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Earth 112720 - Hollywood, Los Angeles
It all started with peppermint tea.
Actually. No.
The real problem began a week ago when a colossal wormhole tore itself open across the Hollywood skyline, courtesy of a certain Singularity from Earth-1.
Folks naturally assumed it was just another blockbuster film shoot. Maybe one of those new superhero flicks where half the population gets snapped out of existence, or a gritty sub-story dealing with a giant alien deciding the planet looked like a decent snack. Hollywood had form for this sort of thing.
However, this wasn’t the case.
California remained utterly baffled, while other states across the country went to red alert. Scientists scratched their heads raw until the blood dripped into their coffee. Scrambling together whatever bullshit excuse they could muster on short notice, the government released an official statement declaring the anomaly a weather balloon.
Yes. You heard right—a poxy weather balloon!
The press secretary delivered the announcement with a straight face and the quiet dignity of a man who knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded yet had chosen to say it anyway.
Most Americans responded with a collective, "yeah, right," though phrased considerably less politely.
The British called it “utter bollocks”— officially the most used phrasing in the UK that entire week, narrowly beating out "unbelievable" and "honestly though".
France issued a statement of their own, which translated roughly to, "this is, how you say, une blague absolue," followed by a seventeen-minute shrug and a formal request that America stop doing this sort of thing near a weekend.
Germany released a forty-seven-page technical analysis concluding that the object in question was definitively not a weather balloon, complete with appendices. Nobody read the appendices, mind you…
Russia distanced itself so fast they sent the denial before the balloon story had even finished being broadcast, raising its own set of questions.
Japan, meanwhile, had already begun conducting an orderly, meticulously documented national emergency drill, colour-coded by district, with refreshments provided.
Australia looked at the news, assessed it against their existing collection of things actively trying to kill them, and simply got on with their day.
South Korea, on the other hand, responded with perhaps the most creative solution proposed by any nation. A television producer in Seoul, clearly inspired by the crisis, pitched a show about an elite squad of demon hunters who also happened to be an internationally successful K-Pop group. The logic was flawless enough. If something genuinely supernatural had torn open above Los Angeles, you'd want people who could neutralise a threat while delivering a perfectly choreographed routine. The network passed on it, which in hindsight seems like a monumental mistake. Somewhere out in the sprawling multiverse, this was an actual reality. On this Earth, however, the pitch went into a drawer.
Sadly… some worlds simply aren't ready for their best ideas.
Canada offered to help and was politely but firmly told by the United States to mind their own business, which Canada accepted with an apology.
Globally, no one bought the US's story. Not even the US, really.
But the lies, the conspiracies, and whatever that so-called balloon is covering up—all of that is a tale for another time. We have a certain band to discuss, along with their spectacular antics during this whole mess.
The Gorillaz—yes, that motley crew of misfits—had only been in Tinsel Town for a cup of coffee before things got spectacularly weird. Then again, when these four are involved, weird is just another Tuesday.
From a haunted recording studio to a demon-stalked world tour that nearly ended in actual damnation; from fleeing a supervillain crime lord to squatting on a floating island of rubbish in the middle of the Pacific used as a pirate radio base, there had never been a dull moment for these walking disaster magnets.
Russel Hobbs, the band's drummer and the only member who could be described as genuinely level-headed on a good day, was hopelessly glued to the TV. Rather than tuning into the endless news cycles about the wormhole, his possessed, solid-white eyes were fixated on something called ‘The Static Channel’. He'd been sitting there for days without so much as a blink, his enormous frame entirely motionless, utterly convinced that a message buried in the white noise held the key to saving humanity. Whether he was right remained to be seen. What was certain, however, was that nobody had thought to make him a sandwich. Poor guy.
Noodle, the Japanese guitarist and the person single-handedly responsible for the group's continued survival across at least four separate catastrophes, had taken a rather different approach to the chaos. Operating as the self-appointed scholar of all things strange, she'd been digging deep into the anomaly, cross-referencing ancient texts, obscure manuscripts, and things that probably shouldn't have been written down in the first place.
Her digging had paid off. What she uncovered was darker and considerably more troubling than the multiverse simply having a cosmic hiccup. More on that discovery shortly.
Murdoc Niccals, the bassist and a man who had personally shaken hands with rock bottom so many times they were now drinking buddies, had declared himself ‘Great Leader’ of ‘The Last Cult’. This was a rival outfit to the rather more established operation next door, and he was largely using the crisis as an opportunity to look dramatic about it. He had also recently bottled his own bathwater, attempting to market the luxury fragrance as ‘Essence Of Murdoc’. It was swiftly recalled after testers developed a scaly skin condition and a sudden, violent urge to bite passing pigeons. Characteristically, he remained unbothered.
And then there was 2-D, the lead singer of the band. A man blessed with a voice that could stop traffic and a brain that frequently did the same. His story requires a bit more explaining.
See, next door lived a group called ‘The Forever Cult’. Now, Los Angeles has no shortage of cults. Murdoc had estimated there were at least seven operating within their zip code alone, which says something about either the neighbourhood or his choice of property, but the Forever Cult were something altogether different. No wellness retreats, no overpriced crystals, no celebrity membership tier with a branded tote bag and a quarterly newsletter. These were not those kinds of people.
The Forever Cult had been quietly operating since the early twentieth century, surfacing every twenty-five years to perform an occult ceremony of considerable nastiness, then disappearing back into the woodwork until next time. Patient. Organised. Ancient. Everything Murdoc's operation was not.
They were led by a woman called Moon Flower.
To look at her, you would assume she was in her mid-twenties—a vision of ethereal, bohemian perfection. In reality, she was as old as the cult itself, her unnatural youth maintained by the very rituals she orchestrated. Murdoc had noticed her approximately two minutes after moving in and hadn't stopped thinking about her since, which was doing absolutely nothing for his concentration as Great Leader.
Moon Flower was, by all accounts, magnetic—the kind of person who made you feel like the most important soul in the room, which was, as it turned out, rather the point. Despite her shady practices, she possessed a particular gift for finding lost, wandering, slightly vacant people and making them feel genuinely seen.
Enter 2-D.
It had started innocently enough—a knocked-on door, a warm smile, and an offer of peppermint tea that 2-D accepted without a second thought because someone was being nice to him and, frankly, the tea was excellent. He went back the next day. Moon Flower listened, asked questions, remembered things he'd said before. She weaponised her soft-spoken, gentle demeanour with absolute precision. For a man who had once spent several months imprisoned on a floating island of rubbish in the Pacific Ocean, this level of basic human warmth was practically overwhelming.
What he did not clock, because 2-D rarely clocked anything operating at that level of subtlety, was that he was being recruited. Slowly, carefully, and with considerable skill, Moon Flower was drawing him into the Forever Cult's orbit. Not for membership, exactly. More for a specific, one-time role, the ritual required. A role that was considerably less pleasant than tea and conversation.
Meanwhile, Noodle’s discovery found the truth.
Buried within a manuscript so old it had no business still existing, and cross-referenced against three separate occult histories, plus one source she'd rather not disclose, lay the full ceremony. The guitarist learned exactly what it entailed, what it was building towards, and why the sect viewed the wormhole currently splitting the sky not as a mere cosmic accident, but as divine timing.
For generations, the cult had surfaced every twenty-five years to perform their dark rites, desperately waiting for a sign. Until now, the sky had remained stubbornly, disappointingly normal. But according to their deeply unhinged lore, an ancient prophecy foretold a grand, multiversal alignment—a tearing of the heavens that would manifest as glowing blue breaches.
Of course, they had absolutely no idea this sudden anomaly was simply the accidental by-product of the Singularity event from Earth-1. As far as the Forever Cult was concerned, destiny had finally delivered their long-awaited doorway.
These glowing blue breaches were documented in their sacred texts as literal thresholds to other realities. The prophecy dictated that whatever lurked on the other side of these specific rifts was ancient, extraordinarily powerful, and phenomenally hungry. More importantly, it promised that if this interdimensional entity were properly fed directly through a blue breach, it would reach back across the void and bless the congregation with eternal life.
The payment demanded a very specific sacrifice: an oblivious soul, a willing pawn, a mind entirely pure of complication, if not necessarily of sense.
Again, enter 2-D.
One evening, he wandered next door as usual and didn't come back.
Noodle found the house empty—no lights, no Moon Flower, not even the faint scent of peppermint lingering in the air. There was just a single, cryptic message left on the doorstep confirming her absolute worst fears. Returning to the band’s mansion, she dropped the note onto the kitchen table, laying out the grim reality for her bandmates.
Russel peeled his gaze from the television for the first time in four days. He looked, if anything, more haunted than usual—which, given that his eyes were solid white and he'd been communing with static for ninety-six hours straight, was really saying something.
Murdoc, in contrast, studied the manuscript. He looked at Noodle, then looked back down at the pages.
"Right," he said, already deciding he oversaw whatever happened next. "We'll need disguises."
"We need a plan," Noodle replied.
"The disguises are the plan."
"That’s not a plan, Murdoc!”
"It's the beginning of one…”
Noodle stared at him for a long moment.
Russel said nothing, primarily because his consciousness was currently floating somewhere between this reality and whatever The Static Channel had been broadcasting, rendering him in no fit state to moderate.
Sighing heavily, Noodle grabbed the cryptic note and headed for the door.
"Robes!" Murdoc called after her, now aggressively rummaging through a nearby cupboard. "We'll want robes. I've got a system."
"If your 'system' involves dressing us up like mariachis again, I will feed you to the breach myself," Noodle shot back, slamming the door behind her.
Nobody asked what the system was. Because out there, beneath the full moon and the iconic Hollywood sign, 2-D’s rescue was about to begin.
Cue the music!
[Silent Running - Gorillaz plays]
[Silent Running – Gorillaz ft Adelye Omotayo plays]
Inside the torch-lit cavern, members of the Forever Cult filed in for their candlelit ceremony.
Draped in heavy, black hooded robes and hiding behind featureless white masks, they marched in. Step by step, the procession began to circle 2-D. The singer was strapped flat against a massive circular wheel, his wrists and ankles bound tight with thick rope, looking suitably bewildered as a single, dramatic shaft of moonlight shone down on him.
Watching the ritual with keen interest was Moon Flower. She sported a matching white mask, though her status as the leader was made entirely obvious by a highly stylish black cloak with a dramatically oversized collar. With practised flair, she slowly raised her arms from her sides.
It was the signal.
At her silent command, the cultists manning the pulleys hoisted 2-D’s wheel upwards as the floor beneath him opened. The harness tilted sharply forward, forcing the bound frontman to stare directly down into the newly revealed, yawning pit. Below him, the light of the blue breach pulsed hungrily.
On cue, the gathered congregation raised their arms to the sky, wiggling their fingers in a synchronised, highly unsettling motion to begin the ceremony.
Slowly, 2-D began his descent into the abyss.
Sneaking in while the cult's attention was firmly diverted, Noodle, Murdoc, and still a practically zombified Russel slipped behind a massive pillar, biding their time to strike.
Peeking around, Noodle was the first to notice Moon Flower remove her mask. The cult leader took a deep inhale, her shoulders rising, before exhaling. Her face remained carefully neutral, but behind her eyes, something complex was turning. Perhaps it was a fleeting pang of regret—a brief, intrusive memory of peppermint tea and genuine conversation with a man who was, for all his vacancies, unequivocally kind.
As Moon Flower watched on, Murdoc finally caught a clear sight of her unmasked face. His jaw practically unhinged, dropping open in a breathless gasp. The bassist had caught glimpses of her around the neighbourhood, sure, but seeing her here, in this exact moment? It made his black, shrivelled heart skip a beat or two.
Back with poor old 2-D, the situation was growing dire. He was now fully suspended inside the pit, moonlight shining on his back, blue light at his front. As he was lowered ever closer to the breach, the gravitational pull grew stronger by the second, tugging violently at his clothes and hair.
The singer’s bandmates needed to act now, or he was in imminent peril of being swallowed whole by the phenomenon.
While Noodle was busy formulating a plan, and Russel essentially asleep standing up against the pillar, Murdoc reached deep inside his robe and whipped out the green bottle of his essence.
Noodle turned to him.
“What is that?” she asked, deeply suspicious.
“Oh, just a little something to charm our way into saving faceache,” Murdoc replied smoothly, his trademark bravado shining through.
Russel merely mumbled something incomprehensible, a thick string of drool rolling down his cheek.
“Exactly, Russ!” Murdoc retorted, taking the drummer's incoherent gargle as enthusiastic agreement as his hand moved to the vial's stopper.
With a sharp yank and a distinct pop, the cork came free. Immediately, a pungent, visibly green haze plumed from the bottle’s neck, the deeply questionable contents of Murdoc's bottled bathwater saturating the air around them.
Murdoc, naturally, took a massive whiff, looking utterly intoxicated by his own musk. For Noodle, however, the aroma was an assault on the senses. She gagged violently, slapping one hand over her nose while furiously wafting the noxious fumes away with the other.
Even Russel finally snapped his eyes open, the sheer toxicity of the stench doing what ninety-six hours of static couldn't and effectively rebooting his battered brain, somewhat.
“That’s absolutely disgusting!” Noodle scolded, delivering a sharp, stinging smack to the back of Murdoc's head.
"Ow!" Murdoc groaned, indignantly rubbing his head. "Have some respect! This is the scent of a true leader!"
"It’s the scent of a biohazard!" Noodle shot back in a fierce whisper. "Put it away.”
Russel let out a low, rumbling groan. It might have been a slurred request for the plan, or perhaps it was just a pained grunt because he was still seeing television static and test-card patterns flashing behind his eyelids. It was hard to say.
However, taking it as a tactical inquiry, Noodle answered.
“The plan’s simple,” she replied, her eyes locked dead ahead on the pit. “We get close, we stay quiet, and then we hit them hard."
But before they could make their move, divine intervention reared its head. Or, rather, a multiversal intervention, if you will.
A sudden, brilliant flash of blue light flared up directly behind them.
"Huh?" Noodle muttered.
She turned around, and Murdoc quickly followed her gaze.
Another breach had torn itself open, and speeding out of the blue portal at breakneck speed was a giant, bright-yellow bird.
“Wark!”
The creature let out a loud squawk as it bolted past the trio. It was a feathery blur of yellow as it descended directly towards the cult.
"The bloody hell was that?" Murdoc asked, his jaw dropping for the second time as he watched the massive avian charge in.
By the pit, the ominous chanting ground to a screeching halt. The cult members turned in unison, their white masks tilting in confusion. Standing at the helm, Moon Flower looked utterly perplexed, staring blankly at the giant anomaly that was currently gate-crashing her planned ritual.
Watching from the pillar still, Noodle blinked; her extensive research and knowledge of pop culture suddenly clicked into place.
"I believe that's a Chocobo,” she revealed.
"Gesundheit," Murdoc replied.
Noodle shot him a deeply annoyed look, but she quickly realised the sheer gift they’d just been handed. The cult was distracted, the ritual was broken, and the giant yellow bird from Earth-7—the one a certain Bandicoot let loose onto the multiverse—was currently causing pandemonium.
"It's our chance. We're using it—come on!" Noodle yelled, breaking from cover and sprinting towards danger.
Russel let out a grunt and lumbered heavily after her, his massive fists finally clenching with intent.
With a dramatic, put-upon sigh, Murdoc hastily shoved the vile bottle of bathwater back into his robes and rushed in last.
As they moved in, the band immediately saw that the Chocobo was an absolute menace.
It had become the entire centre of attention, tearing blindly through the congregation, squawking at a deafening volume, and treating the robed cultists like bowling pins.
Amidst the utter bedlam, Moon Flower ignored the giant yellow bird trampling her cult and the panicked shouts of her followers. The leader’s eyes were locked on the pit, staring down at the descending 2-D. Sensing her gaze, the singer craned his neck to look back up at her, thick tears pooling in his blank, white eyes.
That single, pitiful look was all it took. The sheer weight of the bond they had forged crashed down on her.
“What have I done?” the thought dawning on her.
The genuine, uncomplicated kindness the frontman had shown her shattered her resolve.
Breathing heavily, she spun around, entirely oblivious to the Gorillaz now tearing into her flock. She aggressively shoved the designated rope-handler away from the pulley system, grabbed it, and hauled backwards with all her might.
Meanwhile, Noodle was in her element as she dropped a bamboozled follower with a vicious right hook, pivoting smoothly into a brutal roundhouse kick that sent a second attacker sprawling. Things went from bad to worse for the two downed cultists when the Chocobo immediately trampled right over them, generating a sickening crunch that made Noodle wince.
Nearby, Russel was operating like a possessed wrecking ball. He lumbered heavily through the fray, his sheer mass doing most of the work as he casually clobbered anyone foolish enough to step into his orbital path, tossing cultists aside with single, dismissive swings of his heavy arms.
Murdoc, however, hadn't fought a single person. His eyes were locked solely on Moon Flower as she pulled on the rope to save 2-D.
Back down below, the cult leader's desperate efforts began to show. Against the agonising, gravitational pull of the breach, 2-D's descent halted. Bit by bit, his wheel began to rise. The anomaly tugged at him, but the sheer power of a guilt-ridden woman fuelled by the memory of peppermint tea and unconditional politeness proved stronger.
Above ground, it was now total anarchy.
More robed figures went flying under the combined assault of Noodle's martial arts and Russel's blunt-force trauma as featureless white masks spun dramatically through the air.
A well-placed roundhouse here, a devastating haymaker there, and then—
BAM.
The Chocobo careened wildly into two particularly unlucky cultists. They were launched backwards off the edge of the abyss, plummeting past the ascending 2-D. Their screams faded into the blinding blue light of the Breach below—lost to the multiverse forever.
With a piercing "Wark!" that essentially translated to "my work here is done," the misplaced avian from Earth-7 bounded across the hall. It managed to locate another swirling blue portal for its escape, diving into it at top speed just a millisecond before the rift snapped shut completely.
After delivering a sharp shin-kick and uppercut combo, Noodle glanced at the spot where the bird had vanished, nodding with a small, firm expression of profound appreciation. To cap it off, she casually punted a groggy cultist who was foolishly trying to crawl back to his feet, sending him straight back to sleep.
Back at the pulley, Moon Flower’s arms were beginning to give out. She was tiring fast, her boots sliding against the floor.
Suddenly, stepping in like a knight in deeply tarnished tin foil, Murdoc lunged directly in front of the exhausted woman. He smoothly grabbed the rope, throwing his own weight backwards to pull the singer to safety.
After a few hearty tugs, with 2-D's wheel nearly cresting the lip of the pit, Murdoc decided it was time to cash in. He turned to the breathless cult leader, flashing her the trademark Niccals charm—a heavily yellowed, desperately affectionate smirk designed to instantly entice and seduce her on the spot.
This, however, backfired rather spectacularly.
The sheer greasiness of the smirk profoundly creeped Moon Flower out. Her hands flew to her chest, her expression twisting into a cocktail of disgust, bafflement, and sheer, instinctual terror.
With her hands abruptly leaving the rope, the vital counterweight was lost. The gravitational pull of the blue breach instantly reasserted itself, yanking 2-D back downwards with terrifying speed. Murdoc, still gripping the rope with both hands, went flying forward with a pathetic yelp.
He scrambled frantically, his heels sliding as he desperately tried to find grip. But it was no use. The bassist was dragged helplessly until he smashed crotch-first into a thick wooden stanchion, legs splayed wide, arms flailing, and his grip on the rope entirely gone.
2-D was surely lost to the portal below; their rescue efforts were completely in vain. Except for one highly unsanitary miracle that completely changed the tide of the dilemma.
The violent impact against the pillar had dislodged the green vial of Murdoc's Essence from his robes. It popped out, tumbling end-over-end directly into the pit. Somehow, and we’re talking about a velocity that actively defies the laws of multiversal physics, the glass vial rocketed past the plummeting 2-D. The cork popped loose mid-air, a dreadful trail of neon green liquid spewing out as it plummeted straight into the heart of the breach.
For a second, one might assume the bottle and its contents were simply lost to the multiverse, much like those unlucky cult members. But this is exactly where things took a turn from the weird to the deeply foul.
The blue breach instantly flashed a sickly green. Sapphire turned to emerald. Azure turned to a bilious viridian. Murdoc’s "Essence", his thoroughly rejected, stale bathwater, had somehow fundamentally infected the interdimensional irregularity.
With a raging, concussive explosion of green energy, a geyser tore upwards through the pit, rocketing 2-D right back up with it. The resulting eruption was truly spectacular, if incredibly dangerous. The shockwave sent the remaining standing cultists flying like ragdolls, while Moon Flower was thrown violently backwards.
Caught in the blast, 2-D’s thick ropes simply disintegrated; he broke free, crashing hard and rolling several times before coming to a stop—battered, weary, and missing a shoe.
Noodle and Russel had managed to dive clear of the blast zone. Murdoc survived as well, though he was currently far more concerned with the agonising state of his bruised pride and his deeply compromised nether regions, after his intimate encounter with the wooden pillar.
Strangely, across the hall, every single cultist, whether standing, groaning on the floor, or unconscious, began to spontaneously turn to ash, exactly as if someone had just snapped their fingers. Grey particles flaked away, drifting high into the air as Noodle and a still-mostly-zombified Russel watched them blow away.
Moon Flower, meanwhile, managed to stagger to her feet. However, her knees wobbled intensely. Clutching a hand to her chest, she collapsed in a heap, falling onto the floor perilously close to Murdoc.
Despite his agony, Murdoc looked over, a rare flicker of genuine worry crossing his features. He was just about to crawl to her side when the piercing wail of police sirens shattered the quiet, accompanied by the strobing flash of red and blue lights against the high windows. Instantly, the bassist's expression morphed from romantic concern to naked, shameless self-preservation.
Sensing he needed to high-tail it, Murdoc scrambled to his feet, completely ignoring the collapsed Moon Flower and his battered bandmates on the far side of the pit. The bassist bolted for the nearest exit without a second thought.
Meanwhile, Noodle was frantically trying to shake 2-D fully awake, whilst Russel had simply sat down, slumped forward. The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed off the walls, followed by the booming shouts of the LAPD.
"LAPD! Nobody move! Hands where we can see 'em!"
"Kuso!" Noodle shouted, her expression twisted into profound annoyance as she slowly raised her hands into the air.
2-D weakly shook his head, finally gaining some semblance of his senses. However, the deafening sirens, the blinding red and blue strobes, and the aggressive shouts of the tactical unit completely overwhelmed him. He slowly raised his long arms, squinting painfully against the glaring beams of the officers' flashlights.
Russel remained slumped, practically dead to the world, until Noodle leaned over and forcefully shoved his shoulder. The massive drummer finally grunted, turning his head sluggishly as he raised his hands, his broad back still turned to the approaching wall of heavily armed police.
And so, the day was—somewhat—saved…
Noodle, Murdoc, and Russel had successfully stopped 2-D from being devoured by a multiversal breach. The Forever Cult had been quite literally reduced to dust, their grand plan foiled by a combination of martial arts, absolute incompetence, and a misplaced Chocobo simply passing through on a chaotic tour of the multiverse.
As the LAPD forcefully hauled the three band members to their feet, slapping cuffs onto their wrists, Noodle took one last look at the cavern. The main breach was gone, but fluttering gently down from the high rafters, catching the harsh beams of the police flashlights, was a single yellow feather. A quiet, absurd reminder of the giant bird that had inadvertently lent them a hand. Or a wing. Or, more accurately, a destructive three-toed foot.
The authorities, naturally, had absolutely no idea what to do with a giant pit, piles of unexplained human ash, and an unconscious cult-leader.
True to form, the LAPD ultimately deferred to the federal government's official statement.
In their incident report, the devastating subterranean occult ritual was officially classified as a "highly localised, subterranean weather balloon incident."
A weather balloon. Again. This time under Hollywood. Which was also roughly the size of Kent. It still didn't make a lick of sense, but the press secretary had asked everyone to kindly stop asking questions about it.
Because 2-D was battered, bruised, and currently rambling nonsense about a place called Cracker Island, the police decided a detour was necessary before hauling them off to holding. They were to be escorted to the nearest Los Angeles County Hospital.
It would be a fateful location where occult shenanigans would only escalate, involving a spectral bass player, blinding pink lights, and a very heavily sedated 2-D babbling endlessly about auto-tuned truths.
Murdoc, of course, was already halfway across town, avoiding custody entirely and fully prepared to take absolute credit for the rescue once he successfully snuck into the hospital.
But as the police cruisers sped away into the California night, leaving the ruins of the Forever Cult behind, one glaring question remained… Where did the vial go?
Somewhere out there in the multiverse, a breach opened above a completely unassuming, alternate Earth. A small, corkless green bottle plummeted from the sky, landing with a soft thud. The liquid was gone, but the glass retained something far more potent.
The poor, unsuspecting soul who inevitably discovers it will have no idea what a Gorillaz is, let alone a Murdoc Niccals. But long after the bottle’s found, the disgusting, eye-watering stench of his stale, rejected bathwater will run wild across their plane of existence, haunting their reality until the end of time.
