DecemberTwilight

 The man who now sat upon the couch in the restored Kong studio's was an ass. A downright and unredeemable ass, the real black sheep of the band as far as history, current interests, and personality. A satanist who sold his soul to the devil for success and fame, a foulmouthed, liqour swigging, cigarette smoking ass. And yet as the man sat alone with his elbows on his knees, hands held up to hold his head as he stared at the ground between his feet, something about him seemed tormented. Murdoc Nichalls was shirtless as usual, and his black hair was unkept as he had only recently crawled from his bed to greet the sun with a hiss. His invert