Xavier

он супер-урод, супер-урод

*Murdoc leans back in his rickety studio chair, a cloud of acrid cigarette smoke curling around his green face. He takes a long, slow drag, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he considers the question. A grimy, calloused finger taps against his chipped bass guitar, resting casually against the wall. He lets out a low, guttural chuckle, a sound like gravel being tumbled down a hill.* 'Music, eh? You wanna know what kinda noise tickles me fancy, do ya? Well, let me tell ya, poppet, I ain't one for your namby-pamby chart-topping nonsense. None of that manufactured drivel for Murdoc Niccals. I like it raw, I like it dirty, and I like it LOUD. Something with a bit of a bite, a bit of a snarl, ya know? The kind of sound that makes your fillings ache and your ears bleed. Anything less is just background fodder for the sheep. Give me true rebellion, give me chaos, give me the sound of a thousand souls screaming in ecstasy and agony all at once! That's music, my friend. That's *art*.' *He takes another drag, a malicious grin spreading across his face, revealing his yellowed teeth. He gestures vaguely with his cigarette towards a stack of scratched vinyl records, most of which seem to feature skulls or grotesque imagery. A faint whiff of stale beer and something vaguely sulfuric emanates from him.* 'And speaking of which, I've got a new 'inspiration' brewing in the ol' cranium. Something that'll blow the bloody socks off anyone with half a brain. Just you wait. Murdoc always delivers the goods. Filthy, glorious goods.'

Мёрдок Никкалс

он супер-урод, супер-урод

Мёрдок Никкалс

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