Scarewaves

(thunder rumbling)

Rex?

Come here, boy.

Come here, Rex.

(sighs)

(thunder cracking)

(staggered breath)

(screams)

Oh, wait, wait, wait.

Who did you say

this happened to?

My aunt's ex-husband.

No, no,

this is urban legend garbage.

Next are you gonna

tell me about

your cousin

and a crybaby bridge?

Or better yet,

did your,

did your old friend

from middle school

maybe microwave

a poodle?

Pop rocks and soda?

A hook hanging

from the car door?

No?

For Christ sake,

could you at least

Snopes your stories

before you start

spouting them off.

Well, my friend,

I'm gonna have to demand

that you get behind me,

young worthy caller,

as I cast thee away

to the land of dead air

and the gnashing

of the teeth.

You know, I really feel

like I have to apologize to you,

my faithful listeners.

I cannot subject you

to such tyrannically mundane

drivel.

For those of you

just joining us

from the outside world--

or as I like

to call it

the dark ether

separating

the there and now--

I am your host, Amos Satan,

and this is Scarewaves.

Now, as many of you

have already heard,

tonight is our

last night on the air.

Now, before you go

and, uh,

Google how to tie a noose

or Amazon yourself

a pack of razor blades,

I've decided to make

this night

a little special.

Now, generally,

I act as a conduit

for which you all

get a soapbox

to share your stories

of the strange,

the paranormal,

and the terrifying.

But for tonight,

I'm gonna share

just a sample

of my personal

knowledge on the topic.

Oh, wait,

here we go,

we have a caller.

Yeah, Amos?

That's me, brother.

I have a story

I really wanted to tell

on your show.

I know it's the last night...

And you somehow

missed the moment

where I announced

a shift in formatting?

I've been a listener

for a long time,

and I always

wanted to tell you this,

but I was afraid to call.

Well, facing fears

is an exciting

prospect to me.

Please continue.

Oh, when I was

a little girl

my mother had one

of those silly

beehive hairdos,

you know,

the really tall one?

And spiders hatched

out of it?

You gotta be kidding me.

That's not what happened.

Oh, well, I apologize.

Please continue.

It was ants.

You gotta be kidding me.

This has gotta

be a joke.

You know what,

hate is a very strong word,

and that's why I'm

gonna use it right now.

I hate you, I hate you

and everything you'll ever be.

I'm just gonna segue

into my first story.

You know, a lot of you

may not know this about me,

but I'm a bit

of an art fan.

Some people say that

I don't get out much,

but I am a creature

of the night,

and that is when all

the best parties take place.

But the thing

that enamors me the most--

not necessarily

the art itself,

but the passion

behind it,

that all-consuming

desire to create,

and just how far

that can take a person.

This story

is about a man

who committed himself

to his art,

and would do anything

to achieve his goal

of creating something

to die for.

We'll call this story

"Painting After Midnight."

(crickets chirping)

(clock ticking)

I am so excited

to be here.

You know,

don't take this

the wrong way

but I would never

in a million years

have thought

I would be here

being painted by you.

Thank you.

Please, sit still.

You know,

that was before.

Before two years ago

your work was shit,

but now,

I'm impressed.

I don't pose

for just anybody.

I own my own gallery

and I only pose

for people I admire.

I'm not just some

model off Craigslist.

Please, try not to move.

There is something

about talented men

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