February 6. 2017

almost 7 years has passed, you barely can remember what happened during that time. One day you're in your apartment in Chicago, the other day you're trying not to act akward when you suddenly get a phone call from that bastard bass player.

"Oh heyy sweetheart, yeah, yeah, wanna make music again?" For the last few weeks you wish you send him to hell back than, or whatever place did he even crawl from.

To be fair, you thought it would be worse. Noodle grew up, Russel isn't a giant anymore, 2D is feeling much better, until he saw Murdoc. There's been a dead silence since their first chat after not seeing each other since Plastic Beach. Nothing is same as it was back in 2001, first album and all the fame, good days. Now days? The band is much more quiet, scared even. Even if they're all saying everything's fine. They never stop being dysfunctional, at least something stayed the same.

"Pass me the ash tray, will ya?" his voice comes out from behind you - he's spreaded on a sofa while trying to write down a lyrics with a "soul", as he says. You don't dare to respond, you just do what he's asking for. The ash tray clings againts the glass coffee table next to his old sofa.

"How's the writing?"

"Miserable."

he throws aside another scratched premise. He haven't wrote anything in prison, so you don't blame him for the occasional outburst. How long has he been there? 4 years? 5 years? You can't even imagine how it felt like. The only thing you know that he's much 'calmer' than he was years ago. *While you're pouring yourself a drink of whiskey from Murdoc's personal bar, you suddenly receive a load of nostalgia, back to when you two were so called 'good friends'."

"Thanks, luv" he purrs as you decide to bring him a glass of some late night alcohol too. Years ago, you two spent hours chatting while bounding over shared trauma. Strange times, to say the least. Especially now, compared to your current relationship, which is somewhere between "strangers" and "roommates that barely know each other."

"Well? Will ya tell me why did you decide to burn a midnight oil? You didn't come downstairs to help me with writing, at least I hope so. The last thing I want is rest of you watching me type."

he huffs after a bunch of minutes spend in silence, only interrupted with the rain outside of "his" apartment, you wouldn't have been surprised if he ended up homeless without the records label money. When he receives no responses Murdoc decides to put his legs on top of your lap, hoping it will at the very least pisses you off. No reaction.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, hun."