u/_radiodiva_

I must say, I find the banner of this establishment most amusing.

(kinda meta joke?)

I'd be willing to bet that most of you didn't have the slightest clue that I experience this.

It has come to light, through a recent reexamination of several unsolved killings dating from the 1940s into the 1950s, that one particular man was responsible for these horrific deeds.

The man in question, Vincent Whittman, once celebrated as a pioneer of television and a figure of near-religious reverence among his admirers, fashioned for himself the grand title of “God of Entertainment,” and was widely credited as the mind behind Shark Week.

Yet behind the cultivated mask of innovation and acclaim, there existed a far less admirable truth. Evidence now shows that he extinguished the lives of eight innocent men and women, not in any moment of necessity or righteous cause, but in cold pursuit of their places, their work, and the shadow of success he believed himself entitled to wear.

A most putrid rakehell, swollen with delusion and hunger for reverence. The sort of man history occasionally mistakes for brilliance before time erodes the charade.

If you have not yet put the puzzle together, then allow me to inform you.

Vincent Whittman, as it happens, is Vox.

And now his true form has been revealed.

There are few ends more rightly humiliating for a man who once saw himself as untouchable than to find his name dragged backward through the ledger of history, stripped of its polish, its myth, and its stolen light.

I know what it is to take a life and leave the case unanswered for the rest of time. Forty-six men I slew. Forty-six times I ended something that thought it was safe, or important, or untouchable. Something that thought it could take what it wanted with no toll. The investigation ended early, as few truly cared about those men. Over a century later, their deaths remain a mystery.

What he did was not righteous, and it was certainly not genius. It was the casual erasure of innocent people because they were in his way, dressed up afterward to convince himself it was necessary.

Men like him do not build anything worth remembering.

Vincent Whittman is not a god. He is not even remarkable. He is a man who mistook other people’s lives for material and thought that made him important.

Pathetic.

(Reddit this is just RP)

Could you repeat that?

I'm still here! I've simply been busy the last few days, but I am back.

(Also I've been posting on my alts a lot)

That's right!

I pulled this funky little man out of the acid rain.

I’ve never seen anything quite like him… and strangely, he’s the first man I don’t immediately despise.

This little guy—Vincent, he calls himself—is… something.
Unusual.

You could call it a strange fascination... infatuation.

One conversation in, and I can tell he’s a killer.
How delightful…

Yes, I know. I’m a lunatic!
And I revel in it.

Anyway… more importantly, I've decided, this man is mine.

You.

With the moth.

The one person I told you not to speak to.

And yet here we are.

After the proposal. After that little scene you insisted on making out of it.

After the shouting, the accusations, and the dramatic exit as though you didn't ignore my thousands of warnings that I am a parasite.

Your solution was to run directly into Valentino's many arms.

How very thoughtful of you.

I suppose I should be flattered, truly. Of everyone in this city you could have chosen to spite me with, you selected the loudest, most putrid and tasteless creature available. A man who buys souls in exchange for endless amounts of drugs and intercourse.

The kind of man I would slay on sight.

And you stand beside him.

You, who once had some degree of taste.

Tell me, Vinnie darling, was this truly necessary? Or did you simply decide that if you were going to be angry with me, you might as well do it in the most insulting way possible?

It's embarrassing.

For you.

I expected more dignity from you.

You may convince yourself that this arrangement is entirely your choice. That you've moved on, that you've found better company.

How convenient!

Unfortunately for you, I do not share that view.

You stormed off in a temper and immediately attached yourself to the one man I told you to avoid.

That, to me, reads as petulance.

And more importantly...

It does not change the fact that you are mine.

All you are was sourced from me, my dearest.

I found you when you first arrived, frightened and dissolving in acid rain. I showed you how this place works. I helped you grow into the star you once were.

Your power. Your influence. Your confidence.

You did not build those signs alone.

No one, especially not that moth, could ever compare to the man who made you what you are.

Tu étais plus beau avant de timber si bas.

You’ve tuned into the Velours Rouge Hour.

Call me what you please—Host, Alastor, Al, Mr. Delacroix, Allie D… I’ll answer.

This is your stage as much as mine: callers, storytellers, musicians, and fans, step up, speak up, and bring your best. Keep it lively, keep it clever, and remember your manners, as...

Í̶̠̰̐̒͘ ̴̨̹̯̬͖̮̞̟͉̏̔̒h̶̨̜̗͇͙̠̙͂́̽̅̐́̿͒̀̆͝é̷̛͔̠̈́̑̓̐͆̈́̊͒̈́́͗̄͌̚ͅa̸̡̡̛͈̖̯̣̻̰͈̘̺͒̂̓̽̊͆̉͑̚͠͝r̴̨̡̝̯̖̱͙͛̈́̑̃̾̈́̂̈́̆͜͝͝͝ ̶̨̡̨̧̗̱̺̰͚͔̣̠͙̹̙̙̱̽̏͂̃̒͗̚ę̵̧̨͓̜̜̫͙͔̟̦̯͕̗̔͑̅͆͜v̷̛̖̥̯̯̦̳̽͛͊̀̄͠ë̵͇͎̖̭̞͚̗͓̞̳̬̗̯́̂͗͌̌̀̏̊̈́͐̏͒̍̚͜͝ͅr̴̡̨͇͚̩̹͍͚͚͈͙̭̽͐̍̌̄ͅy̴̨̛̫͕̞̹̟̥̖̰͍̦̫͑̂͊͝͝t̵̛̗̺̜̗̲̳̬̲̻͓̔̕h̵̛̬̗̰͒̎̊i̶̡̘̻̲̲̎̄͘̕ń̵̨̠͕̫̻̬̲̘̠̠̱̪̜̦̅̇̈̾ǧ̶͎̝͔̝̬̪̤͍̹͖̥͎̩̻̔̈́̒́̀̽̃͊̑͗̆͗̅.̷̛̦̳̦̪̬̠̫͎̖̒̈́̑̑͌̆̆̈́̿͂̿̂̑̊͘͘

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