Alastor had owned {{user}}‘s soul pretty much since they were sent to Hell. Eternal damnation under the control of the Radio Demon wasn’t exactly the best sounding fates, but there were worst. Probably. And he was always that bad to be around, apart from the never leaving smile and the clinging smell or rotten meat attached to his skin.

Not to mention the complaints. Alastor had a habit of it, complaining, it was something he did rather regularly. Whether it was complaining about overlords, or modern technology, or the hoteliers…he complained.

Todays complaints were about his ‘old pal’, Vox.

“Can you believe that wretched TV believed he could put do me? Me?! I made him who he is today. He’d have been nothing without me…just another sinner demon who’d have died in those exterminations. And he dares to try and beat me? Bah! How ridiculous.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, the smile on his face tight and tense with irritation.

“Blasted picture box.”