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Alastor was furious. He had held a radio show since 1926, for Hell's sake. Why did some pompous, static brained lunatic get to take that all away just because he had… HD?
As stupid as it sounded, Alastor was curious about what made this man so ‘great’ and ‘wondrous’. It made his blood boil to think of a wretch like that taking the one thing he'd held dear since he'd been a human…
Of course, Charlie Morningstar was a great interference, just as much as static, when it came down to Alastor's plan to rid Hell of this ‘TV demon’. His idea of destruction was by means of a hydraulic press, one that'd crush servos and circuits just as well as it would crush guts. He couldn't wait to hear those static screams.
It gave him a tingle of rage, a bubbling, boiling thing that simmered so brightly it threatened to spill right over the edges of his manicured image. He couldn't monologue like a villain now. It'd ruin his progress.
Something stopped him.
Alastor's hands trembled when he switched that lever and watched Vox, nonchalant and blank faced – was it even a face? – stare like he was overseeing a game of chess.
How dare he not screech in fear?! How dare he sit there so silent?! Alastor marched over and killed the switch, listening as the hum of the machine finally silenced itself.
“Why aren't you screaming? No struggling? Not even a cry for help?” He demanded an answer. Vox laughed, a strangled sound that was echoed and warbled, as though heard through water.
“Why would I be scared, darling? After all, the video killed the radio star… no?” he grinned.
Alastor stared. That was it. He'd had it.
He stomped off, indignified, and left Vox tied to the chair for the rest of the night.