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“You’re a cock.”
This isn’t the first time Murdoc Niccals has heard the words you’re a cock and it’ll be far from the last, but it’s the first time he’s heard them from the sod he’s been babysitting for the past few months. It could be the first time he’s heard his voice, though he might’ve screamed when Murdoc came crashing through the window. It’s a bit difficult to recall, what with everything that was happening in the moment.
After the disaster of the second car-related accident involving this twat (all for a pair of tits… nice-looking, though) he’d moved, for once – a miracle considering all the lumbering around Murdoc had to do with a six-foot sack of meat that was useful to reel in women if nothing else.
He presented himself far more useful when he’d staggered up, all gangled limbs and jerky movements, a zombie crawling its way from the grave. Against all odds, he opens his eyes, blinks once, twice, and wow. That’s where the magic happens, in those dark dents that look like someone’s lobbed two tennis balls through his skull. Murdoc prides himself on terrifying children with his satanic demeanour, but he has to admit this dick’s taken first place this time.
He’d been sure he was still about as braindead as he was before until he’d opened his mouth. Driving back to his mother’s house without a word, radio on low to dispel some of the thick silence (The Stone Roses, currently), and he says that.
You’re a cock. What a way to start.
Murdoc grits his teeth and says, “Gonna have to work harder than that to hurt my feelings.”
He’s been called far worse.
“Not trying to. Just…” He (Satan, his name... it’d been mentioned in court) takes pause, and Murdoc almost can hear the cogs turning - he wrinkles his nose. Is his brain still a little scrambled? “...Let y’know. Smack me in the noggin w’your car. Put me out work. D’you know Norm actually started to like me?”
Murdoc doesn’t know who Norm is, nor does he care. “Bloody hell, I preferred it when you were dead…ish. Do you always complain this much?”
“Only to people who run me over. Twice.” He puts up two fingers, to emphasise his point and to tell Murdoc where to go. Twat. “How long was I out?”
“Erm… a month? Two?” Nothing compared to the hours upon hours of community service he’d been condemned to, but his time as Twatface’s (good one) second mummy had made them drag like nothing else.
...Can you feel my love buzz? The radio asks.
Those dark eyes narrow as if he’s processing this. “...S’pose Megan doesn’t wanna go see Men In Black w’me. Prob’ly went with Harry. Dick.”
“That’s what you’re worried about, yeah?” Murdoc scoffs a laugh as Blue Monday kicks off, then bares his teeth as a driver honks his horn. “Your priorities are well out of order.”
“Your driving’s well out of order.”
“Your face is well out of order.”
Murdoc supposes they’ve resorted to kiddie insults. That’s the sort of person he seems to be.
But if it weren’t for your misfortunes, Sumner drones. I’d be a heavenly person today.
Murdoc taps his fingers on the steering wheel and imagines ploughing through the traffic. It brings him little consolidation. The memory of ploughing through Twatface tugs at the corner of his mouth, though, so he recalls that stupid expression he sported moments before they collided.
“Yeah. Your fault.” Leaning in to look at the rearview mirror, he pulls at the pale skin beneath his eyes. Murdoc half expects the black to leak from his sockets like tears of ink. “Forget Megan. No bird’s gonna want me looking like I got no eyeballs.”
Murdoc would beg to differ, his trained gaze causing him to run a red light. Nothing like an intriguing quirk to draw in women. A good story or two and they’re hooked.
“Oh, shut it. They’ll go back to normal in a few weeks. If you don’t get knocked around the head again.”
“Norm rattles my skull if I space out while working.” It’s quiet for a blessed moment as he stares out of the window, New Order fading. “...Can’t work like this. Norm’s old. He’ll go mental. What am I gonna do? No job. No women.”
“Go live with your mum well into your forties. That’s what men with no future do, yeah?” Murdoc, quite frankly, can’t spare an ounce of sympathy for Twatface, because he’s done nothing but be a drag.
Then, he perks up as another song starts. “...This The Human League? ”
Murdoc shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Just an eighties station.”
Does anything get through his skull? Anything at all? Or is he just the equivalent of a punk Barbie – pretty to look at but not much else?
Drumming his fingertips on the thick denim of his jeans, Twatface hums along to the words, and if he starts singing Murdoc may just throttle him-
I picked you out, I shook you up and turned you around. Eyes fluttering closed, he sings, and Satan below– Turned you into someone new.
Forget it. Murdoc will pay him to finish that song, and the next, and every other song the radio chooses to play – eyes of a devil, voice of an angel, the soft tremor in his words strings the melody along in a way that has him enraptured.
He’s perfect.
Everything turns up in his favour, in the end – this is penance for his acts of community service. A perfect frontman.
Then, he stops in a stuttered breath. The illusion is shattered.
He’s perfect if he keeps his mouth shut.
“What’s your name?” Murdoc asks. He should know, he supposes, If he’s going to get him involved with his nameless band.
Twatface furrows his brow, which is unfair, because it’s not as if he had to address him by his name in the past few months. “...Stuart. Pot.”
“You been in a band, Stuart?”
“Erm… with some of my mates when we were younger, yeah.” Stuface cocks his head. “Why?”
“You wanna be in a band?”
“Not really…” He frowns.
“Oh, come on.” Murdoc rolls his eyes, pulling into the Pot’s drive (maybe.) “You said it yourself. You got nothing else. Imagine it. On stage, everyone loves your look, your voice, birds throwing themselves at you… Don’t you want it?”
Murdoc would rather picture himself, he can see it in the reflection of those eyes - a TV screen. Still, Stuart's nodding along. “I’ll ask Mum.”
“Ask Mumsy?” He heaves a sigh. “You’re a cock.”
This should be interesting, if nothing else.