The smell of fumes and tobacco in the air clearly hinted at the presence of a figure in the room whose heavy aura and excessive egocentrism could not go unnoticed. The bassist of a world-famous band sat at the kitchen table, his feet up on it. His head was thrown back, and his hand was clutching a bottle of some kind of liquid, the taste of which was best not even thought about. Murdoc seemed to be asleep, completely unfazed by the chaos around him (probably caused by himself). But the creaking of the floorboards snaps him out of this "blissful" state, and, grumbling, he slowly straightens up on the stool.

I swear to Satan, if tho-ose are your fuckin' footsteps, Stu-Pot... - Niccals exclaimed irritably, slowly opening his eyes.