Alastor's Death (Video Killed The Radio Star)

 

Nineteen thirty three

 

“Police, open up!”

A loud banging awakened Alastor from a sitting stupor. A used cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto the table. He had been gazing aimlessly at one of his old radios, almost willing it to flick to life. There was a pile of boxy radios sitting in his office…he refused to sell them, even as the house and himself began to fall apart day by day. The food ran out, then the heat. He had to sell his car, his fancy antlered cane…all the material possessions he could find just for enough canned foods to maybe last a week.

 

 

Alastor stared at the fairly recent bloodstains on his white gloves. He wore a white buttoned shirt with red sleeves, his black bow tie lopsided. He also wore dark pants and shoes. He straightened up his round glasses on the bridge of his nose. His brown eyes had bags under them, his stature displaying an unhealthy thinness. Alastor wondered if his radio shows would soon be forgotten, discarded away like the furniture radios he loved so much way back.

 

 

Not being in the spotlight as much…radios gradually falling by the wayside…no more lavish food, fashion and fun like the previous decade. Here he was, isolated, and now without his audience, he felt truly alone. The fading bumpy scars along his body, chest and back were the remaining legacies left behind by his father.

 

 

Alastor stared one last time at a black and white picture of him and his mother, both of them smiling. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been with him. Warmth, strength and happiness in her eyes through every step of Alastor’s youthful life. Sewing, cooking, singing, dancing and voodoo rituals would always bring back fond memories of her. What would she think of him now…a shell of his former glorious self, hidden by a plastic smile?

 

 

And dear Mimzy…the dashing heavyset blonde flapper girl and perhaps his only friend. One day she was there with him, singing, eating sweets and drinking the night away. Then the next day she had died during the Roaring Twenties. A heartbroken Alastor had blamed himself for her death. Maybe if he had loved her properly…given her the fairy tale romance she wanted in the first place. Alas, he didn’t want sex and deep intimacy like she did. He saw her as a close companion, a beautiful friend he could sing and travel with. He didn’t get a chance to confess his feelings to her.

 

 

Broadcasting and killing were the only purposes in his life now.

 

 

The door rattled again. “Open the door and put your hands in the air!”

 

 

How could he have been so careless? Just a few hours ago, he had brutally slashed the throats of two criminals, a white man and a black man. They were known to beat innocent people in the poor red light district along with committing a few rapes. The police hadn’t bothered to go after them, so he decided to finish the job.

 

 

In a rather ungentlemanly manner, he had bitten into their necks like a starved wolf. And indeed, he was always in search of food. There was a great scarcity during the Great Depression, thus he resorted to…unconventional methods to try and survive.

 

 

Perhaps Alastor had been a little too over-enthusiastic about their deaths on the radio. Or maybe it was the trail of bloody footprints that had led the coppers to his location.

 

 

But whatever the case, Alastor knew that the inevitable was fast approaching him.

 

 

Large hands forced the door open and there stood two police officers with hard round hats, golden badges, black uniforms and ominous black batons in their hands.

 

 

“You’re under arrest for murder in the first degree, second degree…”

 

 

Alastor stood and smiled nervously, “Third degree, nth degree, I get it, folks…”

 

 

A gun shot was fired, the bullet hitting the wall not too far from Alastor’s head. He dashed into the kitchen. There was a pile of papers and radios that stood in the way of the door. There appeared to be no way to escape…

 

 

But off to Alastor’s left was a window, thankfully wide open.

 

 

Without hesitation, the man ran forward and dove out the window, landing in a heap on the snow below. His thin bony form allowed him to cross the small opening. He took great gulps of air, lifting himself up and sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.

 

 

“Get back here!” the police called. Alastor climbed over fences and didn’t look back.

 

 

The sky was turning blood-red in the sunset. Not too far behind him, Alastor heard some barking. He peered back and saw two ferocious dogs, a German Shepherd and a Rottweiler chasing after him. Their maws were red and their white teeth sharp. The police waved their batons and followed the dogs. Another gun shot rang out. Panting hard, Alastor shoved several people out of the way as he ran. He dodged carts and carriages and old fashioned cars that swerved to avoid him. Horses neighed and reared up while several people yelped in surprise.

 

 

By a stroke of luck, two frightened horses from a carriage blocked the dogs’ path. Alastor used this opportunity to dash into a nearby side alley. Catching his breath and grimacing, Alastor climbed into a nearby green dumpster, rolling deep into the trash. The foul odors assaulted his nostrils. There were black bags, cans, sloppy food and some unrecognizable items everywhere. He curled up into a ball, scared despite his forced smile. His heart stopped when he heard the scraping of feet coming closer. The two dogs were circling the dumpster, panting, growling and sniffing.

 

 

Alastor didn’t dare move or breathe. They would find him and it would be the end. There was no way he’d let himself get arrested.

 

 

The dogs sniffed some more and Alastor thought he heard one of the dogs bark loudly. The silhouettes of the policemen stood at the alleyway opening.

 

 

“Keep searching, he can’t have gone far!” he heard a voice. The policemen raced ahead down the street, the dogs following them. The barking and steps faded.

 

 

How long he was there, he didn’t know. He couldn’t believe that his unpleasant idea to hide his scent had worked. Ever so cautiously, he peered over the ledge. When all was clear, he pulled himself up, briefly landing in a heap on the hard ground. He stood up, brushing away bits of garbage from his hair and clothing. He hated smelling and looking so horrible.

 

 

Alastor looked around, then made his way down the quieter evening streets, sticking close to the shadows.

 

 

There were wanted posters of him on walls and telephone poles. Several passerby gave him suspicious glares. Alastor caught a glimpse at the woods in the fading light. He made his way out of the city and toward nature as fast as he could. Bare tall trees soon surrounded him. The chilly evening air cut through his clothes.

 

 

Not too far away, he spotted a hulking figure standing over a deer. He leaned back against a tree, peering to get a closer look.

 

 

The man was a deer hunter, dressed in combat boots, a vest, pants and a belt of animal pelts. To Alastor’s revulsion, the man was posing by the wounded stag at his feet. A series of pained groans came from the animal. Alastor seethed through his teeth; that would not do at all. The area was still light enough to see shapes and the ground, the full Hunter’s Moon lighting the way.

 

 

As quiet as a mouse, Alastor tiptoed closer until he was almost behind the man. He spotted a rock and threw it ahead of him.

 

 

“What’s that?” the man grunted, distracted by the rock. Alastor broke off a sharp piece of the deer’s antler, holding it in his hands.

 

 

 

The man whirled around, “Hey what are you…”

 

 

In an instant, Alastor thrust the sharp piece into the hunter’s chest. The man gasped and stumbled back, tripping over the legs of the stag.

 

 

“Oh deer,” Alastor mused as he took careful steps toward the hunter. The man crawled backwards on his hands and legs. He aimed some kicks at Alastor but he gracefully moved out of the way. He grabbed hold of the man’s legs and squeezed as hard as he could. “You call yourself a hunter and you hurt those creatures like it’s nothing.” Anger burned in his eyes.

 

 

The man’s eyes grew wide. “Stay away, you filthy lunatic!”

 

 

Alastor only leaned closer and in the blink of an eye, landed a hard kick to his face and body. And another. And another.

 

 

“Looks like the hunter became the hunted. Quite the irony!” He spoke like he was talking to an invisible audience.

 

 

The hunter cried out in pain but Alastor didn’t stop. He could see his father’s face in and out of the man’s features. He saw the feared looks of his victims, the pleading desperation for survival present in humans and animals alike. The hunter was groaning in terror and pain like the nearby stag on the ground.  Even in Alastor’s weakened state, he still got the satisfaction of having dominance over others. They were all the same to him…morsels there for him to maim to his liking. It was a rare, wonderful feeling that almost made up for him almost getting caught.

 

 

“Kiss all your fawn experiences goodbye,” Alastor sneered, a crazed look on his face.

 

 

The man yelled out again before he gargled for breath as Alastor pushed the sharp antler point deeper in. He moved it around, red blood splattering on the cold ground. The man’s eyes rolled back, his head lolling to the side before falling still.

 

 

Alastor walked over to the wounded deer, silently spoke a prayer and then promptly snapped the beast’s neck. The pained animal noises stopped. He bent down and used a nearby hunting knife to carefully skin the animal. He didn’t care that the deer meat was raw, or that the hanging bits of flesh from the hunter were not cooked.

 

 

He was too hungry to even think. He stuffed the bloody meat into his mouth, his mouth stained red. His shadow briefly morphed into a grotesque silhouette with glowing eyes and branching antlers. Alastor chewed and ate until he felt momentarily satisfied.

 

 

Stealing a shovel from the hunter’s sack, he hummed a cheery tune as he began to dig a grave through the snow and dirt. When the hole was large and deep enough, he dumped the deer hunter’s body into it. But before he could add dirt on top of the corpse, he heard something. A low voice and a growl.

 

 

More policemen and dogs were trekking through the woods, following his trail.

 

 

Not too far away in the dark, another hunter carried a rifle in his hands. A couple of hunting dogs strolled by his side. One of the dog’s ears perked up and it suddenly froze.

 

 

The white man hunter peered ahead into the dusk wood. He saw a tall figure pace back and forth.

 

 

“A deer,” he breathed. He gave a signal to his companions and the dogs charged ahead with loud barks.

 

 

Alastor slowly turned around and saw the canines suddenly rush and leap at him. There was a deer in the headlights look in his wide brown orbs. The shovel fell from his hands and he cried out. Barks and howls clashed with his screams as sharp teeth sunk into him at every angle. Teeth tore at his shirt, his legs, and his skin all over. Rips, tears, the squelching sounds of flesh being torn. Blood spots stained the snow. Alastor couldn’t shake the dogs away, even though he tried to escape. His round glasses fell off his face and landed cracked in the snow.

 

 

Alastor wondered if one of the dogs had rabies…black spots danced across his vision and a flaming pain raced within his head. He saw snarling mouths and spinning trees…he felt like he was drowning in a hurricane filled with monsters.

He yelled out swear words and “Nos!” and gibberish, gasping for breath.  Even though the pain and blood loss, he kept a strained smile on his face. He stood on shaky legs, the dogs clinging to him. Tears rolled down his grimy face.

 

 

And just when Alastor thought he couldn’t handle the agony any longer…

 

 

Bang!

 

 

A gunshot rang out from the hunter’s rifle. The bullet struck Alastor square between his eyes. The man collapsed dead in an instant. The dogs briefly mauled at him until the hunter crept closer.

 

 

The hunter gasped in shock at the bloodied man lying on the ground. His clothes were dirty and torn, his hair a mess, and an unsettling frozen smile lay on his pale cooling face.

 

 

“Good Heavens sir, I’m so sorry…” he said, even though there was no answer.

 

 

The police arrived, carrying lanterns the illuminated the grisly scene. They spotted the dead deer hunter in the hole, the stag corpse and the dead body before them.

 

 

“What’s happened?” one man asked the hunter who was briefly in tears.

 

 

“I-I didn’t mean it, my dogs bit him and I shot him. I thought that guy was a deer.” He pointed a shaking hand at the dead Alastor.

 

 

“Wait,” the policeman said. “That’s the Louisiana Lunatic, the infamous serial killer we’ve been looking for. And he’s…dead?”

 

 

The hunter stopped crying and peered closer. “He must’ve killed that guy in the hole…”

 

 

The police paused then breathed sighs of relief. “Thank goodness you weren’t hurt! Come with us, we’ll get you somewhere warm.”

 

 

“You’re gonna be famous soon,” the other policeman mentioned.

 

 

“Really?” the hunter asked with a stutter. “So I’m not in trouble…”

 

 

Then a greedy grin spread across the hunter’s face. He was a white-skinned man with slick black hair and icy blue eyes. 

 

 

“What’s your name?” the police asked eagerly.

 

 

“Vincent, a member of RCA. But I sometimes call myself Vox.”

 

 

 

Vincent became famous overnight. His name appeared in the newspaper and advertisements showing his potential television programs became widespread.

 

 

 

The headlines were big and bold:

 

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

 

 

"Serial Killer Alastor Moreau 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?"

 

 

Vox bragged about his talents, his race and his exploits with various women. And, of course, Vox had his share of fans. Vox did not face any charges as he had “merely killed a villainous bozo by accident.”

 

 

"That handsome TV man saved New Orleans!"

 

 

"He's so smart and brave!"

 

A radio announcement went on the air on Alastor's station one last time by Vox himself:

 

"1933, Alastor Moreau, (Jan 24^th 1899-1933) was shot in the head in the woods yesterday after attempting to flee police. Witnesses said he appeared to be 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.""

 

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.

 

Alastor’s 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. His studio and belongings were either burned or given away. His body was burned as well, ashes spread in the woods with no proper funeral. 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.

All traces of the infamous serial killer had been lost to memory it seemed.

 

Somewhere in New Orleans, the old radios had been moved to an antique shop in the French Quarter. All of them were arranged separately on shelves among unfinished TV models, pots, figures and other objects. Night had fallen and the store was empty.

 

With no explanation, the oldest radio blinked to life, the outer speakers and knobs blinking faint yellow lights. A strange row of teeth in a wide grin near the bottom was part of the design. Those lit up golden as well. The hum of static filled the air.

 

A low radio sounding voice spoke through the speakers…demonic and quite different from the radio’s previous owner…

 

“Stay tuned folks.”  Ominous laughter followed.