Old No.7 | An Alastor x Reader Story

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Everyone has some habit that will play a part in their end. For some, it's cigarettes, for others, it's habitual stupidity. I guess you could say my habit was the thrill of adrenaline. 

I had an uncle who was a rough rider back in the days after the civil war. With the country torn apart like it was, honest work was hard to come by. So he joined up with the Jessy James gang and began robbing banks, trains, and whatever else they could get their hands on. He was caught by the long arm of the law and sent to jail along with several others for robbing a train. Sure enough, he and another gang member escaped and were back down in a cornfield. While his gangmate made a run for it, my uncle decided to make a last stand. 

Something similar happened with a cousin in a bar fight.

And an aunt. 

I came from a stock that was familiar with the wrong side of the law. Maybe that's how I wound up bootlegging bathtub gin. It's just a wild guess though. For all I knew, it was my destiny to die in a ditch filled with buckshot and surrounded by broken booze bottles. 

So what does a bootlegger do in Hell where every vice is catered to?