Archive of Our Own

There was darkness.

Then there was light.

The light of a match, brought to the wick of a black candle by bony green fingers that still shook whenever he did this. With anticipation, with a latent fear, with concern over whether he was showing the proper deference during the ritual.

Murdoc lit another candle, and then another, five to form the ends of an inverted pentagram, which he then began drawing with chalk on his bedroom floor. The summoning circle was difficult and exacting work, and Murdoc began to sweat as he carefully drew the glyphs and sigils, detailed, numerous, and each so very important. He cursed himself sometimes for prostrating himself before a dark lord so concerned with order and ritual, but once an angel, always an angel, and it really couldn't have gone any other way for Murdoc.

After almost an hour, the circle was complete. Now for the headlining act. Murdoc knelt in the centre, raised a dagger, and began to cut the final sigil into the palm of his hand, tracing scars almost a decade old, opened, healed, and opened again. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. It never got any easier. Through his teeth, he began to chant the incantation, in a dead language he was far from having learnt in school, and as his dark blood ran down his hand and dripped onto the circle, the chalk became luminous, no longer chalk at all, and the flames of the candles grew. Smoke began to fill the room, terribly thick and smelling of brimstone, and it took Murdoc everything he had not to choke on it as he completed the spell.

The candlelight flashed, going out and returning just as suddenly with a sickly magenta glow, making the wisps of the smoke look solid. The ritual was a success. Murdoc laughed in relief, covered in cold sweat. And then he heard the voice of Satan himself. As always, it was difficult to determine if the voice was coming into his head or was actually audible. Murdoc never dared try to record it.

"What do you-- Oh! Murdoc, darling, it's you!"

"Yeah, err, it is I, your humble servant, Murdoc F. Niccals! My lord, I come to you asking for a favour, though I am not worthy..."

"Yes?"

Murdoc cleared his throat, trying to disguise the result of nerves and the smoke.

"Well, there may be a slight delay in gathering the souls I have promised you..."

The light in the room turned oppressively red.

"Again?!"

Murdoc panicked at the shift in tone. But he knew it wasn't going to be easy.

"I thank you for your patience so far, my lord! Look, erm, I've really been trying. These are valuable, as you know, and..."

"And you don't want to relinquish their souls!"

"It's not that, it's--" Murdoc choked.

Suddenly, the candle flames dimmed, and the light returned to its original colour.

"Oh, Murdoc, you are so, so weak."

"I can be stronger!" Murdoc exclaimed, "I swear it!"

"You swear, but your oaths mean so little," said the Prince of Darkness.

The smoke swirled before Murdoc, forming a window into a scene: Russel Hobbs, talking to 2-D in the studio.

"Stu, you don't have to take that shit," said Russel.

"Don't worry about me," said 2-D. "I owe it to Murdoc. He saved my life, and all."

"You honestly think that?" said Russel. He sounded pained. "You aren't bad at writing songs yourself. I've heard some of your demos. If this is Murdoc's band, then let's take Noodle and start our own. We know she can play bass too. I love Murdoc, somehow, but he's... He needs to help himself before we can even try to help him. He just hurts everyone around him."

2-D was quiet for a moment. Then he replied, "I guess. I don't know. Maybe I'm... Scared. He's got the experience, you know..."

Russel scoffed.

"Experience in ruining people's lives," he said. "All his other bands failed. Why? Not because of his singing. He's actually not that bad, objectively. It's because nobody wants to work with a complete asshole."

2-D started picking at the skin around his nails. He looked really uncomfortable. 

"I've got a migraine comin' on, Russ..."

Russel sighed.

"Whatever, man. Just give it a thought, okay? You really have talent. You don't need him."

Russel put his headphones back on, and turned to the mixing board.

"Maybe nobody does," he concluded.

Murdoc hated this. It was the confirmation of everything he feared. He had nightmares about conversations like this being held behind his back.

"This can't be real," said Murdoc, as the image disappeared once more into pink smoke.

"Unfortunately it is," came the reply. "I feel sorry for you, Murdoc... These are your friends, but they don't care for you as much as you care for them. They can't see how you truly feel about them... Or worse, they do and it doesn't bother them at all!"

Murdoc couldn't take it. Tears welled up in his eyes. Story of his life. He never had any real friends, not ever.

"You regret promising them to me, but why? Poor thing... I can't help but see you and think of that sad little boy, sitting on the library steps, uniform dishevelled from his latest fight, crying as adults walk by without giving him a single glance... You're almost forty years old now, dear. I've helped you win fame and fortune, but, Murdoc, you're still just lonely!"

Murdoc was sobbing now. These were all things he already knew, deep down, but to have them be told to him was just unbearable. As he wept, he felt a weight grow on his shoulder. He didn't notice the smoke receeding, solidifying behind him.

"Who has ever shown you care? Who could possibly understand what you've been through? Why, Murdoc, I think you want some... Brotherly love?"

The weight had materialised into a hand. One that was all too familiar.

Murdoc turned around and was met with his older brother, Hannibal.

Murdoc wiped his tears with his hands. Clotting blood from his cut palm smeared on his cheek.

"That's not what he looks like anymore," said Murdoc suspiciously.

"Oh, Murdoc," said "Hannibal", wearing a rictus grin that twisted his face in a manner greatly disturbing to Murdoc, "but you don't want the Hannibal of today. If you did, you would actually visit him in jail!"

Murdoc couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt.

"No," "Hannibal" continued, "you want the Hannibal of your youth, your big brother who let you use his record player, who took you to soccer games, who jumped to take the hit meant for you that night your father took out his cane instead of his belt. He hurt you, but he did love you, and I know that's who you think of when you feel bad, my darling Murdoc, and who you think of during your most regrettable lonesome nights."

Murdoc's blood froze. "Hannibal" laughed.

"You think I didn't see that?! That I didn't hear that?!" "Hannibal" exclaimed, relishing Murdoc's reaction. "You look like you're about to vomit, dear. Well, your secret's safe with me~! And I have the power to make your fantasies a reality. One night only though... I have a very important meeting with the infernal judges in the morning!"

Murdoc really didn't know what to do. He looked at "Hannibal", who was stretching out his own fingers. He looked at his closely cropped hair, his face, just as he remembered him aside from his uncharacteristic expression, the Stoke City football scarf he always wore, his Crombie overcoat with a pin-covered lapel, his white jeans, and worn but impeccably maintained cherry Doc Martens. He was here, as solid and real as he could ever be.

Murdoc fell into his arms, which outstretched to hold him, and cried.

HIM gave a last terrible smile, then relaxed into a proper imitation of Hannibal Niccals. 

"Ay up, our Murdoc. Ah, already coming in for a clip..."

That made Murdoc cry even harder. His wailing filled the room, and despite himself, he held "Hannibal" like he intended to never let him go. "Hannibal" rubbed his back with his left hand, reassuring him.

"You need not cry," he said, softly. "I'm here."

"I..." Started Murdoc, but he didn't even know what to say. He knew this wasn't Hannibal, why was he feeling this way?

"It's alright," said "Hannibal", "I won't be asking you what's happened. I got enough trouble as it is. Ian would not shut up today about some shit band so I pasted him." He held up his bruised knuckles, the red of the bruise and green of his skin mixing to a muddy, wrong colour. "Forget about all that. Let's listen to some real music."

Murdoc let go and wiped his nose on his sleeve, watching as a copy of Hannibal's precious record player materialised, along with a stack of vinyls. "Hannibal" flipped through them, and with a satisfied hum, pulled out one of his favourites. He looked at the single's cover for a moment, then put the record on the turntable. He sat on the floor, opened a bottle of blackcurrant Cresta, and motioned for Murdoc to come closer as the song began.

"Have a lie-down," he said, patting his lap. "You clearly need it."

At the opening notes of You're Wondering Now, Murdoc felt as if he was melting. A piece of him realised that the more he indulged this, the more he would be expected to swiftly hand over his bandmates' souls, and the worse his eternal punishment would be otherwise. Well. Fuck his life, fuck him, fuck everything.

He laid his head on "Hannibal"'s lap, and listened to the music, focusing on the bassline just like he used to almost thirty years ago. Unlike then, he felt "Hannibal" stroke his hair. The tenderness was overwhelming. 

"1964. It's not the original but I like it more," rambled "Hannibal", much like the real man would, "not to knock the Skatalites of course. They were the beginning of everything. But this one really stands the test of time. This was before mod rock, they had not any idea how... Listen to me blather. Let's enjoy it."

Murdoc was already enjoying it. it was all bittersweet. He felt the texture of "Hannibal"'s jeans press into his cheek, which had been magically cleaned at some point before without his knowledge. His palm had healed as well. He closed his eyes. He let it wash over him. "Hannibal"'s hand wiped the lingering tears from Murdoc's eyes, and caressed his face.

"Our Murdoc," whispered "Hannibal", "it's okay. Da's not gonna get us. You're safe."

"Han..." Murdoc whispered back. Fuck, he was going to start sobbing again. He rolled over to face "Hannibal"'s body.

The song had finished.

"Ah, fuck," said "Hannibal". "Get off. I don't trust you to pick the next one. Swear I'll warm you if you play any more metal on my baby."

"Is it okay if we just stay in the quiet for a bit?" Murdoc asked. There was an unusual meek tone to his voice.

"Hannibal" gave a small smile, one that fit his face.

"Sure," he answered. He took a big swig from his pop bottle. 

Murdoc breathed shakily onto his brother's coat. His "brother"'s coat. Christ, did it matter? Did anything matter anymore? He found himself strangely exhausted, but he brought himself up, sitting on the other man's lap, and embraced him. "Hannibal" hugged him back.

"Handsy tonight, are you not?" "Hannibal" chuckled. "Here. Why don't you take off my coat for me?"

Murdoc leaned back. He took a better look at the demon in the shape of his brother. It was surreal, what he was seeing and experiencing were almost beyond comprehension. He didn't used to feel this way, not when Hannibal really looked like this. Time, distance, and his own fucked-up heart had done it. Murdoc knew he was twisted, but he couldn't stop it, and the only fantasies he's ever felt bad about were the ones where he kissed his older brother deeply, was held by him, and taken by him. Sometimes it was by force. He could never picture himself dominant in this scenario. It wasn't as satisfying. It wasn't as cathartic. He wanted to exaggerate and revel in all the harms done to him until they were nothing but a sexual interest, powerless except for getting his dick hard. It never worked. He always cried after sessions like that. The fantasies where Hannibal was gentle with him hurt more than the ones where he raped him.

His hands lowered to unbutton the coat. He pulled the heavy fabric from "Hannibal"'s shoulders, revealing a mostly blue Madras shirt and braces the same shade of cherry red as his boots. He undid the football scarf, and when he made to throw it aside "Hannibal" grabbed his wrist.

"Don't you dare," threatened "Hannibal", and took the scarf from Murdoc. He folded it carefully and reached up to set it upon the turntable. "Your floor's all dusty. I've had this scarf since they won the Second Division, it's a precious relic y'know! You've always been dirty, and you've only gotten dirtier."

"I like it dirty," Murdoc said, summoning a little of his usual bravado.

"Aye, you sure do," snapped "Hannibal", "here you are starting foreplay with your own brother."

Hearing that in his voice was simultaneously mortifying and the hottest thing ever. Murdoc's reaction was pounced on like he was a rodent scurrying through tall grass.

"Oh, you like that?" "Hannibal" said, leering at Murdoc in a way that verged on being out-of-character. "You were always a bit queer, no wonder you want this so much. Y'know what, though? Dunna bother me. Maybe I'm fucked up, too. Maybe I'm dirty, too."

Murdoc's heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

"Is... Is that true?" He asked. "About the real one."

"Hannibal'"s face broke into a grin.

"I wouldn't know!" Said the Prince of Darkness. "Hannibal is a devout Catholic. I can't see so deeply into his mind, like I can into yours. But you want it to be true, so it's true for tonight, my dear."

Murdoc rolled his eyes. The sheer hypocrisy with which his dad and brother practiced their faith drove him mad. They could do anything they wanted, and as long as they went to confession afterwards, it was all okay. The news that this shit actually worked was exasperating. That was part of the reason why Murdoc became a Satanist in the first place. 

He looked at "Hannibal"'s face. The smile was gone again, replaced by a steady seriousness. He looked at his thin lips.

"Well?" "Hannibal" taunted. "Do it, queer."

Murdoc kissed him.

The taste of Cresta was still in "Hannibal"'s mouth as Murdoc thrust his tongue between his sharp teeth, just like his own. The thrill of how wrong it all was turned him on, in a unique way, a way that made his heart flutter with nervous energy. "Hannibal" matched his aggression and then some, as he imagined he would. It was as if the momentary break in the roleplay didn't happen. Murdoc was kissing his older brother, and fuck, it was good.

When they parted and Murdoc looked at him again, angular features in the heavy shadows of candlelight, he couldn't help but stare at the little scar on his forehead, the one the real Hannibal got when he accidentally sliced his head open on a broken pool tile after diving, when Murdoc was very young.

"Wait," said "Hannibal". He reached for his pop, downed the rest of it, and rolled the empty glass bottle somewhere. He stuck his tongue out, open-mouthed, not as long as Murdoc's but still sizeable, strangely prehensile, and currently dyed purple. Murdoc let his own out to meet it, touching then coiling around "Hannibal"'s, and their lips met again, sealing the depravity and blackcurrant flavouring. "Hannibal" moaned a little and the sound sent a bolt down Murdoc's spine. He let himself get noisy as well, but when he started to rub one of "Hannibal"'s nipples through his shirt, his wrist was violently seized. "Hannibal" wrestled his face away from the make-out.

"Hey," he said, "I set the pace here, yeah? Can't have my little brother thinking he's bigger than me."

Murdoc whined, fully aroused and wanting at this point. "Hannibal" grabbed his hair, the familiar sense twisted into eroticism, and looked at his face.

"Ugly," declared "Hannibal". "I did some good work on your nose, there. You tell people I made that?"

"Yeah," Murdoc panted, "most of the time, when someone asks."

"Good."

"Hannibal" kissed him again. Murdoc's lips were bitten and red.

"They should know you're mine, yeah?" "Hannibal" sneered.

That sent a shiver through Murdoc.

"I want you, Hannibal," Murdoc growled. He lunged at him, and got punched in the shoulder for his troubles.

"I fucking know," said "Hannibal", "you're about to come in your jeans. Slow down, you animal. Christ." There was an almost imperceptible twitch in his face as he swore. "Our 'sex god', surely you can keep it up longer than that, can you not?"

Murdoc rubbed the bruise rapidly forming on his shoulder. It hurt and he loved it. He wanted to be hit again, get beaten like when he was a boy, but different this time, different because he desired it, because it would get him off. But this situation was unpredictable.

"Hannibal" reached for Murdoc's inverted cross, and tucked it through his black polo neck before pulling off the shirt. His eyes darted to Murdoc's tattoos.

"An Iron Cross?!" he spat.

"Yeah," said Murdoc, used to defending his own edginess, "got it to bother pinkos like you! Clearly it works, heh heh. Am I still yours, Hannibal?"

"Cunt," "Hannibal" yelled. "Shut your gob! You're lucky I'm nice, I wun not rip it off your flesh, you'd be sent to the hospital immediately."

"Oh, I believe you," said Murdoc, licking his sore lips. "You killed William because he joined the National Front, ehh..."

"... Right," said "Hannibal", as if he was pulling a memory out of the future. The Hannibal whose skin was being worn had done none of that, yet. He was half this Murdoc's age.

"I really did just do it to upset people," Murdoc admitted.

"Hannibal" huffed.

"I can't abear you, Murdoc," said "Hannibal".

"And yet you've taken off my shirt..." Murdoc smiled.

"Only meant to see the bruising," "Hannibal" replied. "Admire my work as an artist. Better than your tattoos."

Indeed, dark, unsightly blotches had formed where "Hannibal" had hit Murdoc. He put his hand on the younger brother's chest, and pressed his fingers, fingernails cut down to the nailbed, deep into his shoulder. Murdoc saw stars. It hurt so good. Murdoc moaned and "Hannibal" made an exaggerated sound of disgust.

"Let me make you some more," said "Hannibal", and he grabbed a fistfull of Murdoc's hair again, turning his head to reveal his neck. Murdoc's heart lept, knowing what was coming. "Hannibal" gave Murdoc's neck a lick, then bit him, eliciting a deep groan. He sucked and licked and bit again, leaving splotchy bruises all over. "Hannibal" moved down to his collarbone. It was so much for Murdoc. It was so much.

"Hannibal"'s hands reached for Murdoc's crotch, touching his hard cock through his jeans.

"Give it to me," Murdoc said.

"Say please, you ingrate."

"Please!" Murdoc begged, without a shred of dignity. Not that he ever had much.

"Take your own jeans off. I know you want mine on," said "Hannibal", and he pulled his braces from his shoulders, letting them fall to his sides. Murdoc blinked, and had the dim realisation that "Hannibal" wasn't hard at all. Nevertheless, he rifled through his pockets for his lube, then undid his belt, and stripped, putting his boots back on after he was naked.

"Dunna comprehend why you do that," said "Hannibal", shaking his head.

"Simple, really," explained Murdoc. "My boots are sexier than my feet."

"Real sexy, your queer little Beatle boots. Suppose the two extra inches of height are of no concern."

"Shut up," said Murdoc. It was so easy for him to get back into the rhythm of talking to Hannibal that it made him feel guilty again.

"You like mine though," "Hannibal" said haughtily. He shifted his position to better show off his Doc Martens. "No slobbering on them."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Murdoc muttered. 

"Hannibal" held Murdoc, who had returned to him, on his knees, by the hips. 

"You've grown, haven't you, our Murdoc?" "Hannibal" said. "Biggest cock I've ever seen."

"I get good use out of it," said Murdoc. "Want a taste?"

"No," replied "Hannibal", but he gave Murdoc a few pumps that felt amazing. Then he pulled his white jeans down a little, untucked his shirt, and pulled his suddenly hard penis from his briefs. It couldn't compare to Murdoc's, it was smaller and thinner, but that wasn't saying much. He guided Murdoc's hips to his own, and held their cocks together. Murdoc's hands got to work as well, his precum wetting both men's members. Just the sight of it was unbearably sexy to Murdoc, but the way they jerked eachother off, the way "Hannibal"'s dominant left, unlike the real thing, mirrored Murdoc's right hand, the way their dicks stuck together a little with pre and Murdoc's greasy skin, the way their foreskins kissed the other's glans, it was practically addictive. Obscene, taboo, and so damn hot. Worth selling your soul for. Worth selling others' souls for.

"Ready," said "Hannibal". He did sound aroused, but far more composed than Murdoc.

Murdoc held up the small squeeze bottle he had fished in his pockets for earlier. "Hannibal" took it, and raised an eyebrow.

"Raspberry flavoured lube?" He questioned.

Murdoc just laughed.

"Hannibal" squirted lube onto his fingers.

"Turn round," he ordered, and Murdoc did so. He put his dry hand on his round ass, rubbing it, pinching it, then giving it a little slap. "Your arse is like the surface of the moon, pitted with craters and welts. Pop those pimples. Dirty."

"It never stops anyone," said Murdoc, "and it's not stopping you, is it?"

"Hannibal" scoffed, then his slick fingers prodded Murdoc's pink asshole. Murdoc let out a gutteral groan as his "brother" started fingering him, sliding in one digit and then swiftly another, going deeper and deeper. All he could see were the rolled-up ends of "Hannibal"'s jeans and his boots, and the circle and the candles burning.

"I want to see you," Murdoc panted. "Hannibal" grunted, and pulled his fingers out. Murdoc turned around again. "Hannibal" had an expression between boredom and irritation, but he was breathing heavily and blush coloured his cheeks like the bruises on Murdoc's body.

"Well, you know what I want?" "Hannibal" asked rhetorically. "I want my baby brother with my cock inside him. How about that, our Murdoc?"

Ugh. Wow. That hit Murdoc like a tonne of bricks. If he hadn't built up decades of sexual stamina, he would have came right then. He leaned in and kissed "Hannibal" messily, and then prepared himself. "Hannibal" guided himself into Murdoc's hole, and Murdoc lowered himself onto him, with a satisfied moan as he bottomed out. Murdoc's thick cock twitched, and "Hannibal" sighed pleasantly. Murdoc started to move his hips, sliding up and down "Hannibal"'s length at a feverish pace. "Hannibal" raised his hands to flick and pinch Murdoc's nipples, eliciting a loud and enthusiastic response.

"Hannibal" grabbed Murdoc, pushing him and shifting his own position to better fuck into him. 

"Listening to me for once," "Hannibal" mumbled. "Good boy."

"Hannibal, more," Murdoc moaned, "fill me up..."

In the haze of arousal and his heavy breathing, Murdoc stared into "Hannibal"'s eyes. His face was blushing, he was grimacing and sweating, but deep in his eyes, all Murdoc saw was a glint of calculation. He was estimating when Murdoc would orgasm, to time his own actions, because he wasn't feeling anything at all. A pit formed in Murdoc's stomach, it was all too much and he wanted to vomit, cum, and die all at the same time.

"Beg for it, slag," barked "Hannibal".

"Harder, Hannibal..!" Murdoc whined. "I need you, I need you!"

"Hannibal" squeezed his eyes shut, and with a choked wail, he came, coating Murdoc's insides with his spunk. In response to all the sensations, Murdoc let himself cum, his eyes rolling up, having one of the most intense orgasms he's ever had from the sheer volume of emotions roiling within him. 

"Hannibal" pulled out nice and slowly, letting Murdoc relish the last moments of being sodomised by his older brother.

He had gotten tissues from somewhere, and was wiping his softening penis, avoiding getting a single drop of bodily fluids on his clothes. Murdoc was lying on the floor, watching this.

"Are you not going to clean up?" Asked "Hannibal".

"No," replied Murdoc. And then he started crying again.

"Dunna know why you're sobbing," said "Hannibal", somewhat exasperated.

"Because I love you, Hannibal," Murdoc said through tears, voice cracking. "I miss you."

"Hannibal" smiled softly, and started cleaning Murdoc off, wiping sweat and cum from his body.

"You miss getting yelled at and thrown from my side of the room?"

"Yeah," Murdoc continued. "And I miss when we would take the train to Liverpool with your firm, to go to a show, and they would fuck off somewhere and we'd be eating ice lollies together looking out at the sea, grey and shit and cold, and I'd say something smart and you'd laugh with me."

"Let it all out."

"I miss the way you weren't afraid of me at all. Nothing I said rattled you, you never walked on eggshells around me, because I was only your stupid little brother, and I could never be scary to you even if I tried."

Murdoc blew his nose, then kept talking. He didn't know why. This wasn't even Hannibal.

"I miss your voice. Your singing voice. You weren't good, but it doesn't matter. You only sang in church. I miss when you would wash the dishes, Dad rarely did and I always half-arsed it. I miss when you let me tag along, I know it annoyed you but I really didn't have any friends. And," he sniffled, "when it... happened, you were the only one who realised something was wrong and tried to make me feel better. You probably fucked me up by calling me a sex god in that moment. But it's the thought that counts, I suppose."

"Hannibal" came close again, and Murdoc embraced him once more.

Murdoc didn't want to face the reprocussions of his actions. He wanted to fall asleep like this, and not wake up. His tears stained "Hannibal"'s shirt. He was kind of sore from being on the hard floor the whole time. He was exhausted from sex and his outbursts.

"I want to sleep next to you, Hannibal," Murdoc said into his chest.

"Like when you were afraid of the thunder?" "Hannibal" asked, quietly and warmly, holding Murdoc close.

"Yeah," agreed Murdoc. "But a little less kicking."

"Hannibal" smirked, stood up, and looked at the turntable behind him. 

"Get me a fag and we'll relax together before nodding off," he said. "I'll put a record on."

Murdoc turned to his discarded jeans to search for a cigarette, and when he heard I'm the Song My Enemies Sing start playing from the speakers, he laughed. He laughed so much he looked like he was going mad.

When Murdoc awoke the next day, the afternoon sun was peeking through the black curtains of his Kong Studios bedroom window. Nothing remained of what had transpired except for piles of hard black wax that were once candles on the dusty floor. No turntable, no football scarf, no glass bottle of discontinued fizzy drink.

Murdoc was alone.

Murdoc was alone with what he had done.

The shame hit him like a truck. He cursed it all, and tried to think about the arduous task ahead of him. All he thought about was the calculating look deep in "Hannibal"'s eyes.

It only made sense. Lucifer was an angel, once. Angels did not reproduce. Murdoc knew he was being played like a fiddle from the beginning, but some illogical part of him hoped he would in some way affect his dark lord. He hated himself. What's the point of constantly chasing the feeling of being loved?

And Hannibal. Hannibal could never hear of this. Murdoc would, instead, spin a story so awful, so disgusting, and not for any incestuous reasons, that upon hearing it, Hannibal would never want to speak with him or even think about him ever again. He'd do that once he'd taken enough cocaine to simulate the necessary courage.

Did the thought of him ever make Hannibal yearn like this?

Murdoc pulled his unwashed comforter around himself and started weeping softly.

"I have completed reading the terms. Yes. I will sign it. Must it be in my own blood?"

"Pardon me?"

Noodle and Murdoc were sitting in the living room. Two cups of tea likewise sat on the low table. Noodle was lying down on a sofa, flipping through the infernal contract in her hands.

"I just want to make sure you know what all this entails, Noodle," said Murdoc. He really didn't expect it to be this easy, and it was making him nervous.

"I do," she said, turning to him with an almost imperceptible smile.

"It's your soul you're handing over," Murdoc explained.

"I know."

"I don't know exactly what will happen to you. You'll likely be tortured for all eternity in some novel and unguessable way."

"Okay."

Murdoc massaged his scalp. Flakes of dandruff fell onto the carpeting.

"I'm only doing this because I have to, alright? It's entirely possible that--"

"Murdoc," started Noodle, "I do not believe any of this is real."

Murdoc was stunned.

"... Satan is real, you know," he said.

Noodle looked at him piteously.

"I know Christians have a strong reaction to--"

"I'm not bloody Christian," Murdoc butted in.

"Sure you aren't," continued Noodle, in a voice like she was lecturing a small child. "I know you are aware that only a portion of the world believes in Abrahamic religions. Even among them, not all have believed in the Devil. I subscribe to a different mindset entirely. You also know this."

"Noodle, I fucked the Devil last night."

"You and what witness?"

"Look--"

"I don't believe in it," said Noodle, conclusively. "I don't believe there is some cosmic, dualistic battle we all are pawns in. I did not want to say that, but you were becoming very insensitive. I will sign this because it's important to you that I do, because I am your friend and I care about you and your feelings."

Murdoc felt helpless.

Noodle tapped her fountain pen against her teeth, then sucked on it.

"I like the real parchment," she said. "Now, is it to be signed in blood, or not?"