Chapter Text
One of the first things Murdoc did, after imprisoning Stuart, in a room, on the basement floor of Plastic Beach, was loot the vocalist’s unconscious body. Murdoc wasted no time confiscating Stuart’s wallet along with his cigarettes, and his prescription opioids.
“You won’t be needing these now, will you, Dents,” Murdoc gloated in his chillingly sinister, intensely British way.
Murdoc grinned evilly and then proceeded to leaf through the contents of Stuart’s wallet, removing credit cards, cash, and all forms of identification. Murdoc then screwed the cap off of Stuart’s bottle of prescription pain killers, and swallowed its contents.
Murdoc exited the room and locked the door behind him, chuckling triumphantly as he did so. He had worked tirelessly for years to become a rock star. He had sold his corrupted soul to demonic forces in order into to insure the band’s success—and for what? So that those un-grateful buggers could up and leave him—just when Gorillaz was starting to top charts, and when just Murdoc was finally getting the recognition that he so desperately craved?
After all of Murdoc’s struggle and sacrifice, he wasn’t going to let something as silly and meaningless as a child’s death put an abrupt end to his pop culture relevancy.
…
Back inside the locked room, Stuart’s scrawny, unconscious body was still laying on the bed. Each time the plastic island was rocked by the movement of the surrounding waves, he slid closer to the edge of the bed. His long, skinny limbs were tossed about as the room trembled with a particularly violent current.
Stuart moaned in his drug-induced paralysis, thinking, as he often did, about the day that Noodle had gone missing.
“Unfortunately, our guitarist did not survive the crash,” Murdoc had informed the band coldly, after the dust had settled, and the police incident reports were all written, “We’ll have to start looking for a new one.”
“W-what do you mean she didn’t survive the crash?” Stuart repeated with alarm and disbelief. Tears were welling in his eyes.
“I’m not in the mood to put up with your fuckin’ head injuries, Dents. I’m speakin’ the Queen’s English, an’t I? Noodle’s dead. We need to start looking for a replacement guitarist,” Murdoc reaffirmed.
“No…no I refuse to believe it! She can’t be dead!” Russell shouted angrily, glaring at Murdoc with his fists balled. It was Murdoc’s callous indifference more than anything that set him off. Unlike Stuart, he responded not with sadness, but with rage.
“Investigators were unable to recover her remains. She was likely incinerated in the blast. If anything’s left of her it’ll have sunk to the bottom of the ocean by now,” Murdoc assured him, still speaking in that infuriating indifferent tone, “Forget her. It’s time to start rebuilding the band.”
“Dude, FUCK your band!” Russel exclaimed, aiming a punch at Murdoc’s head, that missed badly, and splinted the board in the wall behind him, “She an’t dead, and I an’t goin’ to stop looking for her, a’ight! I am out!”
“Fine, then, fuck you! Bugger off then!” Murdoc shouted as Russel trudged to his room and started packing his bags, “Drummers are a dime a dozen! You’re replaceable!”
While Russel was packing his bags and Murdoc was screaming and swearing at him, Stuart hunched forward in his chair, and hugged his skeletal arms to his gaunt chest. Tears welled up in his eyes and dripped down his face. He thought of Noodle, who had come to them, years ago, as a mail order child bride. She had been purchased on the dark web, by Murdoc, to complete the band.
Murdoc was talking to Stuart now, but Stuart wasn’t picking up on any of it. Murdoc’s mouth was moving, that meant he was probably giving Stuart some kind of an order or an assignment. Without really hearing or understanding what Murdoc’s instructions were, Staurt cried out: “I want to leave the band too!”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Murdoc growled threateningly. He advanced on the smaller, skinnier, frantically weeping man with murder burning in his cold eyes.
“I don’t want to stay here without Noodle! I want to leave! I’m quitting the band too!” Stuart sobbed, curling into the fetal position and hugging his knees.
Hearing this. Murdoc got in Stuart’s face. Remembering the many times that Murdoc had struck him in anger, Stuart flinched and instinctively shielded his face with both hands.
“Don’t hit me!”
Murdoc put his hands on Stuart’s shoulders and shook him, then growled: “This band won’t sell anymore records without a brain-damaged, air-head, pretty boy, with a marketable sob story, as the front man. You’re the face of my band, Stuart. As much as I hate to fucking admit it, without you, Gorillaz is finished. So, I’m giving you two options, you can stay OR you can leave and I can beat the ever-loving shit out of you, and then, drag you right back. The choice is yours, Stuart. The choice is yours.”
Stuart gulped. Whenever Murdoc called him “Stuart” and not “Dents” that really meant he was serious.
Though he was rightly terrified of Murdoc, Stuart was not in the mind frame to protect himself. He could not help but feel that Noodle’s death was in some way, his fault. If he hadn’t been so afraid of Murdoc; if he had stood up to Murdoc; if he had told Murdoc that the stunt was too dangerous. Then, maybe Noodle would still be alive.
“I…I don’t like it when you threaten me…or make fun of my traumatic head injury. Or hit me in the head and scream at me when I get brain fog and don’t remember stuff,” Stuart sniffled, wiping tears off of his face; not looking Murdoc in the eye. Stuart knew that telling Murdoc the truth was a mistake. He understood that standing up to him in any capacity would enrage him to the point of violence. However, he didn’t stop himself this time. If Murdoc was going to hurt him then maybe that was the punishment he deserved for not standing up to Murdoc sooner, for not standing up to him back when it would have made a difference, “I took it when Noodle was here, because I figured that as long as you’re beatin’ on me, well, at least then that means you’ll leave her out of it. But now that she’s gone, there’s no reason for me to stay. That’s why I’m quittin’ the band. I’m leavin’ Kong Studio and movin’ back in with me Dad. Sorry, but if Gorillaz is finished without me as a front man, then Gorillaz is finished. You have only yourself to blame. Should ‘ave treated me better, mate.”
As Stuart spoke, Murdoc’s eyes started to twitch. The green man’s facial muscles contorted with frightening rage.
“I made you a star! You ungrateful little—” Murdoc shouted and then he started violently strangling Stuart, while shouting profanity at him.
Russel heard Murdoc screaming and came bounding into the room with his fists raised.
“Motherfucker, I WARNED you about putting your hands on him!” Russel bellowed with rage, pulling Murdoc off of Stuart, and then clocking him in the nose.
Russel was a lot bigger and stronger than Murdoc. Murdoc was well aware that in a physical fight against Russel, he stood absolutely no chance, and so, he withdrew from the confrontation, snarling hatefully and clutching his bloody nose.
“Don’t put your fucking hands on 2-D, you got that! If I see you fucking touch him again, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta’ you!” Russel shouted furiously, as Murdoc glowered at him and retreated back into his room.
Stuart rubbed the bruises on his neck and sobbed. His gaunt body trembled with the residual terror of the recent assault.
“That fuckin’ narcissist never appreciated us,” Russel fumed, handing Stuart a tissue to clean up his face with.
Stuart took the tissue out of Russel’s hand and started wiping his eyes with it. He blew his nose and whimpered, as tears continued to run down his face. He took a deep breath to tried and compose himself.
Russel watched Stuart with white eyes, as the scrawny vocalist pulled a carton of cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket, and then, started nervously smoking, while he continued to violently tremble.
“You should get out of here while you still can,” Russel said, “If you need to come back for your stuff, take police with you.”
…
The plastic island rocked with the current, causing Stuart to roll off of the bed and hit the floor. The blurry room came slowly into focus. Stuart started to panic. This place was unfamiliar.
Bright bubble gum pink walls came slowly into focus. Stuart sat up on the floor and felt for his hearing aids. Thankfully, they were both still in his ears. He adjusted them and frowned apprehensively. There was a big, round window in this room that looked out into the depths of the open ocean.
“Hello?” Stuart called out nervously. He stood up. The room trembled as the waves rocked the island. Stuart stumbled.
“Hello?” Stuart called out again. There was no reply. Stuart walked over to the door and tried the handle. The door was locked. Stuart’s heart began to race. Had he been abducted by a crazed fan?
A disorienting migraine came over Stuart, and he staggered over to the bed, clutching his forehead, and moaning in pain. Intense severe, chronic migraines were one of the lasting consequences of the multiple traumatic head injuries that Stuart had sustained in his youth. The doctors had put him on a lot of strong opioids to manage his chronic pain condition, but Stuart’s drug of choice was a oxycodone. He always carried a bottle of it with him everywhere.
Stuart reached for the pocket where he kept his trusty drugs.
“No…no, no, no,” Stuart panicked in dismay, once he realized the drugs were not there. Stuart checked all of his pockets, and then, searched the room. He staggered around, desperately, while his damaged head throbbed in pain.
“Oww…ow…,” Stuart moaned, as his vision blurred and a wave of nausea came over him. The room trembled with ocean waves. Stuart stumbled back over to the bed, where he got under the covers and curled into the fetal position, shutting his eyes tight against the cruel stabbing ache.
This was the way that Murdoc found Stuart, once he re-entered the room. Stuart was curled up into a ball, under the blankets, whimpering in pain.
“I warned you, I’d drag you back. Didn’t I, Dents?” Murdoc chuckled sinisterly, “Now, let’s get started recording another album.”
“You can’t force me to record another bloody album,” Stuart muttered, “Where’s my oxycodone, huh? I need it. You know I need it. ‘Cause a’ those dents you put in me head. I’m a sodding cripple.”
“I am so sick and bloody tired of you and those bleedin’ pills,” Murdoc groaned, rolling his eyes, “Fuckin…pixie dream boy…always zonked out on pills. Too bloody high all the time to get any work done. I’ve ‘ad enough of it. I’m cuttin’ you off, Dents.”
Upon the realization that Murdoc intended to cut him off from his medication, Stuart rolled onto his stomach and started loudly weeping into his pillow.
“Oy, stop cryin’ or I’m goin’ to give you somethin’ to cry about,” Murdoc threatened, smacking Stuart upside the head. Stuart yelped in pain, and sat up abruptly. He inched slowly backward, away from Murdoc, so that his back was against the wall. His eyes were dripping and his lip was quivering. He gripped his throbbing head with both nobly hands.
“I- I hope you know, what you’re doing is pathetic,” Stuart sniffled, “You can’t hold me prisoner here, and even if you try, I’m not ever singing for you again, so you can sod off to hell, you bellend.”
“You watch your mouth, you shitty, ungrateful twat. Do you know how many singers would cut off their whole nut sack to work with me, international sex symbol, Murdoc Nichols?” Murdoc boasted, “You should consider yourself lucky that someone like me is willing to put up with the likes of you. Now, if you value your health, you’ll cooperate and start recording. Maybe if you’re a good monkey, I’ll even reward you with some drugs.”
This was typical behavior for Murdoc, lording drugs over Stuart like bananas. Usually this type of manipulation tactic was effective, but not this time. This time, Stuart stood his ground.
“No, I told you I’m not a part of this band anymore. No means no, don’t you understand?” Stuart insisted, despite the dangerous look in Murdoc’s cold eyes.
“One way or another, I’m going to get what I want out of you, Dents,” Murdoc threatened with a sinister snarl. The look in his eyes threatened violence plainly, and yet, in this moment, Stuart was more angry with Murdoc then he was afraid of him.
It was Murdoc who ordered a trafficked child from overseas and had her delivered to the studio in a box, like a piece of recording equipment. It was the Murdoc who later sent that same child crashing to her death, with zero remorse.
“I’m not singing again,” Stuart asserted boldly, crossing his scrawny arms and slouching so that his shaggy blue hair obscured his dark eyes, “Not without Noodle, not ever again. That’s my penance for failing her. She looked up to me and I failed her. I should have protected her. I shouldn’t have let you play roulette with her life. So, you can beat me, or torture me, or do whatever you’re going to do, but I’m not singing again.”
This sentiment seemed to amuse Murdoc, who cracked a jagged smile.
“She looked up to you, huh?” Murdoc mocked jovially, “What a role model! What could she learn from watching you? How to be a bulimic drug addict? How to smoke two packs a day? 2-D, you’re truly father of the year!”
Murdoc cackled long and hard at the ridiculous notion of Stuart having any kind of positive impact on Noodle’s life. As Murdoc laughed, Stuart’s expression shifted from angry to wounded. He hunched defensively and bit his lip, his face coloring slightly.
Once Murdoc had laughed himself out, he said to Stuart, with a shit-eating grin, “You bang on the door and beg my forgiveness, once you’ve come to your senses.”
Then he exited the room and locked the door behind him.
Stuart was left alone with nothing but his chronic migraine, and his crushing guilt for company. Memories of Noodle tormented him, as he curled into a ball and wept bitterly.