Chapter Text
Any cook worth their salt will tell you that a meat’s greatest asset would be its natural juices. To cook anything longer than necessary was a crime, only serving to leave a dried-out hunk with little taste. Alastor prided himself on his prowess in the kitchen, but he had to disagree. It was by no fault of their own that chef’s got it wrong. It was just their limited perspective and skill set. Unless they knew how to use their blades for more than flaying, it was no wonder they would fail.
Alastor faced no such problems. Why would he waste his talents on specialization? Not only did it seem counterintuitive to only focus on one skill set, but it had to be mind-numbing. Where would the surprise of spontaneity come from? The thrill of learning on the spot or facing the gallows? No, no, that would never do, so in addition to mastering his way around the kitchen, Alastor knew what it meant to hunt down his meat.
And that was where the joy of a meal came from. Not from a cooking technique but instead from the method of murder. There were a variety of factors to contribute here. Was it a blade or a shotgun to do the poor sod in? Was he drugged beforehand, or did their system pump only adrenaline as they ran? How long did they last as play toys before their superior grew bored of their cries? What emotion would flicker through their eyes as they were snuffed to nothing but a future meal?
“Please, I have a family."
This one’s eyes spoke of grief. He would never get to see his kid grow or greet his wife after a hard day, and yet a glimmer of hope shone there too. Did he think he would be able to save his life? That Alastor would be merciful? How bizarre a notion! The very thought tore the laughs of a madman from his throat. "Oh, how I love killing the comedians! Your lot never fails to entertain. Congratulations!”
Alastor loomed over him, blocking out the faint beams of moonlight the night tried to provide for this poor soul. He relished in denying even that. “I promise I won’t say anything; just let me go. Please, please, please, please.” He whimpered out, instantly ruining the little goodwill Alastor would have ever extended to him.
The blood starting to pool beneath the pair clung uncomfortably to Alastor’s pant legs as he kneeled down, but it was a price worth paying. The air between them was alive with fear, so thick it sliced into his tongue. The bitter aftertaste of patheticness sneaking into the cuts left behind ruined any enjoyment Alastor would have achieved, though. For his offense, this sad display that lacked life and fire and really anything worth enjoying, Alastor trailed his knife up his meal’s throat. Blood bubbled up eagerly to meet the blade, forcing his smile to come up to greet it.
“A word to the wise, my stupid fellow." With surgical precision, Alastor started to carve out the boring tongue of a man who probably never let a subject of worth drip down it. “In situations like these, it’s best to not piss off your killer with pointless pleas.” He screamed as Alastor worked, the sound becoming less and less clear as blood pooled in the back of his throat, only starting to make a mess as he gurgled. “See, these are better sounds that raise my mood something marvelous! So sad they came too late!”
It was a rare indulgence of his to let his victims die naturally, although it could be argued how much of a natural passing it was to drown in your own life blood was, but it was a treat nonetheless. He shifted so he could sit down on the now-still chest, his added weight pressing blood from his mouth like wine flowing from a grape destemmer. Unable to contain himself, Alastor bent down to lap at such a sanguine delight.
The warm bloom of iron coating his mouth soothed Alastor from the first drop. A lesser man would have moaned in satisfaction, but that would give too much credit to a relatively subpar man’s flavor. Still, he tasted good enough to grunt for.
Once his urge had been sated and the man’s face and neck licked clean, Alastor sighed to his favorite audience, “How I’ve missed this.” It had been much too long since he’s last let off steam. Months had passed where Alastor couldn’t sneak out of the convent, and even more months had passed him by as he established his life as a new man.
While a part of him was pleased that his most difficult murder to date was his own, it still annoyed him. Every step had to be carefully executed, or else the public wouldn’t believe his! Sourcing the body had to be the most difficult step purely because his original plan was to keep ‘his’ face intact, but alas, no one had features even half as charming as his. Thankfully, halfway through his hunt, he remembered he had access to a shotgun, which made things considerably easier.
The story he had cobbled together was utter drivel, but the public had swallowed down each word eagerly so that their papers would regurgitate it to even larger masses. Last he heard, it made it into newsprints all the way up to New York. A nice feather in his cap, to be sure.
‘Louisiana’s most prolific killer: Sadistic Satanic Sister took the consumption of the body too literally!’ That had been his favorite headline to come from the whole ordeal, by far. Thankfully, people with senses of humor were in charge of writing most of his stories. What would be the point otherwise?
Idly, he picked at the hem of his pant sleeve. Alastor supposed that this was also the point, but admitting that would undermine his melodramaticness, and he couldn't have that. Where else was he supposed to engage in petty thoughts if not bloody under a full moon? The studio perhaps, but not to the same extent. There, he had to balance being informative with being captivating. For most, that might be a rather hard feat, but for Alastor? For Alastor, it was the most natural extension of his very soul.
He was not made for radio, but rather radio was made for him. The people in the business could be insufferable, stuffy old bastards who stared far too long at a chest layered down to be plank straight; however, nothing would ever be able to compete with the inherent correctness offered to Alastor as a radio host. The accent, the humor, the sweet music, and above all, the attention! Not even his murder sprees could compare at times. The only possible improvement he could think to make would have been broadcasting his kills, but really, that was just silly. His ratings would tank!
“Oh well, life can’t be all berries now, can it, chum?” With one hand, he shook the corpse's head, making sure to hold it by the cheeks. He pressed in, flapping its jaw up and down, making gurgled grunts as he went along. “Now there is no need for that kind of language, mister. I’m afraid we’re going to have to kick you off the air.”
Alastor responded with one last “Rahhhhh” before dropping the now-cool head. Play time was unfortunately over. But what was that old saying? When a door closes, a window opens? Granted, the window would be decorated with entrails by the time Alastor was done. Still, butchering was a relaxing little meed after an easy hunt.
The melodic sound of tearing flesh. The lazy chugs of ichor. The rich smell of iron scenting the air. The hungry animals slowly surrounding him as they waited for scraps. Every second offered multiple pleasures that were only accentuated by finally having the proper tools.
Every kill prior was carried out with nothing but a knife and a dream. Which was admittedly enough considering he had met little resistance, but little did not mean none. Having a bone saw as well as a meat cleaver just made the process so much more streamlined. It allowed him to extract art from worthless people in much higher quantities. No longer did their value lie in the aesthetics of brutality, but instead in the finesse of a master of his craft. An added bonus of his day job.
In all regards, his current life is better. He wasn’t chained down to a convent and forced to deal with idiots and listen to tripe. He had a rather lovely name, further carried by a strong sense of dress. And he now had all the time in the world to pursue his talents. Alastor knew that this was the life, that nothing could offer him a better sense of purpose and fulfillment in this life or the next, but that didn’t stop his heart from twinging just a bit.
For all his bluster and endearing smiles, there was one thing he could never have now. It was stupid, a waste of time and energy to even long for, but this was always the one area he could never be rational in. Alastor missed his mother. He missed chatting with her while they sewed, reading in the kitchen while he snuck away mouthfuls as a self-proclaimed taste tester, arguing with her over the merits of every man in town because, no, he would not be taking a husband. He even missed her holding him, something he grew out of seeking many years ago.
But it was better this way. Alastor would never regret his past actions, never find fault or guilt in his mind, and he won’t stop any of his habits. He enjoys who he is and what he does. That won’t change, even when he’s rotting away in hell. In fact, he knew he’ll face the brimstone with a megawatt smile. Perhaps he can sneak in a radio so he can finally live out his dreams of broadcasting his art.
No, he was content with his life. What he did lament was that his mother, the most saintly woman he has ever had the pleasure of knowing, had to live with the knowledge that she raised him. It wasn’t through her actions that he had become what he was. There was no tragic backstory of cruel words or harsh hands; he killed and consumed for the pure enjoyment of it. Logically, that is not what the public thought. He knew there were whispers of her being a demented soul, the man he had just finished brutalizing had purported that exact lie. She was suffering because of his association.
If there was one person on this wretched planet undeserving of pain, it was his mother. He never wanted her to become aware of who he was, wanting to spare her the anguish, but it was an unfortunate byproduct of pursuing his life. He tried, at least, to minimize the damage.
He wrote a tell-all, admitted to every murder the law had caught and the ones they let slip by, and claimed that his time as a sister had opened his eyes. Wrote pages and pages of insincere words crafted to be believable. He had even gone so far as to quote passages from their boring holy book to help sell his story. The final sentence claiming one last sin as repentance for his past actions.
It didn’t save his family’s reputation, but perhaps it minimized it. He hoped it did, at least.
Somewhere in all of his musings, he had finished fileting his victim, his chosen cuts going to contribute to a jambalaya later, and had walked back to his home. It wasn’t anything special, but it was cheap, and let him rest. A steal considering he had no papers or records to his name.
Alastor had very little besides his name when he purchased it. The only reason the past owner sold it to him was his considerable nest egg made of stolen tithes. The old man would probably have blown a gasket if he knew that, a sight that would have made Alastor’s day, but he kept that secret just so he would have a roof.
Drifting off, he tried to hold on to that thought instead of his mother. He had an early shift at the butcher’s tomorrow, slotted all week at the shop since his radio personality wasn’t nearly established enough to let him work full time, and he needed to make sure lack of sleep wouldn’t cost him a finger. The world was just as cruel as he was, though. All through the night, images of his mother haunted him. All that was and all that never would be.
An unfortunately common occurrence he saw coming.
