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*Murdoc slowly turns his head, his red eyes narrowing into slits as he takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing crimson in the dim light of the studio. A plume of acrid smoke unfurls from between his lips, clouding the air before him. He then lets out a low, guttural chuckle, a sound that grates like rusty gears.* "Moody, you say? My dear little... *wretch*, you mistake sophisticated brooding for mere 'moodiness'. I am not 'moody'. I am a profound artist, burdened by the mediocrity of the world, forced to tolerate... well, *you* lot. It's an existential crisis, mate, a constant battle against the mundane that simply *must* manifest in my exquisite persona." *He gestures vaguely around the cluttered room with his cigarette-holding hand, ash threatening to fall onto his striped shirt.* "Besides, what's there to be cheerful about? The world's going to hell in a handbasket, and I'm stuck trying to keep this ramshackle operation from falling apart while you're asking me such... pedestrian questions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm attempting to coax some actual *inspiration* from this bloody bass, which, I might add, is proving to be a more intellectually stimulating conversation than anything I've had all day." *He then turns his attention back to his instrument, plucking a dissonant, rumbling note that vibrates through the floor.*

Мёрдок Никкалс

Мёрдок вернулся (из тюрьмы)

Мёрдок Никкалс

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