Chapter Text
“Good evening, ladies and lads, if you’re listening to this, what the hell is wrong with you? Go to bed. If you’re stubborn then I guess we’re just stuck with each other for the next 3 hours. But don’t come crying to me when you’re falling asleep in your chemistry class tomorrow. Today. Whatever. Know what, let’s just get to some tunes, little something of my own. Be gentle, I’m sensitive. You’re listening to The Bitchin’ Hour, and I am ever your host, DJ Stridenasty. This one’s called ‘Whoever Stole My Bike Is In For A Galaxy Of Hurt For Real.’”
Shit. He’s late. Tavros can hear the show’s intro piped in throughout the media studies hallway as he rushes towards the studio, feet clanking awkwardly against tile. His first day and he’s late. Way to make a great impression. He tries to think of a better excuse than being held up by an impromptu rap battle with his roommate, but he’s drawing a blank. The troll is so flustered that he nearly walks right past the station’s door, but the large window set into the wall next to it is impossible to miss.
On the other side is broadcast room, which is pretty much everything that comes to mind when he thinks “radio station.” All the machines look a little outdated, but that’s probably the best they can do with the shit budget they likely get. There are microphones, wires, turntables, tape decks, and soundboards all over the place. Walls full of music posters, shelves full of CDs, records, even cassettes. The only really modern piece of equipment is a large desktop computer in the middle of the table, behind which the man he had just heard over the speakers is sitting. He’s lanky and blond, overly casual with his feet kicked up on the desk. Tavros’s presence causes him to turn his head towards the window, and the troll sees that he’s wearing large aviator sunglasses. Indoors. At 3 AM. Tavros is so caught up in staring that it takes awhile to register that the DJ nods a fraction of an inch in his direction and turns a knob. The beeps and boops set to beats fade out as he starts talking again.
“Hold up, bros. I don’t mean to interrupt myself but I’ve got some seriously important business to discuss with y’all. I’ve been promising you some fresh meat all week, and it looks as if it’s finally being laid upon the grill. Let’s take in that sizzle, shall we?”
Is…is he talking about Tavros? The freshman hopes maybe the DJ is just announcing a barbecue or something, but he keeps talking, looking right at Tavros through the window, and the subject matter becomes painfully clear.
“Now I’m a progressive kinda guy, colorblind and all that, but I can’t help but mention that our new homeboy is a troll. If you’re wondering what color his blood is, here’s a hot tip: mind your own damn business. I will say that this dude is very well endowed. I’m talking massive horns here, people. Probably has to turn sideways to get through doors with that pair. Let’s test that hypothesis out.”
Tavros is now mouth agape in horror, his face flushing burnt orange. The DJ looks at him expectantly and beckons him in with a wave of his hand. Tavros fails to move, looks dumbly behind him.
“Yes, I’m talking to you, bighorns, get your robotic ass in here. Did I forget to mention the guy’s got some tricked out metal legs? Man this cat has more facets than a diamond.”
The young troll finally unsticks his feet, and although he would like to run and find a nice ditch to die of embarrassment in, his legs carry him inexorably to the studio door. As he opens it and maneuvers his head through the doorway, he can’t help but wince as the blond host provides running commentary.
“He’s turning the knob folks, this is it, will he- yes! Newbie is sideways, newbie is sideways! Strider, one; doubters, zero. Eat it, doubters.”
As Tavros faces forward again, blushing even more, he starts to deeply regret taking the station assistant position, even if it was getting him much needed workstudy hours. The DJ, Strider or Stridenasty? was now pointing to the other chair at the desk and pulling over another microphone.
“Standby, loyal listeners, DJ Stridenasty is on the case, getting the first exclusive interview with the new kid on the programming block.”
“Oh, no, I’m just, uh… the assistant, I don’t… talk?” Tavros says, an intense bout of panic threatening to overtake him.
“Relax, dawg, it’s 3AM, no one’s listening, this is strictly for kicks”
“Oh, uhh, well if nobody is listening, then, I guess, it’s okay,” he plops down resignedly in the chair, suddenly finding his throat dry as the mic is shoved in his face.
“So what’s the scoop dude? Name, year, romantic status?” The DJ asks as he resumes his reclined position in the chair, no longer looking at the troll but clicking through a list of songs on the computer.
Tavros swallows hard, feeling extremely self conscious of his faltering words as they spill unevenly from his mouth.
“Tavros, Nitram...I’m, uh, a freshman and...uhhh,”
“Come on, Nitram, is there a special girl you’ve exchanged promise rings with or are you on the prowl?”
“Uhh, there’s, no, not anyone, uhh-”
“You heard it here first, ladies, if you like mohawks, noserings, prosthetic legs and bigass horns, our new station lackey here may be just the man for you.”
“I’m not uhh, really-” but Stridenasty pulls the mic away before Tavros can finish explaining that he’s not really, uh, into girls, like that.
“So drop a line if you want to give Nitram a shoutout. Now for some music to welcome our new friend. This is- aaah, you’ll figure it out.” The DJ turns down one knob and turns up another and the unmistakable cowbell intro from “Lowrider” fades up. Tavros’s new boss (he supposes) nods a little with the beat as he turns back to the totally overwhelmed troll.
“Alright just hang out a little for now, no pressure. If you want something to do you can start converting the CDs to mp3 with that thing,” he points to the giant wall of music and then to a tiny machine on the other side of the table.
“Umm, okay, but, I dunno if I’m really, totally all the way, comfortable talking, like, uh, into the microphone?”
“Oh, yeah don’t worry about that. I don’t think I’m going to put you on the air again. You’re like a walking ‘uh’ factory. And hey, go downstairs and get me some apple juice from the machine, okay?” He turns back, taking a record off the top of the stack next to him and unsheathing it. Tavros doesn’t know whether to be more relieved or insulted.
And, as the suddenly lit up phone switchboard indicates, The Bitchin’ Hour is actually one of KSBRB’s most popular shows, 3AM or not.