The Evening Street : RADIODUST

7: Wooden Cabin - Mat

A softer chapter for the cleansing of the palette.  Updated the new Cover!!! I like this one more.

June 20th
Jazz music played in the background of Alastor's apartment. Letters, papers, pens and pencils were spread out on the kitchen table. Written on the loose papers were drafts, notes, and ideas for Alastor's upcoming podcast episodes. These drafts revolved on experiences outside of New York because fortunately —or unfortunately— it appears that Alastor's planned story was developing into something abnormal and unforeseen... He could not deny the seductive beckoning of a growing and changing story. Alastor was in the middle of the action, as an observer, a partaker. This was the best spot that any storyteller would want.

Additionally, if Alastor finalized his second New York episode and mentions the events that partaked, Alastor might get unwanted attention from authorities or enemies. That unwanted attention might do more harm than good. That attention might expose him to his audience.

Alastor would no longer be another face in the crowd and his actions, life, face and name would be judged under the spotlight of his audience. Some maniacs, obsessive over their idea of Alastor, might track him down. With this exposed identity, how would Alastor be able to play his double life of serial killer and investigator successfully?

Alastor was prideful, but he doubted his lies could last under the judging gaze of thousands of people. What would his fans think when they realize Alastor was doing the killing? Nifty did mention that his follower count was now a whopping fifty-six thousand listeners with a diverse gender and age group.

Never mind that, Alastor had more important issues to deal with which was...

"Jasmine and Saffron," Alastor said, twirling his antique pen. He leaned on the kitchen door frame, staring straight at the empty T.V. Alastor could see a dark reflection of himself, looking back.

"This Rougarou kills a girl, but dresses as an adolescent. She has no connections to the girl she murdered based on the absolute lack of emotional despair. I applaud her acting, but I am no fool to people who don't care..."

Alastor took out the remote control from his pocket.

"It's true that this adolescent's base is in the strip club... Oh, she just stinks of the place. But, it doesn't explain why she doses herself with the smell of synthetic Cotton Candy? It's underwhelming and so faint," Alastor said, pressing the on button.

He flinched at the volume of the television and quickly muted it. Alastor switched channels, mildly irritated at the noise that caught him off guard.

"I know, I know. Stop yapping," Alastor waved dismissively. He switched to another channel. "She may be connected to the owner of Valor's Dream. What was his name... Valentino? Did Nifty not mention he had a partner in crime?"

Alastor stopped switching channels on the television. His visible dislike switched to confusion, eyebrows raised. Alastor turned on the volume.

The gentleman looked outrageous. His smile was crooked and disingenuous like the regular news-reporters, but what annoyed Alastor the most was the man's dreadful voice and his offensive clothing. He was an obnoxious, inaccurate, pathetic replica of a radio host's charm and a picture man's looks. As the gentleman spoke, his poor (trans-Atlantic) modern accent grated Alastors ears. His atrocious choice of colors, blue suit, red bowtie, and black hair was an eyesore. Eccentricity was fascinating, but sometimes, it was unwarranted.

"May this man never go to Heaven," Alastor said.

"Helloo everyone! This is Vince Smith, your news host for today on Crime in NYC . Let's see... Today we have a murder in Broadway, KaPow—"