Dancing Heartbeats

Evil is Always Possible

  New Orleans, 1917. The air is thick, almost thick enough to swallow, and the stench made it no better. It smelled like rot, mildew, and piss, but the blood was the strongest. A young man stood in the alley, chest heaving as he looked down on the beaten and bloodied form of another. This young man was Alastor Chambard, he was a man with a darker complexion, shorter curly hair that was gelled down, his glasses were round and askew, and slacks and dress shirt were ruined, covered in blood splatter, but the vest might be able to be saved for how dark it was.

   As he caught his breath, he then took the time to look around the alley and take stock of his surroundings. He killed the lecherous man behind the dumpsters, he probably should have walked him a little farther to actually be behind the buildings, but needs must and all that. He shook out his limbs to get rid of the tingling, cleaned his glasses, and sighed before reaching into his bag on the ground and pulling out a tarp. He maneuvered the body and wrapped it up so no one would see he was just lugging a human around before using the alleys to get back to his automobile unseen. The body went into the back and Alastor started the drive to his altar.

   Alastor worshiped his gods and ancestors how he felt they deserved, and he felt he had done enough to make the enclosed patch of land in the bayou seem like a place of worship. He had lamps to light the circumference, and a fire pit in the center. An old, dark desk he had found was pushed against a tree, he had built a small shack with just a doorway to enclose it from the elements, and on that desk lay his altar. A red cloth with symbols all around the edges acted as a tablecloth, but there was no real order to it. Full, or half full bottles of liquor, money of all kinds, jewelry, food that hadn't rotted despite being left out for who knows how long. Alastor knows how long, as does whomever he talks to here. It was a long walk from the car, so as soon as he relaxes his arms to let the body fall he just breathes. He listens. He feels. He sees. He gets the cleaver from the shed.

   Alastor was born to a butcher and a priestess. His father was a poor French man who had little more to do than cut things up and drink, his mother a black woman whose family was as well off as a black family could be at the time who was simply full of love. His mother taught him all there was to know to his worship, his gods and those who came before him, but his father taught him his practice. Discipline. Hitting the cleaver right on the joint usually caused them to almost pop right off, noise and all, his father taught him that. Draining the blood into a polished stone bowl to place in the center of the altar was his mothers doing. He worked methodically, separating each limb from the torso, separating them into their two natural parts, removing the teeth, then removing the head. It's much harder to pull teeth from a severed head, he realized early on. The teeth also went onto the altar, but in a large jar that held several others. The torso also got cut in half, simply to make things easier for his companion.

   The god's didn't show themselves to Alastor, they didn't speak to him, but he knew that this place, and this alligator were meant for him and his worship. He named him LaBas and made sure he was very well fed. To let the beast know he was there, he took one of the forearms and started hitting the water with the man's hand and whistling. LaBas let him know he was heard by snapping the arm out of his hand, so Alastor backed up and let him crawl onto the grass to continue his feast. He usually fed the beast by throwing the parts into his mouth, to promote that he shouldn't be eaten, but he's sure that if he showed up without his usual offerings he would become the one offered.

   "Did ya enjoy your meal, mon ami?" Alastor asked joyfully, his voice having that Louisiana twang, picking up both jar and bowl and putting them back where they belonged on the altar and turning back around to the reptilian. "Now, I could sing you'a little tune, but you only get one, yeah? It's late and you know how mama gets," He grinned at the animal before clearing his throat and singing as loud as he wanted, moving to put on a show. Once he was done, no one applauded, but he was satisfied nonetheless. LaBas had waded back into the water towards the tail end of his performance, which he usually did and Alastor appreciated him for it and more. He packed up his tarp, put away the cleaver after cleaning it off in the water, and started the walk back to his car.

   He got home just before the sun started leaking light into the sky, and entered the little house in the Lower Ninth Ward. Their house was a bit more secluded than most, but if you stood outside the front door and screamed someone would be sure to hear. Upon entering, Alastor was greeted with darkness and silence as he had hoped he would. His mother didn't know the exact nature of his hobbies, but she knew her son was devout and said his prayers nightly. He went to shower before throwing his trousers and shirt into the fireplace to burn as he read calmly until the sun rose.

   His mother came down at around 7am and found him cooking the two of them breakfast. He rarely slept on the nights he hunted, but he never felt the ill effects of his choices other than a few aches and pains from the labor. As he turned to set the plates down on the table he spotted his mother in the doorway, smiling at him.

   "Well, good morning, son. Did you sleep well?" She smiled, going over to take her plate from his hands to the table. "I didn't hear you come in."

   "Good morning, maman, and yes I did," he returned her smile and followed behind her to sit at their little dining table. "It was late, I didn't wanna wake you."

   "I appreciate that, but I appreciate knowin' you're safe more."

   "Oh," He chuckled lightly, "Mama, you don't gotta worry, I can take care of myself," his smile widened, and as if to prove it to her raised his arm to flex it.

   "I know that, ma petite, but knowing you're safe at home is better than wonderin' if you're fightin' for ya life in an alley," she explained, gently laying one of her hands on his. "I worry about ya late hours, Alastor." Alastor didn't really know how to respond to that, he was never the one fighting to keep the blood and viscera in his body, he was the one who gave that viscera to his betters, and those late hours were hours of worship.

   "I'm fine, mama, the hours ain't nothin' and I wouldn't be caught dead or alive in the alleys around here," He laughed and pat her hand on top of his before sipping on his coffee. "Besides, you know people 'round here play their radios at night, what ever would they do if they just went silent?"

   His mother sighed and shook her head before tucking into her own breakfast, "I know, son, but it's a mothers job to worry. Especially after what happened to your father out there." His father had been murdered two years prior, right outside his most frequent haunt.

   "I know, mama," Alastor nodded before bringing a forkful of food to his mouth. The rest of breakfast was a quiet affair until Marie, his mother, started taking the dishes to the kitchen.

   "I'll clean up, if you could go to the market and get some things from dearest Virginia, I'd appreciate that greatly." His mother said as she walked away, "There's a list near the door, please make sure to get all of it, I have a ritual to do for Marjorie, she thinks someone's messin' with her."

   "Of course, anythin' else while I'm out?"

   "Nah, that should be all, thank you, baby. I won't be here when you get home though, the ladies started a little club and I want to see what all the fuss is about."

   "That's wonderful mama, I hope you have a grand time!" He grinned as he swung on his coat at the door and put on his shoes, "I'm off, be sure to tell them I say hello!" He left the house, deciding it was nice enough to walk to the nearby market.

   He was barely into town when he heard someone shouting his name from somewhere behind him. He turned to see a blonde man in a slightly too big suit, waving one arm wildly while the other held a suitcase.

   "Alastor! Alastor it's me!" Alastor did not know who 'me' was until the man was closer and he could see his eyes. One blue, one brown. Anthony. The air left his lungs and he was staring at a ghost from his childhood, someone he never thought he would be allowed to see again, someone he thought he had forgotten and someone who had forgotten him.

   "Anthony Basile." Alastor's smile was wider than anyone had seen it in years.