Don't Be Scared

S2 E1 : 🔹 The Murphy 🔹 (Ch. 130)

"Cassandra!" Murphy called out to her as if she knew what had to be done when her name was called.

And she actually knew. She ran out of her corner, looking like a robot being generated by Murphy's words as she said nothing about her master's bossy behavior. If old Cassandra was here, she'd tell him to shut up and do whatever himself.

Murphy jogged up the steps, awaiting for whatever his freshly made slave was suppose to be doing. We all followed Warren over to the bar stools that were positioned directly in front of the stage's aisle.

There were two tables on either side of the aisle, letting a limited amount of people be so close to whoever was being presented. On top of the black five-feet-high platform was a freshly polished pole, contrasting brightly against the darkness of the room.

Murphy no doubt had something, or himself, clean it, but what was it for? Mack sat one end of the small line we made with 10K occupying the other side. I stayed standing in front of 10K while he was sat down, patiently waiting for the show.

The broad with fake red hair sat on the left of 10K with Warren being on her left. Doc was sat to the right of Mack, who also waited patiently for the show Murphy had planned out for all of us. It's just kind of eyebrow raising how he knew we'd show up.

Like, he expected our appearance wherever he was planted. One of us could've died, and he'd still expect us to follow him. In the corner of my (E/C) eyes, I watched as the sharp shooter reached around his back to grab a glass filled with mysterious liquid. 

Then, the LED lights surrounding the edges of the stage and the spotlight, that was pointing right at the pole, busts on like Fourth of July fireworks, making me wince at the new, unexpected lighting. 

"Hey, hey, hey!" Murphy greeted to his small, and mostly dead, audience with enthusiasm, but I ignored his introduction almost completely. 

I turned around to face 10K's thirsty form. He held the clear liquid in a shot glass's figure, but before he could take a shot of the--what I could only presume to be--alcoholic beverage, I swiped it from his unexpected grasp.

His dark blue eyes scanned my monotone facial features as I tossed the liquid somewhere behind me, letting it spill onto the hard wood floor beneath us. It's not like this place was cleaned before we got here anyway. 

"Nasty." I mumbled, setting the glass back onto the bar and went back to focusing on the mutated host. 

It's not that I want 10K's gravestone to say 'Death By Dehydration', it's the simple fact that he doesn't know what's touched, spit, or even poured into that glass. I don't want to risk losing the second best shot at getting Murphy out of here. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," I noticed the golf club in Murphy's left had that he was using as a cane and how the spotlight brought out the blue, discoloration in his face, "let's hear it for the one, the only Chantrelle!"

The name rolled off of his still red tongue perfectly as if he had spoken this particular name a hundred times this evening. I guess it helps that he claims to be the 'lady's man' of the group. 

When Murphy was in mid-introduction, all of the zombies had turned their bodies or their heads to look up at their God in true fascination. The way these undead feel Murphy's emotions, is it possible that they can also speak to him in a way we can't?

Or am I just going crazy after so many years of the apocalypse plus the amount of months of having to deal with Murphy? Steady music began to play in the far left of the establishment, but it began to echo out into the tense atmosphere. 

All thanks to Zombie Cassandra, who seemed actually content to be staring at Murphy's energetic form. So, when Murphy feels good, does she feel good as well? It was like she truly felt happy with doing whatever he said.