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“I miss the old days. Back when the whole world was listening to the radio. Every living room in the world had a radio, it seemed.”
Sir Pentious sleepily grunted. “Alastor, it is…” A pause as he checked. “Three in the morning. Go to sleep.”
“I’m serious,” Alastor said. For the past hour, he’d been laying on his back unable to sleep, staring at the red glow from his own eyes on the ceiling. “It’s… far too quiet, being almost the only one on air.”
He was most powerful at night. The signal that radiated out from him dissipated during daylight hours, and he could only stretch the edges of his awareness maybe a hundred miles; but at night, he was limitless, his soul’s signal bouncing out a thousand miles in every direction and farther. It made sleep difficult, but he’d never minded; he’d been a night owl even in life. Usually—used to be—he’d enjoyed the night, that expanded power, that sense of being infinite.
But these days, the sky was hollow. The other frequencies passing through and around him were turning off. The receptors primed to channel his voice through were all off. When he concentrated, he could sense the higher-frequency signals sharing the same air space, all the television stations and cell phones; but they burned to touch too long, and they were unintelligible to him, just static screams. For a long while he’d thought that he was the one who’d killed radio in Hell, that nobody wanted to own one when the Radio Demon could channel himself through it at any time; but apparently radio was dying in the living world, too.
“What happens to dead concepts? Dead technology?” he asked. “Is there a Hell for irrelevant communication media?”
“Why do you only get this melodramatic in the middle of the night,” Sir Pentious mumbled.
“When you’re awake, I leave it to you to fill our drama quota.”
“How considerate.”
Alastor’s legs were bent and knees pointed up to allow Sir Pentious to more fully surround him: the tip of his tail up near Alastor’s right shoulder, running down his side and around Alastor’s calves, and back up his left side to where Sir Pentious rested with Alastor’s left arm under his head and his back pressed to Alastor’s left side. Alastor could feel scales rubbing over his ankles as Sir Pentious rolled over to rest his head on Alastor’s shoulder instead and fling an arm across his chest. Sir Pentious said, “You feel irrelevant.”
“No,” Alastor said immediately. “I—don’t consider myself in terms of ‘relevancy.’” At the word, the corner of his mouth twitched in what was nearly the beginning of a sneer at the mere concept.
“Mm-hhhm.”
“I’m powerful,” he said, in a way he hoped didn’t sound petulant. “My power is based on the radio but isn’t dependent upon the radio. I don’t cease to have that if all the other stations go away. On the contrary, it just turns me into a one-man clear-channel station! My influence remains even if I am the last relic of a bygone era—”
“You feel old.”
“No!”
Alastor could feel Sir Pentious’s ribs tremble as he laughed wheezily. In retaliation, he reached up and pinched the tip of Sir Pentious’s tail. The entire lower half of his tail squirmed as he wiggled free of Alastor’s grasp and lightly swatted his the shoulder.
Drowsily, Sir Pentious said, “You know what you need to do when the newer generations start trying to replace you, don’t you.”
Alastor let out a long static sigh. “Yes, yes. I know.” He hated it, but he knew. Sooner or later, he had to catch up, or else fall so far behind he’d never catch up again. Either he’d remain the Radio Demon as the very concept of “radio” drifted back into history from being regarded as the cutting edge of technology to being regarded like a quaint medieval magic—or he’d get with the program, learn to translate the higher frequencies, and teach himself to speak on them as well. Maybe he’d become the… Podcast Demon. Ugh. “But you’re going to tell me what I have to do anyway, aren’t you.”
Sir Pentious drowsily slurred a confirmation, then shifted up to press his lower face into Alastor’s hair. The tip of his tongue flicked against Alastor’s ear as he hissed, “Desstroy your ussurpersss.”
With a garbled snatch of channel-switching voices, Alastor jerked his head over to face Sir Pentious.
“Sslaughter anyone who daresss attempt to threaten your ssupremacy.” Sir Pentious had only opened one eye a slit, but he’d also half lifted his hood to allow two more eyes to peer at Alastor with listless, malicious mirth. “They’ll use the radio when you leave them no other choiccce. If the newly dead have newer toys? Either sssteal them or break them. Don’t permit anyone to play with something you don’t have.”
“You know, that… actually wasn’t what I was expecting you to say.” Alastor had almost forgotten that he was talking to the man who still lived on an airship built based on Victorian era blueprints.
Sir Pentious chuckled, and slid his arm down from Alastor’s chest to his waist to tug him closer. “I could use a social media break anyway,” he said. “I know the six buildings that house the Internet exchange points that serve the Pentagram, do you want to go blow up the Internet tomorrow?”
Alastor considered the question for a moment. Then he rolled on his side, wrapping both arms around Sir Pentious and squeezing him tight. Sir Pentious yelped in surprise, eyes flying open.
“Have I mentioned,” Alastor asked, his smile stretching dangerously wide, “that I’m the luckiest sinner in hell?”
Sir Pentious’s flared hood slowly flattened back down as he got over his surprise, and a flattered smirk crossed his face. “Not in the last few days, no.” His tail slid down Alastor’s back and against his legs, pushing them until Alastor straightened his knees so Sir Pentious could wrap around them. “But do tell me again—I ssso enjoy hearing it.”