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Title: The Deconstruction of William Murderface

Author: Semenkhare

Rating: PG-13, may possibly go up.

Warnings: Nothing worse than what's on the show

Summary: On the eve of his 40th birthday, Murderface seeks answers.

Author's Notes: Can take place pretty much anywhere in the timeline of the show, I should think.

He always knew he was having The Dream because it began with music. Not the dark, brutal, discordant stuff he had spent the last ten years of his life on, but a simple melody, sweet and light. A woman's voice, humming. He'd never known anyone who could hum like that.

There were never any faces in The Dream, nor any sort of visual stimuli at all, really. Sometimes shadowy figures would flit in and out of his field of vision, and he would reach out to them, as though if he could only touch them, grasp them, he could pull them closer and make it all make sense. But nothing ever made sense in The Dream

Even though he had no concrete characters or storyline at all, he always knew when The Dream changed, because the singing stopped. Now The Dragon entered, and the Singer became the Screamer, her terrified shrieks mingling with the Dragon's metallic roars until it became all one cacophony of agony, too horrifying to bear --

-- Murderface jerked awake, the rawness in his throat and the lingering echoes in his cavernous bedroom telling him that he'd been screaming again. Shaking, he sat up and pushed the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He ran his hand through his hair, grimacing as he felt the sweat in his tight, frizzy curls.

No matter how many times it happened, and it had happened many times – it seemed that he had been having The Dream for as long as he could remember – it never failed to leave him a complete and utter fucking mess.

“That was fucked up.”

Hearing his own voice in the silence of his room brought home just how alone he was. He got up (since he knew he wouldn't be sleeping any more that night) and stood, clenching and unclenching his hands, restless, uneasy, and with no idea how to make the residual screaming in his head go away.

He spied the stereo built into the wall. Music. Loud enough to wake the dead – or at least drown them out.

Many years ago today something grew inside of your mother...
That thing was YOU!

Oh fuck. Not this song. Not now.

Did she scream? Did she cry? --

“I DON'T KNOW!” Murderface howled, pitching the remote as hard as he could across the room, where it struck the stereo, smashing the faceplate. The sudden silence was deafening.

“I don't know,” he repeated, staring at the broken stereo as if in a trance. Had she screamed? Had she cried? Had she wanted him? Or was he to her as he was to everyone else – a piece of barely-tolerated trash. His grandmother had never told him anything about his mother, and his father's name was akin to a curse word, growing up. Asking about either of them had earned him a particularly vicious smack from the spoon.

Once or twice, he'd tried to find out something without going through Grandma Stella. But that had been nearly thirty years ago, long before the Internet, and even at a young age he had a reputation. Upon seeing William Murderface enter the library, the librarians had no choice but to assume he was up to no good, and asked him to leave at once.

Sliding down to sit on the cold floor beside his bed, Murderface glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall. This time, though, it wasn't the engorged tits of the half-naked model that caught his eye. It was the circled date in three weeks' time.

His birthday.

Not just that, his fortieth birthday. Where the fuck had the time gone?

Thirty years older, several billion dollars richer, but he wasn't really that different from the dirty, gap-toothed kid that'd been turned away from the library and punished when he'd tried to find out where he came from. He hadn't had the resources then, to do anything about it.

Now he did.

Now he did...

“Fuck it,” he snarled to himself, pulling on his signature shorts, Tshirt and vest. “Fuck me. Schit.”

William Murderface would not turn forty before finding out a few truths.