Chapter Text
The whirring of the chainsaw,
The blood,
The screams of help.
William could see it so clearly now, despite only being a baby when witnessing the Murderface household's tragedy
Then, his father's cold gaze met his olive-green eyes, sadism of a madman lingering through them.
-
He awoke in a cold sweat, his clothes sticking to the cheap bedsheets under him. His dethpad laid across the room, it's battery completely drained of life.
"Of coursche it ish."
His bed made a loud creaking noise when getting off of it to move to the bathroom, when arriving his destination he turned and gazed upon his face in the mirror. The klokateers managed to fix it back to it's old, vile state that it was, but the shame of the experience lingered. It felt as if the changes never left, he was back upon the stage with a crowd of people gasping in horror to look at the bassist. His own band disgusted to look at him. Backing away like he was a monster.
His hollow, pit of thoughts was interrupted by the pit of his stomach howling out for food. Well--not a pit, he ate quite often in fact. It was visible.--
He wobbled his way out of the dark bathroom, and to his stash. He always kept a stash of food in the corner of his room, one, so the others wouldn't steal the good snacks, and two, for convenience. Not like anyone was awake anyway, they weren't business robots getting up for a 9-5.
-
Poorly done corpse paint streaked down his face, they had just finished doing a show. Whilst the rest of the band was getting humped by horny groupies, Murderface was left alone backstage. Not that it was a different thing for him. Murderface was, quite literally a child's mind in a man's body. Not in the fact that he's innocent, or regresses, but in the way that he cant get through his thick skull that the whole world doesn't revolve around him. Who would want to sleep with, let alone get impregnanted by an arrogant, tall child that not only stuffs his mouth with enough food to last the winter at almost every inconvenience in his life, but also lashes out on anyone or anything that dares to disagree with his opinion.
There is one person, however, one sick person that somehow finds enjoyment in the long, usually one-sided conversations he has with the bassist.
Their producer.
God, he hated him. He hated his stupid sex-joke of a name, his underbite, the artificial eyes that were placed into him after being exploaded their first time together.
"Heh. Metal."
Murderface had mumbled to himself, taking a bite out of a chocolate granola bar he squeezed in his hand. He groaned, having hearing a bunch of girls fake-laugh at a joke Skwisgaar had said, simply to get more cock out of him. He never denied his envy for the other band members, not having to even try. Even fucking Toki had fangirls of his own.
Back on the tour bus, he already had his phone out, on Incognito to try and blow some steam off himself, the good ol' fashioned way, when he felt weight on the cushion next to him. He already knew who it was from the fruity, gay fragrance he wore alone.
"Pretty great show you guys had. Saw you did the willy-trick again, need some ice for it?"
Knubbler asked, already holding the frozen bag of peas. Murderface groaned, his head throwing back onto the back of the seat.
"Schtop trying to schee my cock, pervert."
He snapped back. Despite his sour attitude, Knubbler simply smiled.
"Got the peas here when 'ya need it!"
Knubbler had leaned over, curiously looking at Murderface's dethphone. He was already out of the google tab, now at a shitty mobile game he often played. Knubbler had known damn well that the bus wasn't going to be leaving for a while, everyone else had all disbanded off to different motels to go screw. He hummed, putting a hand on his chin.
"We've got a recording studio on the bus...you guys demanded it. Why not put it to use, and make a quick Planet Piss song?"
Murderface shook his head, his face in a childish pout. He didn't even look up from the phone. Knubbler hummed, wanting the other to feel atleast somewhat included.
"Hungry?"
"Isch that a schick choke about my weight?"
Knubbler bit back a bit of fond laughter.
"'Course not, pal. I don't care, quite frankly. And, being honest, I can't think of anything else to do."
"Than leave me alone, clingy aschhole."
Knubbler's eyes would've lighten up with an idea, if he still had his eyes. He leaned over, knowing damn well Murderface was going to agree to this idea.
"What about an Arcade?"
And, for the cherry on top,
"With a bar."
Just as he had expected, Murderface threw his phone down and shot up from his seat. He didn't even have to say anything, letting Knubbler lead him off the bus and down the street, only a couple blocks down to The Amazing Game Center!, which, although packed with people, seemed like paradise for a person like Murderface. Booze, and games. What more could he ask for?
Knubbler wasn't quite the gamer, nor drinker, like Murderface was. However, Murderface's company is what made it worth it.
-
Murderface basically patrolled Knubbler around the place, rotating from game to drink. He won some, and lost some. He even scored a plushie out of a claw machine, to which Murderface cut a hole into and drank beer out of--it was better in theory. He had to suck it out of the fuzz--. After trying our basically every game the arcade had to offer, twice, and getting a good dent in his allowance, he was back at the bar. Knubbler had a cocktail, Murderface had whiskey. They were on their fifth drink, not including shots, but hey, who was counting?