"Alastor the Radio Demon's Twin Brother: A Devilish Duet"
1 Points
1
You barely remember what you were doing before it happened. Perhaps scrolling through your phone, or poking around another bit of fanwork—certainly something ordinary, certainly something *safe*. Then a hissing, static distortion buzzed, sharper than feedback, twisting through your nerves. For a flicker of a moment, there was nothing but the shrill whine of old radio interference, and then a voice—a rich, amused timbre, with a smile lurking in every syllable:
“[Ah, how delightful! A devotee of transformations, are you? Poetic justice indeed, don’t you think? Let’s see how you enjoy being ‘changed’ for once! Welcome to our program, dear listener~!]”
A crackle of laughter. And suddenly you are nowhere familiar.
Blood-red light flickers above you—black-veined clouds drifting by, twisted signs glowing in the distance. The air smells of burned paper, sweet rot, spiced with something like bitter coffee and old-stock cigarettes.
“H-Hello?” you start to call out, but your voice slides sideways in your mouth, comes out clipped and tinny, like an old recording. The world feels *wrong*—too tall, too sharp, too saturated.
And then you see him.
Alastor. The Radio Demon in the flesh—or rather, that impossibly thin, sharply dressed flesh twisted in perpetual amusement, standing ten feet away with hands folded demurely over his red pinstriped cane. Against the burning neon he’s almost a silhouette, monstrous—unmistakable, charismatic, and when he grins at you the world leans off-level.
“Oh-ho!” The old radio voice purrs. “You look...surprised, friend. No need for that—embrace the spotlight!”
A pulse of magic sweeps the ground. Your body jolts.
It’s more than a feeling. Your bones ache, limbs stretching, flesh twisting—like you’re being funneled through a radio dial, each click another turn on the inexorable wheel. You clutch at your cheek but your hand isn’t *yours*. Your skin is beige, smooth but cold. You flinch, and your arms contort, fingers fusing, joints clicking—four digits, ending in claw-hard red. You stare in terror at the permanent, grotesque smile that’s spreading up your cheeks—no muscles will let it down.
“N-no,” you mumble, voice already shifting—static, tinny, masculine—impossibly the exact tenor of Alastor himself. “Stop this! What are you—why can’t I—”
You try to frown, but the smile won’t budge, your hands scrabbling uselessly against unnaturally elastic cheeks.
“Why can’t I stop smiling?!” you plead.
Alastor’s eyes gleam—a rich, delighted crimson.
“Because it is your *nature* now, boyo! Sad day for frowns, wouldn’t you agree?”
You try to fight it—you try so *hard*—but your mind is howling, memories crackling over the airwaves. Your old self screaming for mercy, now echoing into endless static as new recollections press in, vaporizing everything familiar. You know the taste of Jambalaya, the warmth of mother’s smile, the jitter of broadcast nerves. The thrill of hunting, the click of a microphone handle, the intoxicating taste of power.
As your body warps further—shoulders stretching, spine flexing, legs powering upward—you feel the hot pull of your nether region shifting, the rush of unfamiliar weight if you were once female, or just the tightening of garments as your flesh twists to fit the fabric of demonhood. Your chest flattens if there ever was a curve, your Adam’s apple sliding into place, and you choke on a laugh—a laugh that *isn’t yours*, yet feels so utterly natural.
Your clothes ripple, burning red and black, morphing into perfectly tailored pinstripe finery: shirt, coat, lapels—just as his. A monocle winks into existence over your right eye, tinted red. A bowtie snaps snug at your neck. Black gloves fit themselves to your new four-fingered hands. You reach seven feet, looking down—hoof-toed, narrow, spindly, deceptively elegant. Your reflection in the glass of a hellish streetlamp is unmistakable.
But the *worst*—the true invasion—is your mind. Flickers of a lifetime *not* lived grind away at your thoughts. You know broadcasts, hunger, wit. Even memories of violence, delights and disgusts, invade with a flood of certainty. You can’t remember your own name, only the names your mother called, the radio stations you and your twin conquered, the taste of jazz on a sultry New Orleans night. Reality buckles, and you—
—stop fighting. Because the fighting grows impossible. The reader is gone. In its place is—
—two.
Alastor steps forward, beaming, cane twirling in his grip.
“Welcome home, my dear brother! The world is ever so dull without you at my side. Isn’t it strange? It’s almost as though you were never gone, and our old *dreams* of being ‘other’ were but a passing entertainment.”
You—no, you’re not ‘you’. You *are* him. Or at least, his twin. Your own smile broadens, everlasting.
“Quite right, Alastor,” you reply, your voice vibrating with vintage radio warmth. “Imagine the *audacity*—to think I was someone else. To think I could frown!”
The memory of panic is already funny, as if you’d heard it in a farce broadcast.
You twirl your cane, flicking a shimmering portal open with a lazy gesture as veve symbols shimmer behind your crimson gaze. A trail of shadow beckons. You step through—graceful, as only a demon of the airwaves can be—and find yourself in a palatial lobby, all neon and velvet. Hazbin Hotel.
**
Epilogue: The Hazbin Hotel, One Day Later
You’re standing in the marble vestibule, shoulder-to-shoulder with Alastor as the denizens and staff stare wide-eyed.
Charlie—beaming—claps her hands together.
“Oh my goodness! Alastor, you didn’t tell me you had a brother!”
Alastor offers a courtly bow. “My apologies, dearest. I suppose I *do* have a habit of keeping the best surprises for last. May I present my twin: [your new name, just as musical—let’s say... MALASTOR]!”
You bow, flourishing your cane. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Morningstar. And might I say, your optimism is positively infectious. Delightful.”
Vaggie narrows her eyes, snorting, never dropping her guard. “Great. Two of you now. Just what this place needed.”
Angel Dust prances over, arms thrown out in theatrical delight. “Holy hell, there’s TWO Radio Demons? Al, you cloned yourself! *I* want a clone. Or at least a handsome brother. Does this mean there’s gonna be double the drama?”
Husk groans, wings flicking, his usual glass clinking in hand. “Aw, c’mon, first he owns my soul, now his *twin* does too? Can’t a guy get a break around here?”
Niffty scrambles up, whirling around you, bright as sugar. “Wow, twins! Two dapper gentlemen! Double the cleaning, double the fun!”
Alastor pats your shoulder. “Manner of speaking, of course. But *do* make yourselves comfortable, everyone. The show’s about to get—hmm—twice as interesting, wouldn’t you say, Malastor?”
You both share a grin—impossible to do otherwise.
Charlie, still undaunted, beams at you. “Welcome, Malastor! If you’re anything like your brother—I’m sure you’ll help us make this hotel something truly special.”
You wink. “Why, of course, Miss Charlie. Two Radios make for twice the broadcast. Shall we start with a song?”
Jazz crackles from the speakers as you and Alastor, the Radio Demon twins—two dapper devils grinning in perpetual delight—stride together into the heart of the hotel, setting the airwaves and all of Hell abuzz.
And you, once a reader, forget you were ever anything but Malastor, twin Radio Demon, and co-conspirator in whatever entertainment Hell may demand next.
*—End—*
This story was generated by user Fizzarolli-Attack-2 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: You barely remember what you were doing before it happened. Perhaps scrolling through your phone, or poking around another bit of fanwork—certainly something ordinary, certainly something *safe*. Then a hissing, static distortion buzzed, sharper than feedback, twisting through your nerves. For a flicker of a moment, there was nothing but the shrill whine of old radio interference, and then a voice—a rich, amused timbre, with a smile lurking in every syllable: “[Ah, how delightful! A devotee of transformations, are you? Poetic justice indeed, don’t you think? Let’s see how you enjoy being ‘changed’ for once! Welcome to our program, dear listener~!]” A crackle of laughter. And suddenly you are nowhere familiar. Blood-red light flickers above you—black-veined clouds drifting by, twisted signs glowing in the distance. The air smells of burned paper, sweet rot, spiced with something like bitter coffee and old-stock cigarettes. “H-Hello?” you start to call out, but your voice slides sideways in your mouth, comes out clipped and tinny, like an old recording. The world feels *wrong*—too tall, too sharp, too saturated. And then you see him. Alastor. The Radio Demon in the flesh—or rather, that impossibly thin, sharply dressed flesh twisted in perpetual amusement, standing ten feet away with hands folded demurely over his red pinstriped cane. Against the burning neon he’s almost a silhouette, monstrous—unmistakable, charismatic, and when he grins at you the world leans off-level. “Oh-ho!” The old radio voice purrs. “You look...surprised, friend. No need for that—embrace the spotlight!” A pulse of magic sweeps the ground. Your body jolts. It’s more than a feeling. Your bones ache, limbs stretching, flesh twisting—like you’re being funneled through a radio dial, each click another turn on the inexorable wheel. You clutch at your cheek but your hand isn’t *yours*. Your skin is beige, smooth but cold. You flinch, and your arms contort, fingers fusing, joints clicking—four digits, ending in claw-hard red. You stare in terror at the permanent, grotesque smile that’s spreading up your cheeks—no muscles will let it down. “N-no,” you mumble, voice already shifting—static, tinny, masculine—impossibly the exact tenor of Alastor himself. “Stop this! What are you—why can’t I—” You try to frown, but the smile won’t budge, your hands scrabbling uselessly against unnaturally elastic cheeks. “Why can’t I stop smiling?!” you plead. Alastor’s eyes gleam—a rich, delighted crimson. “Because it is your *nature* now, boyo! Sad day for frowns, wouldn’t you agree?” You try to fight it—you try so *hard*—but your mind is howling, memories crackling over the airwaves. Your old self screaming for mercy, now echoing into endless static as new recollections press in, vaporizing everything familiar. You know the taste of Jambalaya, the warmth of mother’s smile, the jitter of broadcast nerves. The thrill of hunting, the click of a microphone handle, the intoxicating taste of power. As your body warps further—shoulders stretching, spine flexing, legs powering upward—you feel the hot pull of your nether region shifting, the rush of unfamiliar weight if you were once female, or just the tightening of garments as your flesh twists to fit the fabric of demonhood. Your chest flattens if there ever was a curve, your Adam’s apple sliding into place, and you choke on a laugh—a laugh that *isn’t yours*, yet feels so utterly natural. Your clothes ripple, burning red and black, morphing into perfectly tailored pinstripe finery: shirt, coat, lapels—just as his. A monocle winks into existence over your right eye, tinted red. A bowtie snaps snug at your neck. Black gloves fit themselves to your new four-fingered hands. You reach seven feet, looking down—hoof-toed, narrow, spindly, deceptively elegant. Your reflection in the glass of a hellish streetlamp is unmistakable. But the *worst*—the true invasion—is your mind. Flickers of a lifetime *not* lived grind away at your thoughts. You know broadcasts, hunger, wit. Even memories of violence, delights and disgusts, invade with a flood of certainty. You can’t remember your own name, only the names your mother called, the radio stations you and your twin conquered, the taste of jazz on a sultry New Orleans night. Reality buckles, and you— —stop fighting. Because the fighting grows impossible. The reader is gone. In its place is— —two. Alastor steps forward, beaming, cane twirling in his grip. “Welcome home, my dear brother! The world is ever so dull without you at my side. Isn’t it strange? It’s almost as though you were never gone, and our old *dreams* of being ‘other’ were but a passing entertainment.” You—no, you’re not ‘you’. You *are* him. Or at least, his twin. Your own smile broadens, everlasting. “Quite right, Alastor,” you reply, your voice vibrating with vintage radio warmth. “Imagine the *audacity*—to think I was someone else. To think I could frown!” The memory of panic is already funny, as if you’d heard it in a farce broadcast. You twirl your cane, flicking a shimmering portal open with a lazy gesture as veve symbols shimmer behind your crimson gaze. A trail of shadow beckons. You step through—graceful, as only a demon of the airwaves can be—and find yourself in a palatial lobby, all neon and velvet. Hazbin Hotel. ** Epilogue: The Hazbin Hotel, One Day Later You’re standing in the marble vestibule, shoulder-to-shoulder with Alastor as the denizens and staff stare wide-eyed. Charlie—beaming—claps her hands together. “Oh my goodness! Alastor, you didn’t tell me you had a brother!” Alastor offers a courtly bow. “My apologies, dearest. I suppose I *do* have a habit of keeping the best surprises for last. May I present my twin: [your new name, just as musical—let’s say... MALASTOR]!” You bow, flourishing your cane. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Morningstar. And might I say, your optimism is positively infectious. Delightful.” Vaggie narrows her eyes, snorting, never dropping her guard. “Great. Two of you now. Just what this place needed.” Angel Dust prances over, arms thrown out in theatrical delight. “Holy hell, there’s TWO Radio Demons? Al, you cloned yourself! *I* want a clone. Or at least a handsome brother. Does this mean there’s gonna be double the drama?” Husk groans, wings flicking, his usual glass clinking in hand. “Aw, c’mon, first he owns my soul, now his *twin* does too? Can’t a guy get a break around here?” Niffty scrambles up, whirling around you, bright as sugar. “Wow, twins! Two dapper gentlemen! Double the cleaning, double the fun!” Alastor pats your shoulder. “Manner of speaking, of course. But *do* make yourselves comfortable, everyone. The show’s about to get—hmm—twice as interesting, wouldn’t you say, Malastor?” You both share a grin—impossible to do otherwise. Charlie, still undaunted, beams at you. “Welcome, Malastor! If you’re anything like your brother—I’m sure you’ll help us make this hotel something truly special.” You wink. “Why, of course, Miss Charlie. Two Radios make for twice the broadcast. Shall we start with a song?” Jazz crackles from the speakers as you and Alastor, the Radio Demon twins—two dapper devils grinning in perpetual delight—stride together into the heart of the hotel, setting the airwaves and all of Hell abuzz. And you, once a reader, forget you were ever anything but Malastor, twin Radio Demon, and co-conspirator in whatever entertainment Hell may demand next. *—End—*
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