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A radio station channel was promoting popcorn commentary on the latest up and coming known musicians in the scene. Sound popped out of a stationary, anachronistic boombox.
-- “ANNNND!!! Welcome back to MT’s best station: E.M.T!” A hint of extra in the deep tone drop.
“We were talking about Eddie the Deadhead–”
“No, no, no! It’s Eddie the ‘ead! How hard is it to get right, people?!” The undead musician shouted at the air with his thick English slither. Right now, in his spectral form, it was Eddie the wraithchild, rockstar.
--“Yeah! What is really amazing is how many people truly love rockstar Eddie. He’s such a rising star, a genius before his time. I mean have you ever seen or heard of anyone like him before breaking into the music scene in this way? Because I haven’t.”
“No, he totally brought a new definition to metal that will be hard for his fellow rocking cutthroats to rival. He’s amazing, I want the trophy album of screams award. What’s crazy is he has charmed the audience but has the people skills of an 80’s rockstar, which is to say none at all.”
A forced laugh responded, prodding to the fluffy banter. “Hahaha. That was a good one, and also pretty true. How surprised were you that this rocker liked poetry?”
“Oh I wasn’t surprised at all.”
“Really???”
“He even knew some of my favorites.”
“Can’t go wrong with Edgar Allen Poe.”
“I got it tattooed.”
“You got… What tattooed?” The voice said playfully.
“The lyrics, and the poem, the ultimate narration of the night of his ultimate hunt. His physical changes… The mutilations, all of it! I had to get it inscribed on my flesh. Now he’ll always be with me.”
“But what will you do when he comes up with a better form, so far he’s shown us each one is more artistic than the last.” The narration of album and art persisted within the subtext.
“Yeah, I plan to get one after the other. I’m a fan for life. He really… Speaks to me, you know?”
“That sounds like a plan, Steve. He’s captured our hearts too. That’s Eddie the Deadhead with his star-factor qualities. He really proved his mettle in the Death Game this year appearing out of nowhere and on no one’s radar and landing a spot in the top ten!”
“All the best are underrated. They couldn’t give him first because he was too good. He stole the show anyway. And prophetically, foresaw his own demise. He really has it all.”
“Yeah, he’ll have to be nominated for best performance.”
“I wish he could’ve made the ultimate kill nomination, but the battle royale highlights were good enough for me. They’ll make a great addition to the live music video footage. For promos in the future, think about it. His debut and we got to watch it live! And you all were here with us on EMT!”
“Oh for sure. Nothing was scarier than him on a killing spree. Hands down.”
“When do you think we’ll see him next? I for one would love to meet him. Get his autograph. Offer him a bite…” Steve shared a perceptible wink with his co-anchor.
“That really is a great point Steve, who do you think will fill in the rest of his band? Do you think there’ll be an audition? You think that boy will be there? I could totally see him as a drummer.
“He’s a true metal head savage. And he’s proved it. Through and through. He put his money where his mouth was. I wonder, where will his next onstage performance be?”
So do you think he will join Dante’s abyss?--”
Eddie cuts the frequency to another, the static clashing between stations of the radio, as he mutters. “Rubbish! Utter rubbish. They hype you up and don’t even play your album, gossip about you to no end and then expect you to smile for a picture or press tour. And when they do listen to your music they never truly hear it. They just let their mind waves ramble on with no artistic vision. It drums on their spirit but nothing hatches and is set free! Blah. Nothing’s more disappointing, and nothing is quite more human than that."
He huffed and took a breath, "They rip away meaning from art and still have no idea they're doing it! Critics... Blasphemous, inane critics. They can all go to Hell. Art’s got no future in this day and age with people like Steve around… I’ll show him what a real tattoo is… He better not try to get that selfie with me.”
The undead cocked a snazzy grin, savoring pleasure from Steve's pain. He imagined how guttural the sound would be as he chomped on the middle-aged man's jugular.
A new tune played on the radio as the dial invisibly spun. His wispy spectral fingers danced over the twisting knob of the stereo. “My enchantress… Play me a song.”
It seemed his spirit was trapped, or tethered, someway to the sound of the radio. He found himself still formless, however the airwaves had borne him again into the sentience of this realm. He was surprised he wasn't returned to the underworld. The place where the beast wanted to be. For he ruled with iron-fisted power. The throne was his even when all the other versions of Eddie could be sitting on it too.
...
No, he was not in Hell. Instead, he took on the form of an outline holding the air around the stereo... Also known as the Enchantress. The antenna poked out into the sky as it hovered, being carried by a phasing, formless creature. Like a photograph with blurred edges, Eddie was intangible yet buzzing with energy. As though music in vibrating form, his lines were jagged and pulsing as he moved sparks floated around him. He was a charged battery, shocking and zapping people who got too close to the lightning-god's wispy, formless cloud.
His ghost form was haunting. It was daylight and sure, his reflection off the retail glass had given a few people quite the fright, he was simply cruising the city streets and awaiting nighttime's precious call for prey.
So, sauntering down the street continuing in a stroll, hovered a floating stereo straight out of the nineties. You know, the atrocious gray and black ones that were only slightly less clunky than the eighties? Yeah, that one. Big, busty, built to last.
Everywhere and everyone he floated by would be delivered a sliver of raised hair across the back of their necks if the hair of their heads didn't revolt from the effect of a 500,000 volt plasma ball first.
Zap zap! When he was done with them and their hair was all shockingly standing on end. All of them looked like either porcupines or peacocks...
Oh, we should totally bring back Mohawks while we're at it.