The Man stands in the center, gripping his folder of notes with trembling hands, his eyes darting to the shifting phantoms—ghouls, ghosts, and demons—encircling him in a slow, mocking waltz. At the far end, a dais of shadowed figures—the Executives—glow with a faint, infernal light, their faces obscured but their voices sharp and hypnotic.
"What have you got that no one else has got?" The words ripple through the air, echoing off invisible walls, as the room’s lighting pulses in time with the executives’ droning.
"My story is about the Devil—how he projects himself through our horror stories, uncensored and unfiltered, with no warning, no government health label. Alcohol, cigarettes, even heroin—each comes with a warning, a notice of their dangers. But horror, horror is left unchecked. Why is that?"
The executives murmur among themselves, their voices overlapping in a dull, mesmerizing roar that threatens to drown out the man’s words. The ghouls and demons swirl faster, their features flickering between monstrous and mundane.
"Horror should show a warning! Instead, we allow the devil’s words and evil broadcasts to slip through, sponsoring and endorsing them without hesitation. Why don’t we warn people about the Devil in our stories, just as we do for every other danger?"
A lone executive leans forward, their silhouette sharp against the hellish glow, while the rest chatter on, seemingly unaffected by the man’s pleas.
"Every industry is investigated, every vice controlled—except horror. Here, sex, drugs, exploitation, the Devil himself—nothing is forbidden. Horror movies break every law within their contents, but no one investigates, no one cares. Why? Is the Devil so powerful that even governments are defeated by him?"
The executives fall into an uneasy silence, their faces finally shifting into focus: twisted, inhuman features, eyes glowing with a cold, predatory light.
"Are you telling us your story is about a man who comes before the devils themselves to demand warnings, to demand regulation of our Lord Lucifer’s words? You want us—the executive devils—to give up our unfiltered power?"
The silence is suffocating, broken only by the man’s defiant reply.
"Yes. Horror should come with a warning: Devil. Let the Devil face his nemesis for once."
The executives pound their plinths, their anger a wave of sound and heat. Lights flash, spectral hands try to tear the pitch from his grasp, but he refuses to yield.
"Devil comes with no warnings. Alcohol holds a safety warning. Cigarettes, a death warning. Heroin, an illegal warning. But Devil movies—no moral warning at all,"
His words hang in the air as the chaos crescendos, then abruptly stills. The lead executive’s lips curl into a cold smile.
"The man who would challenge the unchecked evil of horror... Now, that is true horror. Congratulations—you have your story money."
The Man gathers his papers, his heart still pounding. The line between horror and reality has blurred, and in his triumph, he wonders if the warning he sought wasn’t needed most by himself.
