks after I got out of the hospital. I hadn't seen him since the day everything went crazy. I was eating lunch—a sandwich I'd slapped together with half a can of SPAM and a dollop of some unidentifiable green goo I'd found in the back of the fridge that I really hoped was OK to eat—and watching TV without really watching. Just staring at the screen with the sound down and my brain about a billion miles away. And then, out of the blue, there he was on the TV. His hair was longer and he was missing that nasty purple ring of bruises around his neck, but the "look-how-cute-I-am" goofy little kid grin was easy enough to recognize.
At first I thought he'd gone all Samara-from-The-Ring on me. I swear I had a bowel-melting two seconds in which I seriously expected him to pop out of the TV screen and come crawling after me. Then I realized that (a) it was just a picture of him and (b) no, he wasn't about to pull any final-scene-of-a-horror-film-jump-scare-supernatural business. I reached for the remote, turned up the volume—and that was when I found out that Taro-kun's real name was Samuel Jenkins and that the man in black—the man with the knife, the monster man—was his dad.
Maybe it was that mysterious green goo in my sandwich, but I really didn't have much of an appetite after hearing that.
I don't know if any of the others heard about that. I never heard anybody mention Samuel Jenkins again. Not even Noodle or Russel or Murdoc. Sometimes I think that maybe I dreamed that whole thing about the sandwich and the TV and Taro-kun's real name and real dad. Either way, I didn't see him again after that, and as far as I know, neither did Noodle (or Russel or Murdoc, either, although I don't think they ever did see him to begin with).
I never got to thank the kid for saving my life, and I never got to invite him to play Super Wide-Screen Pong, but I DID name the automatic computer opponent after him. Sometimes when I'm playing against the computer, I'll shut my eyes and pretend that the kid is there, big, Bambi eyes and all, playing against me. And then I'll lose because I closed my eyes. Right now, the record stands at me: 23; SAM: 57. I was right; the kid is a Pong man, through and through.
Author's Notes:
Wow; I can't believe it—this story is officially complete! One last GIANT thank you to everybody who stuck with this thing all the way to the end, in spite of the infrequent updates (including a hiatus of…er…two, three years). I am blown away by how many hits this thing has gotten, and all of the reviews and adds to favorites and alert lists really mean a lot to me. Thanks again to all of my fantastic readers!