The silhouette of Nox sits in his gas chamber, shrouded in gas, his voice over the intercom. 

“Art is a maxim about creation.  Some people create using different media.  They paint, they sculpt, my dioramas, making things of beauty to the conventional eye.” 

Nox moves his hand through the gases around him, and it swirls, dancing on the air current around the shadow of his hand. 

“But my medium is a living, breathing thing.  It moves; it swirls around you, and it works on so many levels.  There’s what you can see as the gas promenades in the air around people.  In their visions, the voices that invade their minds as they… breathe it in.” 

Nox laughs wickedly. 

“My artwork is inescapable, no matter who it is, because we all need to breathe, and you can never truly trust even the air around you.  We’ve seen people walk away from the artwork of the dead.  The macabre and horrific that Jasper keeps putting out.  It’s a bit blasé if you ask me.  Mr. Redgrave’s art form is dead… literally.” 

Nox chuckles wickedly at his turn of phrase. 

“Your art is dead, Jasper.  It is unmoving, uncaring, and heartless in every definition of the word.  It has no vim, no vigor, but my work, however, doesn’t just lie there in whatever pose I leave it in.  It actually plays with its critic; it literally gets into them, into their very souls, and it literally moves them.  Your art is designed to shock and horrify.  My glasses are designed to create purpose, to bring their aesthete to their very knees.  Your art inspires people to flee, mine begs them to stay.” 

Nox’s form moves as if mocking a brush stroke as the gas dances around his figure. 

“Your brush Stroke is no match for a well-made toxin that invades your brain and gives you a stroke.  You play psychopathy, but I am the definition.  You think I care about any of this?  No, it’s all about control for me, Mr. Redgrave.  So, you can paint your pictures, make your sculptures, and torture whoever you like.  But in the moment when you breathe it in and you feel weak in the knees, you’ll discover your art is poultry and plebian in the face of the true horrors.  Because my art is infectious, uncaring, and unapologetic.  You can prey on emotions; I prey on organs that still function.  My art will break your heart while it beats your chest.  There will be no question when all is said and done who creates the most compelling work, and I make sure this week, my toxin will be the final brush stroke of your life.” 

To punctuate his statement, Nox swivels in his chair, moving away from the gas, closer to the glass, revealing it wasn’t Nox in the clouds, but a dead body being treated like a marionette dressed in effigy to look like Jasper Redgrave.