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1931 New Orleans
Vance was 19, just graduated, and was taking his summer to sow his wild oats as his father would say. Or so Vance imagined 'get that faggot shit out of his fucking system' meant. He was destined for a respectable career and that meant settling down with a proper wife. And since his father hadn't been able to beat looking at other men out of him, he sent Vance for a summer in Louisiana.
After all his father had also noticed Vance's eyes lingering longest on the Mexican boys the local citrus farmers hired. It wouldn't matter what Vance did to a brown boy in the deep south. This way he could get both disgusting urges purged in one summer and settle down in the small city of Los Angeles like he was supposed to.
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Alastor had a type.
Oh nothing like that. No, Alastor's type was less about physical satisfaction and more about the satisfaction of a job very well done. There was a certain type of man who tended to see folks who looked like him or his sainted mother less as people and more as targets. Alastor simply delighted in returning the favor. It wasn't his fault he happened to be a better predator. Or rather, it was a testament to his skill.
The obnoxious white boy at the other end of the bar fit the bill perfectly. Unlike Alastor who spent his 20s perfecting his elocution, this scrap of a thing barely into manhood spoke with a looseness that grated. He spoke fast and sloppy, instantly outing himself as a son of new money. His daddy hadn't lost everything in '29, but hadn't gotten his money long before the crash either. No culture to his tones at all.
The boy threw his money around like it meant nothing. Attracting all kinds of attention as an out of towner. A young white man with no world sense, money, and no local connections? And making enough of a show of himself that no one with a lick of sense would be shocked he went missing? Why if Alastor still believed in God he'd assume the deity had sent this gift himself.
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Vance couldn't believe his luck! His first night out at a jazz bar and this absolute looker noticed him. Sure he'd initially been thinking about finding a guy closer to his age. Not that the shiek chatting him up was old! Vance would guess he was in his 30s maybe? Regardless he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The guy was a smooth talker, Vance would give him that. He knew he was out of his depth. But he loved the deep waters off the coast, this couldn't be much different. The guy's smile reminded him vaguely of sharks.
He followed the guy, Albert? Alphonse? Al something he caught that much, out into the sweltering night. He wasn't an idiot, Vance knew this was dangerous. He was following a negro out into the dark towards the swamp. He'd heard stories about voodoo shit and he'd figured he may have to deal with it. He was honestly a little excited about the chance. He'd never gotten to hurt someone before and really mean it. He was curious though. Something about it really got his blood going.
Fuck maybe this Alvin guy wouldn't even have to do anything. Vance could just...hurt him.
He eyed up the older man again, assessing. He'd been ok at sports, nothing too exciting or great. But this guy didn't look too big. Besides he was probably too excited about getting to fool around with a rich young white man that it'd be easy to get the drop on him. Now that he thought about it, Vance had a few different fantasies that would be fun to try out after taking this fella down. He discreetly adjusted his pants just in time for Al to open the door to a small cabin and gesture him inside.
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Alastor was nearly giddy at how easy it had been in the end. The boy had clearly assumed that Alastor was enthralled with the novelty of him. As though a self entitled white man was in any way new. All he'd had to do was nod along and smile as the idiot rambled about the future of entertainment being California of all places.
But easy pickings were easy pickings and his larder was growing a bit lean as of late. He gestured for the boy to get comfortable on the settee and went for his liquor cabinet. He didn't want to give his guest too much more. He had already drunk goodness knows how much and Alastor had never quite liked the taste of pickled meat.
While he made an overly loud show of pouring glasses of what passed for sherry now, he checked to make sure his favorite blade was tucked into his sleeve.
He turned with the small glasses of liquor, only to be confronted with the most hilarious thing he had encountered in ages.
His little guest, this silly little scrap of a boy, was standing far too close to him, knife drawn in what he clearly thought was a threatening manner. He couldn't help but chuckle.
"Well now. This is awkward."
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This was not going how Vance had planned. The fossil was supposed to be intimidated, scared, something! Not laugh like Vance holding a knife inches from his gut was a joke. He stepped closer, bringing the knife tip to right under the guy's breastbone.
"I'm n-not joking around!" Vance hated his fucking stutter. Of all the fucking times for it to act up! "Do what I say or I'll f-f--FUCKING kill you!"
Al had the audacity to lean in on Vance, like the knife wasn't even there. He kept leaning, Vance's heart pounded as his lips got closer. Fuck this guy was going to kiss him! Yes!
Only. He didn't.
He stopped a breath away and laughed right in Vance's face.
"Oh my that is the funniest thing I've heard all week!" He pushed the knife off his chest like it was nothing, set the glasses down, and stepped around Vance's stunned body. "I brought you here to kill *you* my good man!" He sat down on the sofa, crossed his legs, and settled his hands into his lap.
Vance was having a bit of a struggle keeping up to be honest.
"You...what... Hold on! No! That's not how this is supposed to go!" He could feel his face getting red. "I came here to fuck you!?"
The man in front of him raised an eyebrow and pointedly flicked a wicked looking butterfly knife from his sleeve.
"Bait only, I'm afraid."
"Oh you Asshole!"
"Really? That's what's got you so flustered? Not the admission that I lured you here to murder you. No it's the fact that I've no interest in making whoopie with you first." The stare the man leveled at Vance brought to mind the unimpressed looks of his grandmother when he acted up on Sundays. Somehow disappointed and unsurprised at the same time.
Alright yeah laid out like that it did seem kind of backwards, priority wise. But this whole trip was for him to get lucky so yeah, he was a little fixated, sue him.
"Not even a little fooling around?" He whined.
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Well. That settled that. Easy pickings or not Alastor needed to maintain some standards. He could handle begging, he reveled in screams and pleas for mercy. However he had absolutely no desire to listen to that for a single second longer. He abhorred whining. Have some decorum, go out with some pride! He decided then and there his larder would hold another evening or two.
Deciding on the easiest method of getting this brat out of his home, Alastor leaned back along the settee and looked at the boy in the most alluring way Mimzy had forced him to learn. He barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes as whatever his name was looked at him like a side of beef.
"Well, come here then chum."
Predictably the idiot damn near swan dove within range and Alastor knocked him out with a swift crack of his knife handle to the back of his skull.
Really. There were some things as too easy he supposed.
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It was 1931. Vance was 19, just woke up, and was groggy as all hell. He was propped outside a storefront in New Orleans, the sun stabbing his eyes, and the back of his head throbbing.
Memories from the night before flashed, distorted. Disjointed flashes of a handsome dark face, and a cultured smooth voice. He groaned and let his head fall back against the rough brick. He couldn't even remember the guy's name.
Somewhere, a little further down the street, someone clicked on the radio.