AN HOUR AFTER THE SURGERY
After awakening from the surgery with an empty tube stuck in his wrists and melted ice dripping from a bloody bin, he had nearly rolled over onto 2D, yelling in pain as the anesthesia tube was pulled right from the cut. It oozed fresh blood, a bright red bubbling over the browning, older blood from the beginning of the surgery. He scratched at it dully, his mind still half asleep, wondering why he was bleeding.
Realization hit, and he sat up, nearly collapsing from the rush of blood to his head and sudden wooziness. Surgery. Fluffchester. Wurzel. His arms flailed about, hands patting to make sure every body part was still attached after leaving his unconscious body in the hands of the two.
Stomach: Check (Scar? Scar... Oh, surgery...)
Eye: Check (GoddamnitijustpokedmyeyeSATAN)
Penis: Check (So, he didn't castrate me- must've been in a good mood.)
Murdoc froze, and with a yelp clambered over onto 2D, straddling his near-naked body as he shoved a finger against the pulse in his neck. A wild look crossed his face, as he felt nothing against his fingers, looking dark against dullards very, very pale skin. There was no pulse. And there was no reply, when Murdoc finally managed to mumble, "Hullo dullard?" his voice cracking, his other hand tightening around 2D's wrist. Searching for a pulse. Any pulse. But from the stains of blood on his chest and the way his tongue lolled from his mouth.
Murdoc felt his teeth chatter. This couldn't be right. Why was he dead? He smoothed 2D's hair down, softly, slowly, not even realized as his pace increased and his mind reeled. Dead. Gone. My singer, my band mate. His hand frantically ran over the other's bright blue hair as he stifled a choking sob. Murdoc leaned over, vomiting all over the carpet of the Winnebago, his stomach contracting until there was nothing left and he was left, heaving and shuddering.
It was one of the first times he had ever said the singers name, truly said it with meaning. Suddenly 2D was not dub dullard, or nitwit, or numb nuts, or shit face, or ass hat. He was 2D.
HOUR AND A HALF AFTER SURGERY
"Satan, where'd you go?"
'I dun know Murdoc, f'one instant, I was standin' at th' kitchen counter, takin' m'pills- th' kind that goes in th'water, y'know? That kind? Yeah, th' green ones, you knows what 'm talkin' 'bout.- An' then, I drink it up, an' I feel all woozy. So's, I go to my room, took a few more migraine pills- th' blue n' black ones, y'know, an' one yellow so's they dun make me sick all over again- an' then I wuz out! Like a light!' He imagined 2D saying, babbling in the way only a halfwit like him could. But there was no voice, no 2D to irritate him with a nerve-grinding whine.
He was gone.
Murdoc's feet dangled over the edge of the cliff, a small precipice that hung over the landfill known as their backyard. A zombie ambled past down below, groaning as he sidled along. Murdoc took up a rock, flinging it as hard as he could, a grunt escaping his lips. The rock merely bounced off the un-dead's head, and it ambled out of sight behind a mountain of trash.
"I'll... I'll make it up t'ya, dullard, I swear..." He whispered, clutching the few blades of grass under his fingertips.
He stood slowly, looking out at the trash mountains. He could spot his old Winnebago, the one 2D never got to see the inside of because he 'was a fag, git your scrawny ass away, dullard!'. So was that old red car, which used to sit in the carpark.
2 HOURS AFTER THE SURGERY
2D had been told by Russel once, when long night after drinking beer and doing Jell-O shooters, that there was a place in everyone's spirit that you can go into. He said, with a drunken swagger, thick beer slopping from the can, "Hell, everyone 'as there own self, there own little place... I share mine wit Del an' all them, an' everyone has a different place. Most... most people don't go there 'til sumthin' bad happens, 'cuz it's your mind, and if you fuck sumthin' bad up in there, it's not good... but, it's your body, tellin' you to rest, if you go there. You only go there for a reas- MURDOC, you fuckin' cracker ass, git the hell off the lamp!"
The singer barely remembered the even, where the only proof of Russel talking about such a sensitive subject was the amount of cans and bottles all over and a disgusting stain on the lampshade. But he remembered it now, as he sat up quickly, looking blankly around.
He was sitting on a plush, maroon lounge couch. From the looks of it, he was in a dance club, dark except for the disco lights that flashed all around. He stood slowly, walking numbly to the dance floor. Where was he? Was this...?
He bumped into a person, and mumbled a quick excuse me. 2D then noticed, with wide eyes, it was Murdoc in his younger days, before Russel had punched him in the nose.
"Muds! Whoa, I... wot th' hell are you doing here? Wot am I doin' here?"
But he just kept dancing. He was only a memory. 2D blinked unbelievingly, then stumbled on, not noticing where he was going amidst the writhing crowd of people. They were all dancing to a song beneath a song, a tuneless thing that somehow spoke wonders to the singer. This music, this dance... it was him.
He scrambled onto a stage, his long legs stumbling over themselves. Was he dead? Why was he here? It felt comfortable and familiar here, but he did not want to stay here. He wanted to get back to life, away from the seductive thump of the unknown song and the ocean of memories dancing in his head.
The microphone found it's way into his hands. He gripped it naturally, and he looked out into the crowd. The music fell to a hush, and 2D tapped his foot gently. The song came to him. He took a deep breath; ready to sing-
2D woke up, coughing and sputtering. He felt a trickle of blood run from his mouth. Shaken, he looked around. He was in Murdoc's... bed? Murdoc, who was sitting on the floor, was looking at him palely, his jaw slack. Both of the bassist's eyes were red from what looked like crying.
"Wot... wot did those drugs do t'me? I dinnit sleep wif you, did I?" He asked wildly, noticing he was only in a pair of tighty whities. Murdoc said nothing, just gaping quietly. 2D raised an eyebrow, sliding down from the bed and landing on his feet.
"Geez, Murdoc, you act like you jus' saw a ghost."
"Fuck it, Fluffchester, get me more anesthetic!" Dr.Wurzel shrieked, his voice careening up to an impossibly high pitch. He quickly used his fingers to close the wound, blood spurting from the cut vein. 2D was making awful faces, his complexion getting paler and paler.
"DOCTOR! DOCTOR, IT'S DOCTOR, AND IF YOU DON'T CALL M-" Fluffchester snapped back, his girlish voice shrieking high above Wurzel's. It was quickly cut short as the madman lost patience, and he whirled around.
(Let me tell you, many things happened in that second Dr.Wurzel spun around.
Well, Dr.Fluffchester immediately shut up, for his throat was being throttled by a Dr.Wurzel, who was screaming, "You're a FAKE, a HACK, SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Because Dr.Wurzel had his hands occupied, the vein was now spurting blood everywhere, splattering on the bed sheets.
Because Dr.Fluffchester was occupied by the fact that he was being strangled, no anesthetic came, and therefore, 2D very clearly felt all this.
Because 2D felt the impact of his life blood emptying itself out over his new white skivvies, he started screaming as loud as humanely possible, and then some.)
And so very suddenly, everything was in a world of chaos. Dr.Wurzel drained of color, throwing Fluffchester back as he hurriedly rushed back over to 2D. He grabbed the vein tightly, plugging it and with a finger while he was fumbling with his stitches. He needed to sew up the vein, never mind the screaming, fuck Fluffchester, he should have a sandwich, lets go kill Russel's pig-
"S-sir, I have the anesthetic!"
The insane man turned around, his blank, white eyes blinking rapidly. He ran a hand through his hair, giving a bright red smear over his ginger curls. "Then put... put it up. So he stops. Stops screaming." His voice was suddenly quiet, and even amidst the din of 2D's shrieks, Fluffchester heard him loud and clear. He hung up another bag of anesthetic, and the singer soon fell into a hushed slumber, his face twitching spasmodically. Dr.Wurzel started to silently sew up the vein, his face blank of emotion.
"Doctor... W-wurzel, sir? I-I'm sorry, sir, shouldn't question you,s-sir."
He faced the back of Doctor Wurzel's long white coat, cowering in his two-inch heels. Dr.Wurzel suddenly hunched down, and an uncomfortable quiet sweeped the room, only interrupted from the soft, steady drip of anesthetic.
"You people," His voice was very different- it was no longer that kind, slightly high-pitched voice. It was deep and throaty, and it dripped of poison. "Make me sick. Cowering. Sniffling. Tell me, Fluff-fucker, do you see these two men before you?"
"Y-yes, sir, I do, sir," ('OMG i lyk just peed miself...')
"Murdoc Niccals. Stewart Tusspost. They have just swapped organs. Do you know... how insane that is? All organs, and we did it, using Betty," His head bobbed towards the butcher knife that stuck out of the wall, still bloody from opening the two band members up. "Some shitty anesthetic, a little bit of blood, and an ice box. Swapped organs, so Mudsy can live a few extra years. And so 2D can die a much, earlier death.
"Where will Mr.Niccals go, do you think, when his young, supple singer dies much younger then he? What do you think he'll do, when he realizes Two-Dents is dead, because of his fears? Hmm? I think he will die. Mudsy will simply die, wither away, because 2D is more to him then he will ever... ever realize. He cares." He slammed his fist down hard on the side table, and the equipment jumped. He turned on his heel, his face wild.
"And I care, Dr.Fluffchester! I care for Murdoc, despite it all, fuck, fuck, FUCK IT! Mudsy means... too much to me, to fuck him up. But he's not gonna die, is he? No, he paid, so he's still going to get his organs."
"Y-yes he will, Dr.Wurzel, fr-from Mr. Two D-dents."
And there, Dr.Wurzel grinned. "But then, 2D needs organs. He can't keep his shitty Mudsy organs." He gestured to the organs in the icebox. "Where's he gun git them, huh?"
('Lyk yah I jus peed miself.') "Um, I, uh..."
He stuck his tongue through the gap in his teeth, reaching behind him to wrench Betty from the wooden door. "You."
Hey, Author here, Muh Says The Cow. THANK YOU GUYS SO FRICKEN' MUCH for the feedback. I loves it, baby, I loves it. Anyway, make sure you check out my other stories. I have one about Russel and Del, called 'Don't Get Lost in Heaven', so make sure you check it out, love-uh-lys. I'm almost done it, and I'm writing the final chapter.
Okay, so some questions:
How would you guys like if I wrote a story about Dr Wurzel? Like, how he got the band their first gig, and why he's so obsessive with Murdoc.(Or, how he likes to say, Mudsy. 3) But, reply with your thoughts, or email me at moosaysthecow AT comcast DOT net. You can IM me at MUHSAYSTHECOW. Or, just review.
Sorry if the order confuses you, but I really liked how I wrote this. If you're confused, the first three parts are in order from an hour after the surgery, then progresses forward. The fourth part is the surgery itself, which happened before everything else.