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Summary
You don’t even have the face for TV.
The last words he’d heard played over and over again in his memory. The irony was not lost on him. Ha fucking ha.
In that moment, fueled by his early demise and the bitter satire of the shape of his own head, he decided that he was going to really make something of himself here. He was going to be more famous, more powerful than that fucker had ever been. His skin prickled with what felt like electricity at the thought.
OR
Vox, within his first hours in hell, filled with nothing but greedy ambition, seeks out the most powerful demon in media and asks him for a job.