Psychic City: I'm so sorry that its taken em so long to update, but I'm going to try to submit chapters for all of my fanfictions, so hopefully it will make it up to you! Thank you everyone who has reviewed on my fictions! I appreciate it so much!

Thank you: Pandora Girl, Jinxie95, Atrusa Solaris, HikaxKaoxLovies, and, XxProperxsadxladyxSilent.

Chapter Eleven:
Of Birds and Bat-Shit Lunatics

Murdoc Niccals had never been so careful with the likes of Stu-Pot before. However, he had also never really garnered himself quite the audience.

With her narrow eyes analyzing his every move, the fascinated expression of Paula Cracker made him move slowly, draping Stu's blankets over his knees before leaning back and feigning exhaustion. Paula had only just arrived at Murdoc's doorstep- as most women had- and Murdoc had already begun to act of charming her. It wasn't as if she were immensely interesting, or undefinably attractive; but Murdoc recognized her potential and had decided to flow with it. Thus, he'd invited her in, not surprised to see that she had tracked him down to his condo. So he glanced over his shoulder, and played the act of the interested bachelor.

Yet Murdoc was still groggy when she'd rung his doorbell in the early morning. Stu had been dropped off only hours beforehand and Murdoc had only just finished attempting to wake him from his coma by means of continual blows to the head. When he'd heard the noisy thing ringing, he'd slipped to the door and made a quick grab for the baggy button-up that had been strung across the back of the kitchen chair. He blinked his mismatched eyes, yawning, and pulled the bulk of the door open, slipping just his putrid green head through the slight crack that it created. When he had seen that his visitor was a woman, a small smile made his face appear more alive. When he had seen that the woman was Paula Cracker, he couldn't have looked more satisfied.

"Well, Ms. Cracker," he said casually, "fancy seeing you 'ere." His head swelled up to the size of a hot air balloon, and he leaned back into his doorframe with a stature that was only fractionally suave. His mind rambled something along the lines of, "Murdoc Niccals, can you ever keep the birds away?"

"Hi," Paula had smirked, a cigarette between her lips. She had been leaning casually against his doorframe already, looking slightly morose behind her friendly demeanor. Murdoc took a moment to glance her over. Her black hair hung just below her chin and lightly brushed the upper half of her neck. Behind her cat-eye sunglasses, her arched eyebrows jolted upwards, and the tip of her sparkly monroe piercing twinkled in the sun.

Murdoc lifted his hand to shield his eyes before stepping back slightly and yanking up the waist band of his boxer shorts. She wasn't much to look at, that Paula Cracker, but the fact that she had bothered to arrive at Murdoc's doorstep had made him a bit curious about her.

Nonetheless, again he noted the packet of fags sticking out from her purse and, more than anything, he wanted to bum one off of her.

He took consideration of his posture before he actually acted on it. Leaning to one side and crooking his head out towards his shoulder, Murdoc had mused, "'ow'd you get me address, lovey?" He let her in without waiting to hear an answer, leading her back into the living room where he had been with Stu. With a kick of his leg, he whisked the blunt objects that he had been using to whack Stu with under his skirt of his living room couch.

"Go' it from the nursing home staff," Paula chirped as she followed Murdoc indoors. She didn't notice Murdoc's quick moves. Instead she had been far too perplexed on sucking the life out of her hand rolled cigarette.

"Kind of unprofessional, doncha think?" he asked, "jus' givin' you me address like tha'?"

"Shady bastards, nursin' homes..." Paula responded, lifting her shoulders. She gave Murdoc's condo a quick glance around. He was quite the hoarder; things were thrown around the space carelessly, leaning against the walls and chipping the paint in the process. A pair of women's knickers had been thrown over the lampshade, and it gave the room a sort of pinkish glow. Usually, a woman would have been offended by such a public display of sexuality, but Paula Cracker found that she was only furthermore intrigued. Murdoc Niccals was quite different from the batty old lunatics at her grandfather's nursing home. He lived life and fucked around- so what? So did she.

"Gramps don't need you today?" Murdoc asked, walking in front of her slowly.

Paula made a face that was twisted with extreme disgust. She said seriously, "that man doesn't need anythin' but a casket and a burial cite."

She found herself smiling at Murdoc for a moment, watching the back of his black haired skull lead the way before her. On his bare legs rest the marks of scars and bruises. In his desperate attempt to button his shirt up, he had left a bit of his back exposed. Paula could see that his lower back had been marked with the word, 'Helios', and she raised her eyebrows with curiosity. But then she'd spotted Stu, his blue hair sticking out slightly from the fluffy cushion of Murdoc's couch pillows. His eyes were closed, and a rather significant bump was forming at the top of his pale forehead. He was dressed in pyjama clothes, as she had seen him before, but Paula was certain that he had smears of black eyeliner smeared around his eyelids. She waited for a moment, perplexed on the surface of his shag carpet, and then took another drag off of her cigarette. "Wos tha matta' wif 'im?"

"'E's a vegetable," snorted Murdoc, glancing at Paula from the corner of his eye. Her top was low-fitting and Murdoc noted the way it hung low against her plummeting chest.

"'S hardly wot I meant," Paula coughed. The white smoke of her cigarette had begun to slip around her nostrils. It twirled around her face nastily, clogging Murdoc's condo with the scent ruthlessly. She hadn't even offered to out her cigarette when she'd entered the house. Instead, she only stood perplexed at the comatose kid, her hand cupping her curvy waist.

Murdoc spun around, eying the boy for himself this time. Sure enough, Stu Pot was bent over, the same hazy daze upon his face. He did not only look spacey, but appeared almost nonexistent. His corpse, only a shell, seemed to be the only real and physical thing about him. "Long night, Muhaha, ha ha," Murdoc decisively declared, and Paula huffed.

"Wot d'ya mean by tha'?" she asked, peering back down at Stu, her eyes narrowing.

Murdoc considered, for a split second, telling her the truth. Or, at least, a bit of it. She, of all people, wouldn't mind to hear that Stu Pot had had a little fun the night before. Sure, he was in a coma, but who was Murdoc to deny him of that? Right? Paula would like hearing that, Murdoc decided; she'd be crazy to not want to hear it. Yet Murdoc stumbled with getting out the words. He glanced up, leaned back, and acted casual. However, his mouth said, "nightmares."


"Yeah, loads of 'em, poor bugga'." Murdoc winced. It wasn't as if his comment were not true; Stu had been having nightmares. But something about impressing Paula had kept him from admitting the truth about Stu Pot and his successful night the evening before. And, while Murdoc certainly was not interested in having a relationship with Paula, he truly did want to get in her pants.

Paula made a face, then shook her head. "I wos talkin' abou' the black eyes."

"Tha's from the accident," Murdoc retorted, tilting his head, his hands on his hips. Stu Pot's eyes were closed, but certainly she had seen his bad eye before during the group sessions at the nursery home. Murdoc concluded that either she had either had a pitifully bad memory, or she really was just that stupid.

"I mean the makeup."

"Ah, that." Murdoc Niccals bent down. He whipped out the wash cloth that the nursing home had given him to clean up Stu-Pot's drool, and instead spit on it himself. Then, as if he were trying to rub out the kinks on a car, he scrubbed the makeup from Stu's face hastily. "Wos tryin' t' do somethin' nice for ol' Stu, 'ere, lovey. Bring 'im back t' his roots, ya know?" His tongue struck out from his lips and he pressed harder on the nineteen-year-old's pale skin. "'E wos always a bit of a punk before the accident."

"I don' remba tha'," Paula retorted, but she said nothing further and, instead, bent down to get a better look.

Murdoc watched her as she, in turn, watched Stu-Pot. Something about her face seemed solemn, yet horrified. He noticed her distance, close yet far all at the same time. Her hands rest on her knees and her cigarette had been positioned between her spidery fingers. She didn't bother to pull her dark hair away from her face, and she peered back at Stu through her locks like curtains. And her mouth opened and closed, as if looking for something proper to say. When she couldn't quite come up with anything, however, she rested back down, shoulders lowering and eyes falling.

She was a rather strange person, Paula Cracker. She seemed so angry, yet so curious all at the same time. She took off her sunglasses, positioning them at the collar of her shirt, unknowingly blocking Murdoc's view of her cleavage. But her body stature screamed something dangerous, while the look of her eyes whispered something sympathetic. Murdoc could tell that she wasn't a good person deep down, but perhaps she was truly trying to be.

Murdoc had finished off polishing Stu's face. He rest his elbow on the armrest of his couch and turned back away from the comatose boy. "So," he asked, "what do you think?"

The woman before him remained pensive. Her soft face slumped down low, and her eyebrows twisted in a knot, pulling the cigarette back up to her lips. She shook her head lightly and seemed to forget about the cigarette in her hands that was flicking ash onto Murdoc's shag carpet. Yet she remained looking at Stu's shut eyes, his face wiped away completely; and he really did look like a boy. Almost too young of a boy, despite being nineteen and drooling. Stuck still in her train of soft thought, Paula said gently, "I think its strange when ya' think abou' it. A young man in a nursing home..."

Face twisting, Murdoc's eyes narrowed. Stu-Pot was hardly what he had been talking about. "I meant the condo, love," he said flatly.

"Oh," Paula blinked, drawing away from Stu-Pot, she said to Murdoc, "its, err... interesting."

Murdoc winked, leaning forward and lifting himself back up to his feet. "That's more like it. Be right back, love," he said. His eyes scanned the living room for a pair of trousers that he could slip on, but he came up unsuccessful. Usually, however, he wouldn't have bothered to dress himself, yet with Paula staring at Stu, he figured that perhaps he would step up his game. Besides, giving the girl a moment alone with the boy would, he assumed, get him points. As much as he loathed the little pain in his arse, he had to admit- Stu-Pot certainly knew how to reel them in. "I'll give ya a second," he told Paula, after a short moment of quick thought, "got t' find me pants." And, with that, he strode away into the depths of his bedroom.

Thus, Paula Cracker remained squatting, her face twisted and tilted as if to get a better look at Stu Pot, sitting there before her slumped. She wished Murdoc didn't leave her alone with him; it was quite a strange feeling to be alone with the comatose being. And yet, Paula wasn't exactly sure she could consider Stu much of a person, anyways. He was more like a presence, a load of light weight that poor Murdoc Niccals had to drag around everywhere. Sure, he drooled and dreamt like a person, but he couldn't do much for himself. She spotted the formulas at the kitchen counter across from her and her stomach flipped with disgust. Stu couldn't talk, couldn't move... and yet, Paula Cracker found herself unable to not feel sympathetic.

Or, at least, she didn't know what exactly to feel. She'd known him a little, in all honesty. Stuart Pot was the boy she had seen at Uncle Norms every once in a while. He'd struck up conversations with her, and she'd noticed his nervousness as he stumbled over trying to sell her keyboards, when really all she'd wanted was a guitar pick. She considered the fact that he'd just wanted to talk to her; perhaps he was bored at work, or looking for some kind of distraction. And she wondered how she'd feel if she had, in fact, gotten to know Stu Pot better. Maybe then would she be angry at Murdoc. Maybe then, she wouldn't have come knocking on his door.

Still staring, Paula Cracker kept her distance. "Why'd you stick your head unda' that car, huh?" she whispered, shaking her head in a matter that was both disappointed and scolding. Stupidly, she waited for an answer. Her face grew red with curiosity. She couldn't help but be afraid; she didn't want to touch him, didn't want to get too close. "You've ruined both Murdoc's life an' yours, Stu," she told him carefully. "You're only nineteen... you don' belong in a loony house."

At nineteen years old, with a pretty face like that, Paula thought, Stu Pot could have amounted to so much more.

She didn't notice when Stu's black and blue eyes gave a little flicker. And then the boy let his eyelids droop open.

That she'd noticed; how could she not? Stu Pot was staring right at her. He looked sad, miserable, and tired. She hoped he couldn't see her, couldn't hear her. And, despite herself, she fumbled back, landing on her arse with a thud that shook the panties from the lampshades and made her sunglasses fall from her top. Paula's hand flung to her chest, heaving up and down rapidly. "Uhh," she breathed, her eyes wide with fear, "err- Murdoc! Murdoc!"

Stu's face fell; he looked as if he were about to cry.


The face of the slimy green bass player appeared through the crack of his bedroom door. "Wot is it?" he asked carefully before his eyes found Paula on the floor. "Oi," he called out, looking from the distraught woman. Then he found Stu Pot on the couch ahead of him. His blue hair was a mess and his head lolled downward. Of all things, he'd woken up. Murdoc arched an eyebrow. He'd found his tight trousers, and looked out of place in his strangely nice button up. "'E's just woken up," Murdoc explained, blankly.

Paula swallowed hard, her eyes still wide and fearful. "Is tha' normal?"

There was a bout of silence that passed between the two of them. She was panting and heaving, her chest moving up and down, and her fingers clinging on to the shag of the carpet below her. The cigarette she had been holding had fell beneath the strands on the floor; her fall backwards had put it out completely. Murdoc had never seen a woman react to Stu-Pot in that way before. Usually, they loved it when Stu opened his eyes. Sure, his one wonky eye had taken a slight while to get used to, but that was never much of an issue. Stu-Pot was pretty, he was silent, and he didn't bitch to them. Certainly, he hadn't spooked Paula Cracker by yelling out, "BOO!" before continuing on living in a coma again.

"That's normal?" Paula asked again in a loud voice.

Then Murdoc shrugged, "woll... yeah..."

The woman on the ground before Murdoc Niccals shook her head. She seemed to have lost her previous cool. No longer was she so sexy and mysterious. Instead, she seemed to act ten years younger than Murdoc had expected her to be. "I've got to go," she muttered, stumbling up off the floor and making a quick grab for her purse in the corner. She looked back at Murdoc for a moment, but avoided any eye contact with Stu Pot completely.

"Wot." Murdoc merely stated, watching the girl scramble. Certainly, she'd lost her dangerous demeanor, but she was still a woman, and Murdoc still wanted her. "Why?"

Paula shook her head. She stumbled back out towards the door. However, her foot was caught on the cardboard boxes that lined the floor; Stu's things. Tripping, Paula fumbled to the ground for a second time. Her knees hit first, and the box tipped back over. Out fell Stu's melodica, and his music books; out fell the scrapbooks his mother had made, and the collection of zombie films. Murdoc's carpet was now a complete mess, scatted with all things Stu. And Paula was covered in it, wrapped in his baby blanket and his stupid schoolyard sweater vests. Around her head lay the keyboard print ribbon that was his one nice tie.

For a moment, she sat delirious, caught completely off guard by her sudden act of irony. And Murdoc couldn't help but simply stand there, his face twisted as if he couldn't decide to laugh or help her up. But the moment did not last long. Paula yanked the tie from her head and stumbled across the floor. She didn't say goodbye, either. Instead, she rushed off, her focus at the front door alone, and slammed it with such force that the figure of Stu-Pot finally gave way on the couch and he slipped into a hunched position of himself reactively.

Murdoc Niccals turned around to stare at Stu, whose face now rest in his lap. He looked at the door, at the pile of Stu's things, and then back at the kid. Whatever had just happened, Murdoc was not really sure. "Huh," he said, making his way back over to Stu and lifting his head back up to examine his face. The boy was pale, blank, and still very much a vegetable. Making a face, he thought back to Paula Cracker for a split second. Then, decisively, he scooted Stu Pot over and took a seat down next to him with his hands crossed over his chest. "Wot a fucking psycho," he stated, "eh, Stu?"

Psychic City: Finally a new chapter, huh? ;) But, I promise, no more long breaks!