Oi, everyone!

Been a while, but I think that this one's a masterpiece, personally.

Introducing: The agent and the producer. Nice little surprise for you in store. Turns out, our world and theirs aren't so different from each other as one might think.

As a reminder, this story focuses mostly on Noodle and how she deals with things, but the rise of the band surely includes them all.

Alright, R&R, I hope you enjoy this installment!

It wasn't two weeks later when Murdoc's night of fantasy finally arrived.

They got a van. It was a purple mini with a "Carrying School Children" sign on the back, but it was big enough to carry 2-D, Noodle, and most of the band's equipment. Stu reminded himself that he needed to repay his mum later, somehow.

With no room for their bodies, let alone their pride, in the van, Muds and Russ took the fully-repaired and newly-souped buggy to Chelmsford instead. New rims, new camoflauge paint job, new hair. Murdoc Niccals was ready.

It was warm for the winter solstice closing in, but the Saturday night before Christmas was guaranteed to pack the clubs with vacationing Americans and college kids galore. Thirty minutes before showtime, as the lines outside Dukes Genesis began to stretch out and around the street corner, Muds decidedly revved up and drifted dramatically past the front entrance while Russel gripped his chair with fingernails. To get the kids excited, the bassist reasoned. Though, most of them only saw some douchebag show off and almost hit a group of teenage girls. The brief display was immediately followed by a carpool van, its driver hiding his face from embarrassment behind the steering wheel.

Stu needed to calm down. He was just excited, anxious, worried; normal stuff. But sweat was already dripping from his brow, and he clenched the wheel until he heard the leather grip squeak. Self-conscious all the while, he looked to see if his passenger noticed.

Noodle sat staring straight ahead, hands on the seat, hopping up and down with a big smile on her face. She seemed to bounce to a beat in her head, and D could see her fingers moving across the chair as if a guitar was in her hands. Cute little kid, he thought, and turned into the back alley where they'd unload. When a streetlight shone in her eyes for a moment, Noodle squinted and noticed her friend observing her. She kept bouncing and stared right at him.

"Rockstar," she giggled, beaming. Stu rolled his eyes, and realized that he'd stopped sweating. Gotta love Noods.

When they stopped and parked in front of the back door, the two watched as Murdoc was already bossing around a teenage busboy, shoving amps and wires into the poor kid's arms. Russel sat off to the side, watching the van come with his drumset.

With a sudden feeling of newfound confidence, Stuart jumped out of the car, shoved open the side door, and swaggered towards his bandmates.

"Oi, Muds, wot're yew forcing on dis guy, huh?"

The club employee, who bore a strange resemblance to Shaggy from Scooby-Doo (at least, that's what Noodle thought), turned frantically to what might be his savior.

"'E wants me to set up El Diablo and make 'im a shaken brandy Sazerac!" Beneath the armful of wires and other gear, he shook his head. "I don't even know what that is!"

The singer bit his lip and shook his head, grabbing an amp from the hefty load. "Jus' bring all dat in, and ge'us a roun' a lagers." After looking to Noodle getting out from her seat, he turned back quickly. "And one, uh, Coca-Cola."

"Can do, sir!" the busboy yelped, voice cracking, and sped back off into the club before Mr. Niccals could make any further demands. Without a word, the bassist grabbed his beloved Gibson Flying V from the back seat and sauntered in as well, grumbling at the last second, "No fun."

Eventually, the band (mostly Russel) managed to haul all of the gear from the van down a hallway and into a small backstage room. There, their beverages were waiting. They all made sure that Noodle didn't accidentally grab any alcohol.

The busboy came in while the band drank, and stood as far away from Murdoc as he could. "Um, the keyboard is all set up, all the amplifiers are in place, and such. Drums are still all apart, though."

"I'll get it," Russel mumbled, squeezing out of the room past the employee, who turned to 2-D.

"Is tere anyting else you need?"

The singer took one last gulp of his drink. "Uh, um, I fink, eh…" he cleared his throat. "Coul' yew poss'bly put up a big sheet o' paper to cover da back o' da stage?"

The boy was confused. "I suppose I could 'ang some wrapping paper 'cross. We got loads."

"Yeah! Do tha'!"

"Sure thing," and the kid sped off.

Murdoc, beer in hand, finally spoke up from his unusual silence. "What in the world of the denthead do we need wrapping paper for, eh?"

2-D pushed past the old man to a small toolbox in the corner of the room, next to where Noodle was practicing her favorite song. She watched him and smiled, without looking at her guitar, as he pulled a big can of red spray paint from the container.

"And wots with the paint? Please, please don't do something stooopid tonight, of all nights."

With a mixed look of innocent irritation and optimistic excitement, Stu waved his arms dismissively at the band leader. "Don' worry, Muds. I's gots a leettle plan ah tot mite be fun."

"And that is?"

"Well, see, as da lites com'on, ah'm gonna jus' spray our name all 'cross da paper. Ya know, sorta liek a signatoor on ahr own work o' art: Ahr music! Liek, uh, liek Banksy! Only no' street art, but music."

Murdoc looked on as if his singer had three heads and boobs. Nah, Murdoc threw in the boob thing. But, it took a while for him to shake his head, groan, and grab for his cigarettes.

"Whateva, do wot you want, you dumb dullard. Write our name on wax sheet, I don't care." He spun to Noodle's corner. "What I care about is if princess here can do what we've been training her to do for the past two months."

The familiar word 'princess' once again got the girl's attention, and she looked up at the old man without stopping her practice. Murdoc continued.

"Who's to say the little brat won't get stage fright, eh? Who's to say she won't forget the shit we've been going over and over and over again with her?"

"She got i' down!" the singer protested, turning to the axe queen. "Show 'im Noods!"

Noodle nodded excitedly and began picking her guitar to the tune of their second song 'Punk' like a pro.

"Aight, good! Ghos' Train now!" Her fingers took a dive across the guitar's neck, finding the right notes immediately… naturally. It sounded just like Paula's playing, except better.

"Kay, an' Tomorrow Comes Today!" The rapid switch to a completely different song was flawless.

Stu turned to his grizzled old bandmate and grinned a toothy smile of victory. Murdoc smacked it right off.

"Aight, she's good! Don't be a prick 'bout it!" he growled. "She just better not be scared of crowds." And with that, the bassist sauntered out of the room to find something to scream at.

Rubbing his face, but still smiling, 2-D got up and sat next to Noodle. She looked at him with the friendliest expression ever, still practicing the last song Stu had given her.

"Rest tha' 'and, luv. Gotta keep i' fresh fo' da stage!"

Noodle silently agreed and stopped strumming, but continued humming the songs she had become accustomed to, bouncing her legs on her chair and sipping the Coke she'd been given.

"Hey, D!" A rumbling voice echoed from down the hallway.

"Yea?" the singer yelled back.

"Yo paper's all up and the stuff's set! Gig's in ten minutes!."

Stuart looked at his watch: 8:50. "Sure, we're all ready!" and he picked himself up while Noods carried her acoustic guitar gingerly with both hands.

When the two came to the stage, Russ was ready at the drums while Muds hooked himself up to the largest amp in the room. The sheet paper was hung across the back of the stage, just as 2-D had asked. Voices carried from where the crowd was gathering, drinking and dancing lightly to warm-up music. Noodle ran to her spot and connected her electric guitar while Stu took his place in front of the microphone, to the side of his keys. Double check. All things cleared. The radio fades out and the lights dim. The voices drop from lively discussion to hushed whispers and the occasional cough. The large black curtain rises straight up into the ceiling, and 2-D steps back to the wall with a can in his hands. Murdoc drops a single, long G-note that echoes throughout the club. Spotlight slowly turns on them, illuminating only the singer. He has his back turned to the crowd like the start of some sort of lame 80s intro, but surprises the viewers with the shake of a can, and the sharp hiss of aerosol. In big, red letters of dripping paint, the introduction is made silently.

Up across the wall, as tall and as wide as Stu could make it, read GORILLAZ.

Turning to the crowd, the tall musician looked straight into the spotlight, and some girls in the front gasped. They looked uneasy and took a small step from the stage, as if the singer was a contagious zombie. But Stuart only smiled and walked to the mic.

He whispered, almost sibilating, his lips turned up to a mischievous smirk, "I knew you'd say that."

Lights shine quickly on the other band members, illuminating the crowd further. Muds could see his only link, Smiffy, a balding man who looked uncomfortable at the bar. Next to him was a far more imposing man, blue suit and tie, brown hair cut sharp to accentuate a face made up completely of straight lines. He looked familiar, somehow. Mr. Niccals, the light now beginning to blind him, squinted and laughed. The microphone picked it up pretty well, too. He didn't even mean it, he just laughed a sinister laugh that shook Smiffy to the core. But if the bigger man was disturbed by this, he did not display it in the slightest. Murdoc laughed because this was it. He was here. And dammit, it felt fucking good.

Russel hit the cymbals five times. The guitarists began their riff. 2-D put on his falcetto mode. Del was nowhere to be found.

"Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck, mate, fuck!" Murdoc jumped out the back door of the club, bass guitar in hand, and began running around the alleyway. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! THAT was fucking WICKED!"

2-D jumped out after him. "'Den stop yeh cursin', Doc, i's a bloody good ting!"

The bassist was laughing with a beer in his hand. "Ah, ha, hah'll curse if I want to, mate! That was damn PHENOMENAL! You think they want an encore? I think they do. I can hear them, shhhh, can you hear them?"

"Ah tink ah hear 'em shufflin' out, Muds."

Out came Noodle and then Russel, both looking tired and covered in sweat, but smiling as wide as the doorway they'd just stepped through. The axe queen jumped around with Murdoc for a while, yelling "Rockstar, rockstar" again and again, giggling all the while. After a bit, both musicians became tired and simply slumped against the van to catch their breath.

"I tell you, mates, I think that stiff fella was tappin' his foot a little on Ghost Train. Oh boy, I know he's from EMI, but is he Virgin, Capitol? Oh oh oh, Parlophone? I think he liked it. Do you lot think he liked it?"

An amused Russel grunted, "Man, I don't know. Go ask him."

"What?" The demon bassplayer ran up to his drummer and stared at him straight in the eyeball, licking his lips nervously. "You want me… to just mosey on over to an EMI TALENT SCOUT… and ASK HIM how we did? Are you mental?"

"Blimey, stop yelling so loud, guys." A new voice, kind of squeaky and reserved, echoed from the back door. Out came Smiffy, a rather sad-looking man with a sad-seeming job. Not tall enough for his potbelly to look distinguished, he meandered down the steps carefully and brushed some strands of long-lost hair out of his face; an unfortunately ironic habit. Smiffy had been there at the Camden Brownhouse, sipping a brew in that dirty understudy to the Roundhouse, after he had come agonizingly close to being fired. And then he had heard Gorilla.

They had two songs and a small jam session on the stage, a little gang of misfits with cigarettes in their mouths and rips in their jeans. They had just an hour to get set up and play what they could before the next down-and-out musician could have their turn, and all the alcohol-stained faces at the tables had no interest in them. All except one man at the bar. What happened next was history.

Don't mess this up, you need this job, Smiffy thought as he approached them that first night. And he thought this now, as well. His boss was waiting, and this would be the turning point of whatever his future would be. Rags or riches, which would he choose? But the answer was obvious.

"Aight guys, do you know what you did in there?" he started. They all looked at him expectantly, and he looked at them. His gaze lingered on the small Asian girl, an addition whom Mr. Niccals had forgotten to alert him to until three nights ago. But Smiffy smiled and took off his glasses. "You just gave the best premiere concert I've seen in a very long time. Mr. Albarn wants to speak to all of you."

The bassist spat out a gulp of beer. "He does?" The other band members looked surprised as well.

"Yes, he was tapping his foot, which is a rarity. Mr. Albarn is waiting patiently behind the curtain, so, whenever you guys are ready." He began to walk off, but turned back suddenly. "By 'whenever,' I mean 'immediately,' aight?"

"Aight," Murdoc hastily sputtered, and then proceeded to push his mates back through the club door. Halfway down the hallway, he forced them to stop complaining, and the four walked out to the stage as calmly was could be.

The man in the suit had his back turned, apparently to examine Russel's drumset, when they walked in. Without a word, he spun around and took his hands from his pockets, the tiniest hint of a smile at the very tips of his mouth. At once, the only two Brits in the band recognized this man; he was pretty popular back in 2-D's high school days. But neither of them brought this to attention. Muds simply strode up to him, sweating bullets, and held out his hand with a jab.

"Hello Mr. Albarn, so good to meet you, my name is Murdoc Niccals, I'm the bassplayer, and this is Gorillaz: Stu, Noodle, and Russel, we appreciate you coming, did you like the show?"

Muds already knew he'd messed up, even before he finished his sentence. Albarn didn't take the hand, but just stared at this strange and ugly man, looked down his feet, and sighed.

"Alright, two things: One, you appear to be the most insane cad I have ever seen, and you're a bloody moron. Two, those are some godrotting ugly shoes."

Everyone looked down at Muds' red leather Barratts, and grimaced. Albarn was right.

The producer stepped back, and continued. "I presume that you are the group leader, eh? Quite a green little twat, got no experience. I introduce myself first, you hear? Then you silently nod as I explain everything, and you pack your van and go home. You guys aren't anything special, that's for sure. I got a near-blind pianist, some American wanker who thinks he can hit barrels, and this… I dunno know what you are, monkey, but you play axe alright."

The man whipped out his cell phone and began pressing buttons with some urgency.

"Furthermore," he still spat, "there's some crotchedy filth standing in front of me, his mid-life crisis clearly having taken hold of his feeble mind, and who sounds like a bloody hyena on ten packs a day. AND he can't seem to do shit right, from the looks of it."

With a look of superiority over his now-cowering victims, he brought the phone to his ear, carrying on.

"I'm calling the manager. Gonna see why I even bothered coming down to this rathole to see a bunch of rats attempt music. Your 'agent' is going to be fired, by the way, forcing me to allow such rubbish to enter my ears. I'll have you know that I have been the executive producer for four world class bands, and over eighteen highly successful albums released in the past six years alone. Eighteen! Each on the charts. That's more coin than you'll all make in your lifetimes put together, you…"

He eyed each one of them, his sinister scowl like a deep scar across the face of a monument. They all looked ready to cry, especially the blue-haired one. Just one more insult couldn't hurt.

But Albarn burst out laughing. He threw his cheap cell to the ground and grabbed his stomach as the howling exploded from his mouth. After a few seconds, he regained a level head, but still chuckled.

"I'm sorry. I can't do it anymore." The previously fearful expressions before him morphed into ones of complete incomprehension. "You guys don't need to worry about anything. There's no angry manager, Smiffy isn't gonna get fired, and you, little lady" he pointed to Noods, "are not a monkey."

Noodle beamed, not because she understood what he was trying to get at, but because he said the word 'monkey' with a smile.

The producer bent down and gave her his hand. "Name's Damon Albarn, I just got this job last week."

"I like him."

Noodle sat on one of the bar stools in the lobby of Gorillaz Headquarters, a.k.a. Kong Studios. She kicked her legs back in forth to spin the seat around, while the guys paced all across the room. Damon was making a phone call just out the door, and Murdoc hadn't bothered warning him about the environmental hazards of the hill.

Now, the old man wrung his hands and tried to look at the white walls for an answer. The frontman of Blur-turned-record producer was at his house, ready to determine their futures. He barely paid any attention to the conversation that Russ and Stu were having.

"Ah fink i'was cruel. Ah lit'rally lost er'y bit a' confidence ah had cuz a' dat stunt."

"Yeah, but that's why we love you D."

"Whaddya mean by dat?"

"I mean, uh, well, it was a pretty funny prank, huh?"

2-D gave the drummer a glare. "No t'wasn't. Ah jus' told you. Was cruel, s'wat it was."

"I think ya just need to be a little less sensitive, man. He can make us famous, or… un-famous, if he wants to."

"Dodn't mean 'e ain't a bloody prick."

"Hey!" Murdoc called from across the lobby, directly at his singer. Almost immediately, Stu recoiled and made a preliminary motion to run for his room, but Russ held him in place. Muds continued, "Don't use any o' that cursing when Mr. Albarn's around, eh? We need to cinch this, here and now."

"Aight, Doc," Russ reassured him, and watched as he continued twiddling his thumbs across the floor. Then the American turned back to his friend, and whispered "Geez, you'd think the Big Man Downstairs himself was after him. Is the Mud Man finally inferior to someone?"

The two chuckled in the corner while Noodle continued to spin around on her stool, unaware of most of what was going on. All she could think about was the actor-man. He'd been acting, that's what Russ had said. And actors are pretty cool people.

Amidst the general anxiety, Kong's front door opened up, and in stepped a perfectly non-zombie Damon Albarn. He flipped his cell phone closed dramatically, and swaggered to the bar where his new clients stood waited on bated breath. With a cock of the eyebrow and a chuckle at Murdoc's increasingly sweaty face, the producer spoke up at last.

"We're in."

You should've been at the massive all-night party that followed those words.