BLACK MUSES

He was in the clear. Or so he ( albeit foolishly ) hoped. If you had enough wit, you could charm your way out of anything. ( It did not occur to him in that moment that he spent most of his days in a perpetual state of precarious situations. His own philosophy failed him. – If he could charm his way out of anything, why couldn’t he charm his way out of this polluted paradise? No further comment. ) Her docile disposition enough to make him grin, just a little – leaning forward in in his chair in excitement & almost anticipation. It crossed his mind for not a second as to who had who wrapped around their finger, but with each word she spoke, he found himself leaning towards the edge of his captain’s chair. Pointed teeth bare from his mouth, now all he had to do was call cyborg in and escort her out. To a guest room, at the bottom of the rotting landfill. He was sure the rat living there wouldn’t mind some company. His listeners on Pirate Radio would probably enjoy the voice of a woman. Ideas are entertained, pondering if this may be the end of the Black Cloud as he knew it, the end of layers upon layers of garbage, the time where he’d be ridden of the playboy mansion turned Stanley hotel. What did she want next, an autograph? He was more than glad to oblige. Just let him go get his p–

NEVERMIND! No, it was wishful thinking on his part, he knew – isolation caused cabin fever dreams that turned Murdoc nigh delusional. He’d lost his sanity a long time ago, but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The side table next to him stood no chance to the kick delivered, and the action sent him jumping back, his spine pressed up flush against the back of his chair. He liked that table, held things up for him, yeah – eyes widen at the thought that it could’ve been him. He was probably next. The pipe held tight, the bottle of rum a casualty to the exertion of his energy as it falls to the floor. This damned woman was going to be the death of him, & he found himself more pissed ( aroused, too, if he ever were to ever reflect on this moment ) than ever fearful. Glass shatters, solidifying the reality of the waste, & he spends a second more watching the liquid make an ever-increasing stain on the carpet.

At that point, there was no other thing to do – to watch, stare at the woman as she gave her speech. His mouth slightly agape, eyes comically wide. Hell, he even did the unthinkable – he listened to what she had to say, a respect not often given out. One not given at all. This is short lived, the lights are on but nobody was home – they’d left at the first sound of the Chicken Choker. This wasn’t about the Black Cloud, not anymore, this had to do with dud checks of a few hundred dollars ( not much, honestly – they ran a brothel in Tijuana. It could be made back, so he convinced himself. No hard feelings! ) & his sentence was ( mostly ) served by then, but the question still stood: WHY COULDN’T ANYTHING GO RIGHT FOR ONCE?

He’s shocked by this revelation, couldn’t tell if it was him coming off of a trip or off of adrenaline, but he had the shakes. Nausea. He swallows back bile & drool to reply, “ Do you want that picture signed, love? ” It’s sickeningly polite. Too polite. Denial meant more borrowed time, but its obvious by his demeanor that it was a losing battle. Eyes avoid contact with hers, he looks vehemently at the door, as if the eyes alone would beckon the cyborg to him. He persists regardless, “ Worth it’s weight in solid gold. ”

“ That should cover the debt. ” Even as she spoke, he may remember the whore-house that landed him in prison, but he could not for the life of him remember the whore. The three arms a mere fuzzy memory to him, faces aren’t given names and he was piss-clueless as to what her alias would’ve been. Laughable, almost, ironic, she sought him out on name and wits, and he can’t even give her a piece of his memory. Not that he was ever in a position to laugh, not with a broken bottle of rum and a demolished table. Say it with him, kiddies – NEVER STIFF A WHORE IN MEXICO!

There was a particular wall at the Chicken Choker, covered with pictures of famous patrons of the whore house. The corner of the brothel was surrounded by red silk curtains and adorned with vases and fresh flowers, ironically decorating the faces of all the dirty men whom shamelessly paid to get a load out of them. One picture shone by its own light: Murdoc Niccals, facing a profile view, with a cigarette in his mouth and an unamused expression on his face. It was the largest frame, around four feet tall alone, shadowing the tiny photos of the rest of the patrons. It was an ode to his ego and to how much he had been loved at the house of sin--He did pay a last visit to the brothel after he broke out of jail, didn't he? There were no hard feelings with her sisters, they loved the guy so much they'd leave him dry every single time. Ah, happy days.

Fortunately for him, when he'd make it there; Madame was already gone, seeking for the Boogieman to make the pact that'd give her power to find him in the first place. Comedy gold at its best. Otherwise, it could have been his last cock fight, hahah. Really.

Madame was suddenly reminded of those tidbits of Mexico, reinforcing her resentment, looking down at the cynical man in front of her. She was certain that in such a heated moment of violence, he was being all talk--to distract her, maybe? What was he looking at? Her shoulders had become tense once again; and her mind urged her to snap out of it to focus on what was important: Blind rage-infused revenge: "Oh... Yes." Madame fixed her voice, in order to make it sound sensual, provocative amidst her aggression. "Yes. I would love a signed picture, honey. But not that one, no, no. You deserve something BETTER."

He was right on one subject, though: after the table; he was coming next.

A free hand came forward, holding onto his long chin, making the claw of her thumb pressing on the edge of his thin lips. Madame's eyes opened unnaturally wide; as her lips flashed an amused--no, ecstatic, smile. "I would kill for a photo of Murdoc Niccals, down to your dirty underwear, bloody beaten and tied up with graffiti all over your rotting carcass of a body, saying how much of a CHEAP MANWHORE you are! That, honey--THAT would pay the debt!"

How could he DARE to provoke her?