A/N: This is a short little thing I did the other night because the lack of and the inconsistency of tattoos Murdoc has was starting to drive me crazy. It was probably just a design choice but in my mind there was something much more sinister going on.

The original idea was that the real Murdoc had died and he was replaced by a demonic duplicate, similar to the whole Paul McCartney is dead and is replaced by an actor theory from the Beatles. But then my twisted mind evolved the idea into this little shot of something nasty. Maybe I might come back to that idea, or not. I'm crazy enough to write something like that.

This story is loosely based off of the idea of Murdoc being an immortalist and him supposedly claiming that he was resurrected a few times. Add a pinch of horror and gore, a splash of devilish deal making and the breaking of contracts, then just a dash of my own insanity and we have a story that probably should not exist. But it does anyway.

And just in time for the Halloween season!

Any how, this isn't my first Gorillaz story but it is my first online. I had written one YEARS ago... and we don't talk about her, she stays in the basement where she belongs.

Don't be a stranger and leave a review. :)

Also note that this takes place shortly after Plastic Beach.

Tattoos.

His body had washed up one morning, riddled with bullet holes and partially decomposed. If it wasn't for the inverted cross and ID in his back pocket they wouldn't have recognized him as a one Murdoc Niccals.

News of the raid of Plastic Beach was circulating at the time, the rest of the band members were fine but the bassist was reported missing. Well the mystery was over.

He's dead.

Reporting his death was a top priority, but not until an autopsy was preformed. Even though his cause of death was pretty obvious, but it's a standard practice. One that must be followed, even for dead rockstars.

So that's where they left him, his clothes and jewelry removed and locked away as evidence. Stripping Murdoc of any dignity (as if he deserved any in the first place) and removing him of his identity.

Honestly the people assigned to Mr. Niccals was a little reluctant to approach the corpse. They knew that they were expected to do their job so they could send him home. If he was anyone else his death would've been reported and quickly buried. But in this small town they have never dealt with a celebrity before, though they do know to be delicate about handling something this unfortunate.

But that's not why they were reluctant about the situation. They have handled corpses before, but there was something...off about Murdocs body. Something that made whoever goes near him very uncomfortable. So they busied themselves with paper work, stuffing him in the fridge. Out of sight, out of mind.

But the boss was getting frustrated, and the body was taking up space. It's not like the fridge could keep him fresh forever anyway. They had to take him out, they have to do their job.

So they left Murdoc all laid out on a cold metal table, naked saved for a towel draped across his waist for modesty. They should've gotten straight to work, but most of them quickly made the most of their time simply prepping themselves leaving one unfortunate staff member with the job to keep an eye on the slowly decaying green body.

Of course he begged not to, because sometimes on the few occasions the body was out he could've swore he saw it move. The atmosphere amongst the bloated and decaying corpse was disturbing enough, but it moving on it's own was enough to freak anyone out. Especially if you have to work with it.

So he sat on the other side of the room from the dead rockstar, trying to desperately keep his distance. It was around lunchtime but being so close to the body made him too uncomfortable and nauseous to eat. None of them were really Gorillaz fans to begin with, and this just hammers the final nail in the coffin (pun intended, they work in a morgue, they have to have a sense of humor).

He could only stare at the disgusting pale green skin, the hallowed out holes where his eyes should've been. His tongue, swollen and practically hanging out of his mouth. The look on it's face was one of horror and pain, a look that would burn forever in the poor assistants mind. He turned his head away, deciding to concentrate on the wall, unable to look at the disgusting display any more.

Then he heard it.

He quickly turned back to look at the body, eyes widened in horror. It was a gurgling, and snapping noise. Like the sound a dog makes when it snaps a bone in half. His stomach turned, and his eyes couldn't look away as the chest of the body suddenly began to shift and move, as if it was breathing. Even though Murdocs chest has massive bullet holes in it, and stagnant water and old blood filled his lungs.

There was something under the skin.

Suddenly the body's mouth opened, and a thick dark red blood came poring out. If the assistant could even call it blood, it was more like tar than blood. He wanted to scream, wanted to call for help but he was frozen.

Suddenly a bloody fist bursts through the chest, the fist then opened it's palm and the red trailed between the fingers like slime. It was followed by another hand. Then a chest, then a head. All coated in the thick tar like afterbirth.

The assistant could only stare.

Murdoc threw his head forward with a loud gasp, the red tar flying across the room. The offending substance sticking his bangs to his forehead. He tried to shake it off, but it clung to him. It's going to take days to wash it out of his hair. He just had to let his guard down, surely it wouldn't be thar far fetch to believe that one would be safe in a goddamn SAFE room, what a crock of shit.

Pulling his legs free from his old body he stopped to look around at his surroundings. Then to acknowledge his nudity. Then to the bloated corpse, now looking more like a deflated balloon.

Murdoc took a moment to try to remove the thick tar substance off of his skin for a second time, as he was now used to the routine. He began to pick off the remains of his old skin that clung to his body.

When the Devil came for his payment, and Murdoc refused to pay (the first time) he knew he fucked up. He knew that he was going to be punished somehow but he didn't know how, so he had spent many sleepless night imagining many scenarios, the next one more worse than the last.

It was when Murdoc died the first time that he finally learned, and Satan could laugh at his revenge. If Murdoc wanted to stay on this planet, then he'll stay on this planet. Forever. At first he thought living forever was a good thing, to be the immortal rock star chained to the Earth to forever party and make music, it sounds amazing.

But this was his punishment, and after the third time he had died, from a drug overdose (no one bothered to look for him, so he woke up in the same spot where he collapsed) he realizes that. That his bandmates are going to die one day, that the world was going to end one day.

And he would be alone.

Murdoc dragged his long talon like nails through his hair, nails perfect for clawing out of skin. He had lost his tattoos years ago, as a new body usually means a fresh start. But his nose is still crooked, as Satan wanted him to still be ugly. But at least he didn't get any greener, if that was possible. At first he was horrified to see himself green for the first time when he crawled out of his old skin (and out from under a destroyed helicopter), but after awhile he decided to roll with it. It fit his image anyway, better make it look like it was on purpose and not a grisly side effect of his punishment.

Looking around the room Murdoc finally spotted the poor assistant, who was still curled up in the corner while all of this was happening. Murdocs less than human eyes were cold and calculating like the snake he is and his less than human smile spreads across his cheeks.

"You" Murdoc pointed to the assistant who jumped at either his voice or how unnaturally sharp his teeth are "pants. Now."

This time the assistant did scream.

End.

A/N: The Halloween season is my absolute favorite time of the year, so why not get in the mood with the most demonic bassist around? It's amazing that I never wrote much horror on here. The FNAF stories I did doesn't count because it's more of a sad, sad joke by now. I'm talking about straight out horror like something you wouldn't show your Grandma.

On a completely unrelated note, because I'm an extremely obnoxious fangirl. If Murdoc could actually back up his claim that he could sing, I imagine him to sound sorta like Jonathan Davis from the band Korn with a little pinch of David Bowie in the mix just for good measure. Lol (What's with me and using cooking metaphors today? Goddamn, I'm such a dweeb.)

Anyway, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy my little trip into madness, and let me know what you think. Feedback is appreciated as long as it is constructive.

And I'll see you in the next story. :)