Crowley was slumped in his easy chair, grumbling inebriatedly at the TV screen as he flicked through channels, irritation at the lack of quality programming.
"Really? TV just keeps getting bloody worse every night, I swear. I'll have to do something about this. Maybe start my own network…HelliVision—" He mused aloud, but stopped as a commercial caught his interest.
"Here at the villains' club, we hold ourselves to the highest standard of debauchery and maliciousness—" The announcer declared.
"Oh, really?" He asked, turning up the volume a bit so he could hear over the demons in the next room.
" It's where all the self-respecting villains go on Friday nights. Bring your maniacal laughter, and go back to your lair with brilliantly nefarious new ideas to torment your underlings for the coming week! This month, held in the common house at the most happening spot in the multiverse, Club Misanthropy!"
"Misanthropy, eh?" Crowley nodded. "I like that name, very much…."
Three Friday nights later:
Crowley sat kicked back in the lounge chair, fingertips pressed to his temples. The commercial from a few weeks before had conveniently neglected to mention the terrible cacophony that passed for music around here. It was horrid even by Hell's standards, he decided, cringing as he tried to block out the incessant, maddeningly repetitive pounding of formless bass from the speakers behind him. It had been going on for a few minutes now, since he'd arrived, and was loud enough it made his glass of whiskey vibrate in time with the thrumming.
He took another swallow, his face contorting in annoyance as a particularly loud thump shook the room. He looked down moodily at his glass of Craig as if studying it would help calm his nerves. Instead, it only served to further his agitation, as he realized belatedly, a series of fine spiderweb cracks were forming in the glass.
"Bloody club," he muttered, reaching for a napkin on the arm of the lounge chair he was in, but too late—
As the bass hit a crescendo, the glass shattered in his fingers, whiskey and shards of glass landing on his lap.
"Fuck all," he spat the words, leaping from his seat in a tantrum of rage.
"Who thought it was a bloody good idea to leave him in charge of the music this week?!" Crowley roared, grabbing the cord to the speakers and giving it an overzealous yank, so the plug pulled out of the socket in the wall.
He sighed, satisfaction written in his smile as the dull squeak of the speakers dying as the cacophony stopped.
"I did," said a cool voice from across the room as the music died, its owner turning slowly on his bar stool to reveal his grotesquely pallid features.
"Hey! I'll have you know, I worked very, very hard on this!" The Master protested angrily from where he sat in the DJ chair.
"Oh, hello, Voldy," Crowley said. "I intended no disrespect, but it's just that it's in terrible taste, you see," he continued, "The repetition of that same bit of noise, if one could even begin to call it music, over and over ad nauseum, why it's enough to drive any self-respecting villain mad."
"Don't you see, though? That's rather the point," The Master replied, regarding Crowley with an insulted gaze. "It's intended to be a study in torture. I thought the audience here, of all places, would appreciate it." He pouted immaturely as he finished speaking, crossing his arms over his chest as if the posture would help justify his utter lack of taste.
"Well, for the love of all things despicable, stop torturing us. We are the ones supposed to be exerting it, not subjected to it!" Crowley retaliated, his voice nearly squeaking with the incredulity he expressed at the ludicrousness of the Master's idea.