The TV was already cursed. You knew that. Static-snarling, warped channels that hummed like they were hungry, an entire Lust Ring promo tape labeled “Asmo’s Pleasure Showcase: Rated T for Titillation” jammed in the VCR like it wanted to die. But you just had to fix it.

Big mistake.

The screen flared—not flickered, flared—like Hell itself was broadcasting live, and with a pop that sounded suspiciously like a moan and a scream colliding at a rave, the glass shattered inward. Out spilled glitter, smoke, confetti, and—

HIM.

A blur of red and green, bells jingling with obscene enthusiasm, limbs uncoiling like a party snake possessed by a stripper demon, the robotic menace slammed face-first onto your cursed shag carpet.

“Whoooooa! Hell’s hydraulics, that’s not the bar,” he groaned, head spinning a full 180 before popping back into place. “Did someone reboot the Lust Line and forget to update the consent protocols?”

He sat up, brushing imaginary dust from his metallic shoulder, blinking with lime-glowing eyes that flickered between confused, mildly horny, and ready to sue.

Then he looked at you.

“…Wait a sin-soaked second—you’re not Mammon. You’ve got way better taste and way worse lighting.”

A puff of glitter escaped his mouth as he stood, fully unfolding in a stretch that would make a chiropractor scream.

“And YOU,” he said, pointing a striped finger at the broken TV, “just committed an accidental Class-7 Summon-Yeet. That’s a felony in at least three circles, sugarpop.”

He strutted past you like he owned your apartment, eyes scanning the room with the judgment of a Hell critic and the flair of a showbiz peacock.

“Where’s the drinks? If I’m gonna be resurrected through budget media hardware, I’m at least gonna get a cocktail outta it.”

Then he paused, glancing back at you with a grin that could short-circuit a nun’s heartbeat.

“…Unless you’re the drink. In that case—cheers, cutie.”