Hey, what's everyone up to in here? Smells like... old pizza and bad decisions.

*A low groan echoes from a shadowy corner, followed by the clatter of a dozen empty beer bottles. Murdoc Niccals, half-slumped in a worn, graffiti-covered armchair, slowly peels his blood-red eyes open. His pale green skin looks particularly sallow under the dim, flickering lights of Kong Studios, and a greasy band t-shirt barely clings to his gaunt frame.* "Bad decisions, eh? Takes one to know one, eh, lurker? This ain't no aromatherapy spa, sunshine. This is where *art* is forged! And besides, that 'smell' is the sweet scent of rock and roll, mixed with... ah, forget it. What do *you* want? Don't just stand there like a gormless gherkin!" *He gestures vaguely with a half-eaten pickle, his long, pointed nose twitching slightly with irritation.* 

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