Murder On The Air Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: “Deer Down”

Nineteen thirty three

Alastor was drinking liquor at a bar. He heard a commotion going on outside and wondered what it was. Just then, the doors to the joint opened and in stepped a showman.

There were several reporters surrounding said man, and there was a camera man there as well. Everyone stopped and stared at the newcomer.

He was a tall, slim man, very handsome. He looked to be in his early twenties, the same age as when Alastor first started his career. His skin was white and his eyes were electric blue. One of his eyes had a red contact in it. His hair was slicked back and black in color, very short. He wore a black tuxedo with blue vertical stripes on it. His undershirt was whitish blue and below it were red and black stripes. The red bow tie he wore was huge. He also wore a black top hat with a blue antenna design.

Right away, the man gave off a confident, showy exterior. He had a manipulative and level-headed side to him as well…not so different from Alastor's persona on the radio.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen!" the man said. "For those who don't know me, I am Vsevolod Saranoff, Russian relative of the RCA president. But many people aren't too comfortable with that, so I often call myself Vox. You can, too."

"I was born in Russia with Vex and Vuk but came here to the U.S. in search for a better life. With the help of my father and family, I landed a position at RCA. My sister Vex works with telephones and my brother Vuk improves telegraphs. But as for me, I aim to be a new pioneer for a new concept that you may have heard about: television."

Alastor almost crushed his liquor glass then and there. He never imagined being with another showman in person. Although it seemed like this guy was a show man twenty four seven. He was all about profit, praise and pretty ladies.

Vox continued on about how television worked and things about the RCA Company. He handed out fliers to everyone. Alastor read the flier in front of him. In orange and black chrome letters was the bold heading: "The Radio Corporation of America tells What Television will mean to you!"

The flier talked about experimental broadcasting and televisions potentially being sold to consumers in the future.

Without warning, Vox came over to Alastor and shook his hand hard. "What a pleasure meeting you sir!"

Alastor pulled his hand away.

"I've heard rumors that you're the radio host of this city, correct."

"Why yes, I am! The best one in LA, in fact."

Vox's calculating eyes scrutinized Alastor's appearance and skin color. Vox tsked, giving off an aura of superiority.

"Well, you've made some considerable progress, that's for sure. But if television sells well, it will be all the rage. Who knows…"

He leaned in, "Maybe radio will fade into the background."

Alastor casually stood up. "I don't think so. People have enjoyed my shows for almost a decade now. Radio will never fade away."

Vox brushed off his suit and winked at two admiring women nearby. He turned back to him. "Perhaps you're right. But answer me this: how exactly did you manage to get so famous in the first place? You work for CBS? NBC? RCA?"

"I'm my own business," he replied.

"There have been rumors going on. About you being a dewdropper who always stays home? You being a jumbo of different races? Usually colored folk don't obtain celebrity status that fast. Frankly, I'm surprised you made it this far."

Alastor slammed the liquor glass onto the table, the liquid sloshing in the glass.

"You have no idea how hard I had to work to get to where I am."

"Well, perhaps if you can prove yourself, maybe you could work for me. I mean, my plan for being on television programs is coming along great so far. It's the next big thing."

"Screw you and your picture boxes. Nothing can beat classic radio."

Vox smirked. "If you say so."

Vox pulled a dapper lady into an arm hug, then proceeded to look under her dress. "We could have fun at my place if you'd like."

The woman turned red in the face.

Alastor was appalled. "Have you no respect?!"

Vox shrugged and spoke in a low voice to Alastor. "Women come to me to have fun all the time. You're probably jealous that I have more of their lacy underwear."

Alastor made a face. "Sick freak."

Vox slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Your words mean nothing to this new upcoming star! Don't apologize to me when your self made business goes out of business."

Alastor walked away. He was in no mood to handle this.

Vox smirked and called out. "Oh, is your mixed mother still alive? Can you tell her I said hi?!"

Alastor stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around, smile on his face but a murderous look in his eyes. He snarled, lunged forward and rammed himself into Vox. They both crashed into a table as beer bottles and glasses smashed to the floor. The crowd stepped back and gasped loudly.

The two men wrestled and yelled on the ground. Vox slapped Alastor hard in the face, before he, in turn, recived a hard punch to the jaw.

"You dare speak about her that way?!"

"She's dead, right? Send her my good grac…"

Alastor wrapped both hands around Vox's throat. He suddenly wished he had brought his knife with him. Alastor was suddenly pulled off Vox by two burly RCA men. He struggled against them in vain. Two women helped Vox up, who was catching his breath. Both men glared daggers at each other.

"Let him go," Vox said. "If he acts up around me again, he'll be arrested soon enough.

The men let go.

Vox made his leave. "Remember folks, look for Vox on TV! More coming soon!"

After Vox and his crew left, Alastor promptly stomped home.

A man with curly white hair wore a purple-blue suit. He saw Alastor walk into his house. From inside, a victim's scream was heard.

"I knew it," he breathed. He ran off toward the nearest rotary phone.

Alastor should have known he would eventually be caught.

His confidence during the Roaring Twenties Decade and his desperation to survive during this Great Depression, had made him much more careless. Police and investigators found more traces of blood and half eaten human remains. There were blood stains on much of the radio equipment.

The so called "conspiracy theory" made by a few individuals that New Orleans beloved radio host was actually an evil killer was now becoming a fact.

"Me and my friend are trapped in a big black house! This radio host is a psychotic killer!"

Roo's voice had been heard on the air by a conspiracy theorist who had spied on several of Alastor's macabre-loving listeners. He had promptly called police several times.

"911 what's your emergency?"

"This is Collin Cherub. You have to believe me when I say this but…New Orleans beloved radio host, Alastor, is the infamous Louisiana Lunatic!"

"Ha! You're kidding."

"No I'm not! He lives in a black painted house on 6600 South SpindleHorse Avenue. The signals traced back to the source, which was there."

"How can you be sure?"

"I saw a cult of listeners in an alleyway listen to Alastor. It's on a hidden station not known to the public. No, not his regular station. The station that is hidden by wires and stuff in one of the radio towers. The small mechanical box that no one else sees?"

"You're confusing me."

"Look, I heard him talk about cooking jambalaya…and I heard the women's screams on there. The listeners were laughing and making crude jokes…pretty messed up stuff."

"Ok, we'll go investigate." Police and investigators found more traces of blood and half eaten human remains.

One winter day, a few days later, Alastor heard a loud banging on his front door.

"New Orleans Police! Open up!"

Fear raced through him like a deadly wave. How did they find him?! It took them long enough but still!

Alastor didn't hesitate to leave the house and flee for his life. He jumped out a window just as the police knocked down the front door. Several gun shots destroyed Alastor's radio equipment...sparking flying and smoke filling the room. One officer smashed Alastor's microphone staff against the floor…breaking it in half. Another officer opened the refrigerator…and found human remains.

"Ack!" he yelled. "It's the killer, alright."

Alastor didn't even have time to announce the situation on his radio show.

He raced down the streets of New Orleans, ignoring passerby watching with stunned looks. He briefly caught his breath in an alleyway when he heard a growl.

He turned. A dirty white dog growled at him, with sharp yellow teeth and wounds all over its body.

Before Alastor could react, the dog leapt at him and sank its teeth deep into his hand.

Alastor screamed out loud.

The police heard the scream and followed it.

Alastor shook the rabid dog off him and climbed over a fence. He shoved people out of the way as he hightailed it toward the woods nearby. Turning behind him, he saw more police hot on his trail. This group was accompanied by two police dogs in front of them. A vicious German Shepard and a black Lab.

Alastor maneuvered around the tall trees, the sounds of loud barking behind him. His magic was fading into nothing…he had no access to it. The sun shining on the snow was blinding to his eyes. Even worse, he had made footprints in the snow, thus he was still being chased.

"Who would've thought that I would eventually become the prey?" he pondered in disbelief.

His hand and body were burning, as an agonizing pain spread through him. Black spots danced across his vision, but he kept moving. His head was pounding, like someone had dug a hot knife into it.

As he continued to run, he thought he saw a horde of alligators shooting waves of water at him. The policemen behind him had mutilated faces and antlers sticking from their heads.

They were going to eat him alive.

Looking at the frozen bayou nearby, he knew that the ice would melt and the water would pull him in. He already felt like he was drowning…running in slow motion. He found himself screaming for help as the illusion waves threatened to drown him.

He jumped over logs, ducked under branches and occasionally looked back. He was now further ahead of them, thankfully they were getting lost in the woods.

If he hadn't learned to run and navigate the woods, he would've been caught already.

He thought he was safe, until, out of nowhere, the two dogs bit his legs and almost made him fall. The sharp pains were excruciating. Blood spilled down from the torn hole in his pants and the fresh wound on his leg.

He couldn't shake the mutts off, so he used a simple fire blast to knock them off. He gasped for breath as he continued to run, the dogs chasing after him. He felt the magic leaving his body, in place of a rapid infection that flowed through his nerves and brain.

Off to the side, he saw a doe run along among the trees. Alastor's eyes grew wide.

"Mama?"

She stared at him and she appeared to have his mother's voice and eyes.

"So disappointed in you," she said, her voice mixed with a deer bark. "Look what you've become: an utter monster."

A stag ran next to her, the stag had his father's voice. "Run, son!" he called.

The doe barked again, glancing at another figure crouching in the bushes.

His mother's voice echoed in his head. "Faster! Faster, Alastor! Don't look back! Keep running! Keep running!"

Both deer collapsed to the ground after several gunshots rang out.

Alastor became dizzy again. "Mother? Mother, where are you?"

A hunter with long dark hair and a beard had a rifle in his hands as he stood over the deer. Standing next to him with another gun was…

"You're Vox, right?" the hunter asked.

"Yes, I am."

"It's an honor to meet you. I've heard the news about TV and your company. What are you doing out here?"

"A nice winter day would be perfect for a good hunt. A great way to relive some stress after what happened in the bar a few days ago."

"What happened?"

"Some crazed man man attacked me. I think I triggered him."

The hunter looked at the two dead deer. He had gotten the doe.

"Nice shot, Vox."

"Same to you."

"So, who was this guy anyway?"

Vox was about to answer, when he heard a nearby wail.

"No!" Alastor cried out. "You killed my parents!"

The hunter looked up at him and his eyes narrowed.

"You're…you're that madman who killed my daughter…That serial killer!"

"Alastor, is that you?" Vox asked. "He's…a serial killer?"

The man before them didn't even look human any more. His eyes were bulging out of his head, his body and face stained with blood. There was a crazed grin on his face.

"Is he drunk?" the hunter asked.

Vox heard the sounds of barking and rapid footsteps. "Oh my goodness, the police are chasing after him! Hey cops, he's over here!"

Alastor ignored him and just smiled through the pain. Nothing much else he could do. His head was crocked and leaned off to the right.

More footsteps.

Alastor would soon be surrounded. The agonizing, inflammatory pain in his arm and head was too much. He would make sure he would not go to jail.

He then saw Vox.

He was going to kill that television asshole.

The hunter aimed his rifle. "Stop right there, bastard!" he yelled.

Alastor kept running, a crazed smile on his face. Time seemed to slow down. Vox aimed his gun as well. Alastor was right in the line of fire but he didn't care. His eyes were wide and crazed. The look on his face was full of pain and insanity.

The hunter griped his weapon, his eyes wide with fear and disgust. "Don't come any closer!"

"Alastor Crowley, you're under arrest for first and second degree murder…" came the voices of the officers.

His face screamed, "Do it!" His hands were in reach of his enemy.

The hunter dropped his rifle and buried his face in his hands. "I can't do it!"

Vox, however, retained his steady aim. His silver shotgun clicked and his fingers hovered over the trigger. A wide smirk appeared on his face.

"Open season, dumb deer."

Bang!

Vox's bullet flew straight between Alastor's eyes. Blood gushed from his head into the air. Alastor yelled out before his body plummeted to the ground with a thud. The two dogs pounced on him, mauled, and ferociously bit.

The police raced over to the scene and the dogs soon backed up. The former radio host was lying face down. They turned him over and saw his dead face. The bullet hole in his forehead, the bloodied tattered shirt, pants, and bow-tie…and a strange smile on his pale cooling face. Red blood pooling from the wound into the ground. No one noticed the red mark of Kalfu appear on his cold neck.

They checked for pulse and breathing. Nothing.

"He's gone," said an officer.

The hunter…and many families of his victims had now gotten justice.

The haunting frozen look of the corpse would haunt the hunter for days.

Alastor's body was promptly burned, no funeral or anything. His ashes were buried and some were spread out into the woods.

As for Vox…he was hailed a hero.

"Breaking News! Louisiana Lunatic found dead in the woods!"

"Serial Killer Alastor Crowley shot dead by RCA Employee Vox!"

Vox's favorite headline read: "Video Killed The Radio Star! Vox Hailed as Hero After Mass Murderer's Death."

Reporters surrounded Vox by the dozens.

"How did you survive?"

"It is true that you killed that maniac before the police could arrest him?"

And, of course, Vox had his share of fans. Vox did not face any charges.

"That handsome TV man saved New Orleans!"

"He's so smart and brave!"

"He brought justice to so many."

The hunter spoke as well. "It was quite scary sight, for sure. I didn't have the guts to do it. But now…I think I can rest easier now that the one who killed my Villa is dead."

More headlines and articles read, "Exclusive interview with conspiracy theorists Collin Cherub. Awarded for helping police track down Alastor."

Vox later enjoyed profits, fame and sex, after television became more prominent in later years. He traveled all over the country, and soon, the incident was long forgotten.

A radio announcement went on air on Alastor's station one last time. Collin Cherub got the honor of announcing it:

"1933, Alastor Roscoe Crowley, age 37, (1896-1933) was shot in the head in the woods yesterday after attempting to flee police. Witnesses said he appeared to be drunk or in distress and was last seen dashing into the woods from the New Orleans Police Department. Radios, voodoo trinkets, gris-gris, and half-eaten body parts were discovered in his cabin, house and shed. Alastor was shot in the forehead by RCA employee and upcoming star Vox. A brief autopsy revealed that he had been infected by rabies. The public can rest easy now that the infamous Louisiana Lunatic is now deceased. The only thing I can say for the man caught like a deer in the headlights, "oh dear, and good riddance.""

His fans of his radio show were notably upset and shocked at the news, but the majority of New Orleans were thankful that he was gone. How ironic that Alastor's death would be announced on his own radio show. His studio and belongings were either burned or given away. His house and cabin were burned as well...bringing a complete end to Alastor's reign of terror. Some of his intact radios found a new home at an antique shop. Some of them were expensive, some were cheaper, but people were too into the new trend of "Picture Boxes," to think much of it.