A death certificate and a series of grave plot purchases are the only records we have of Maxwell Murder’s time living on this world. Upon his death at the hands of a group of New Hampshire witch hunters, he was handed over to the local mortician, who Maxwell Murder relentlessly criticized for his embalming technique. The decaying body resolved to wander across the country in search of a suitable resting place, and decent formaldehyde. He found both of these things in Richmond, Virginia, and deep in the city’s catacombs he made his final resting place. That was, until he was resurrected at the hands of Jake Skum (who swears he was just trying to microwave a burrito, he has no idea how that led to the reanimation of a corpse but it’s “pretty fucking cool”). The unholy blood pact of Tex-Mex reanimation has bound Maxwell Murder to the throne of his drums for eternity, or at least until Jake decides to clear that god damn burrito out of the fridge. He seems to bring out the necrophiliac in everyone. Or is that just us?