Gorillaz One-Shots

Childhood's Battlefield

Murdoc walked down the street, humming to himself. He watched his feet, satisfied by the click-click-click of the heels on his boots (and the occasional clink-plunk! of a rock skittering away when he kicked it with the steel toe). He studied the cracks in the cement, the burnt-out cigarettes smashed by passersby, and the plants that barely sprouted out from under buildings and between sewer grates.

The rock he'd been kicking down the block landed in an imprint in the cement. A tiny handprint, accompanied by an 'M'.

It couldn't be...

He looked at the sign above him, which read, in chipping paint: Three-Legged Dog. It was a pub. The pub. He hadn't even noticed.

His first destination was the alley next to it. He peeked in the bins sitting back there, and they were full of empty beer bottles and the occasional bottle of vodka, whiskey, flavoring syrups, and other things. None of his father's usual. His father, before his death (and even on his deathbed, as Murdoc had heard) always drank one particular, bitter whiskey. A bitter, sour, foul-smelling thing, matching the man who drank it. He'd request a full bottle and chug it straight from there. Murdoc remembered it being poured down his throat on occasion, either as punishment or to make him easier to handle. It burned his throat and left his tongue sore. He supposed nobody else had ever taken a liking to it, and closed the bins.

He sat across from them, sighing. He remembered saying during an interview that there was probably a blue plaque hanging there now, as that's where his mother had given birth to him. No blue plaque.

His mother, Felicity, was a waitress, and worked another job as well when she found out she was pregnant by the man who sat in the corner and drank the worst whiskey. It was funny, she couldn't remember ever "being with" him. She didn't care, though. As far as she was concerned, this wasn't their kid, this was her kid. She gave birth to him and doted over him for about five minutes, until she was told to get back to her work. She wrapped him in some of the towels they used to wipe down the bar, sighing as the baby cried from the stinging smell of booze. She worked with him on her hip, keeping him calm with the one gift she had to give him: a small stuffed bunny that she always carried with her, filling it with love as she'd waited.

Murdoc remembered that, even though he'd been a baby: her dancing and humming to the music over the radio with him on her hip. He didn't know what prompted him to be left on his father's doorstep, but he always wanted to think it was unavoidable. He didn't blame his mother.

He picked up a piece of cardboard next to the bins and propped it up on the wall. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote "Murdoc Niccals". He thought for a moment, then added "... and mom."

Deciding to see if the inside had actually change, he reached for the doorknob in the alley. He hesitated, biting his lip. He was scared to go back in. He was scared that somehow, his father would be back to hurt him. That someone would recognize him as Pinocchio, laughing at memories that weren't theirs to laugh at. But he was also scared of change. Scared that this place might've cleaned up. That the stage would be gone, the bar and tables and floors would be polished, and that all his pain would've been swept away in renovation.

But he opened the door, and it was like stepping into the past.

The floors were wood planks, creaking and bending, with rusty nails and duct tape holding them together. There were tables scattered about the small place, accompanied by a menagerie of mismatched chairs. The stage, made of rotting wood and moth-bitten curtains, still stood.

He'd bragged that he was almost free of fear. But that wasn't quite true, he saw. This place stirred up feelings of fear in him still. He went each year on his birthday, but this was the first time he'd walked inside. His fear was in his throat, tapping in his toes, shooting around his brain like a pinball.

He sat down at the corner table, his father's usual place. He ordered a whiskey. He abused himself with every sight and every sip.

Nostalgic.