hellbroadcast | Salutations!

"Vincent Whittman, my good man. Though people tend to call me Vince." He didn't like Vince as much as Vincent personally but usually when people called him Vince, he had an opening and had established himself enough with them. Hence he had come to enjoy it more than he probably would have otherwise.

He held out his hand to shake, grinning at the guy. Back where he was from, it wasn't common to publicly shake hands with a black man but in New Orleans, things seemed a little more loose here and he didn't overly mind.

Black, white, yellow and red - they could be any colour, as long as they tuned in and listened to him. People were people and people had money.

"I was listening to your radio show while I've been in town and you have quite the voice." Hypnotic, enthralling and so smooth. It was his favourite part of the day. "It's nice to put a face to a name, Alastor."

"Here is hoping you don't consider it a let-down. Some expectations are hard to live up to." Such as the one his amazing voice set, yet Alastor felt no insecurity whatsoever in how he did indeed live up to it. He thought himself the full package, there was no room for false humility. The arrival of his whiskey spared him from having to shake the man's hand, as he reached for his glass instead and settled on simply nodding at him. "Please enjoy your time in our fair city. The Big Easy is always worth a visit. Forget your cares in the city that care forgot."

Firing off some slogans about New Orleans as if he was on air, Alastor supposed he might as well add on. "And please make sure to tune in again tomorrow, Vincent."

He said his name, the full one, and tried to make eye-contact. Those things always made people feel as if they had more impact on him than they had. "I won't give anything away, but let's just say: It's bound to be a nail-biter."

Alastor didn't shake his hand. He didn't shake it. Why? He was the one who was offered despite everything and he was the one who was rebuffed? He would have been angrier but he was so stunned by how smoothly Alastor slipped into the persona and talked to him like some loyal audience member. Which, well, he kind of was. And he didn't mind. The way he looked into his eyes, it was enticing.

Vincent. He picked Vincent and not Vince. He felt like he should be bothered but he wasn't because it just kind of sounded right with how he spoke, even if it was another rebuff.

"A nail-biter, huh? Oh boy, sounds fun. We can only dare to compete with our modest little TV network." Vincent played with some humility just because he knew they would eventually crush this legend and his outdated format. Radio was dying, everyone knew it. "I assume a similar topic? That pesky little serial killer keeping everyone on their toes. Oh, I do love a good murder."

Vincent paused when Mr Reed looked at him like that. "For the ratings, obviously. Not for myself."

"It's a tragedy but it certainly begets an audience, doesn't it? New Orleans loves to listen. Jazz at every corner, loud enough to drown out the screams. Those can get dragged out later, when they hunker down to hear the newest broadcast." Hear, not see. Alastor was a purist where those things were concerned.

"You are from TV, Vincent? That must be why I've never heard of you." Or seen, obviously. He didn't bother with that kind of stuff. Alastor took a sip of whiskey, closing his eyes briefly with a happy expression. Went down smoothly. That waiter had earned himself a tip.

"TV is up and coming," Mr Reed argued, "Not that anything could take your listeners from you, Alastor."

"I should think not," Alastor said jovially, his smile never slipping.

"It's a shame you don't have the looks for TV. Doesn't matter on radio though, huh?" Mr Reed laughed and Alastor let out a very dry and short chuckle, his smile steady and his eyes narrowing just a smidge.

"TV is the future. They're selling more and more every year. They got at least one in every street these days. Soon it'll be every house. There's just something that visuals can give you over sound. To see pictures of crimes, to experience victim interviews, to be able to look in their eyes and see all those beautiful emotions. Eyes are the windows to our soul." And that was why TV would continue to grow, people all wanted that emotional connection. They wanted to feel like they were part of things.

He was about to ask Alastor how he felt but he supposed Reed made that perfectly clear. Ah. Yeah. That. He hadn't really considered that as an issue but then, he was so distracted by the voice, he couldn't keep focus on his face the way he wanted to.

"I don't know about that, sir. A charming voice, a little difference and charm. You know, folks back home would love to see all manner of people." Imagine the controversy. Imagine the ratings. They would love or hate seeing a successful negro on TV and either way, no one would be willing to tune out.

Seemed perfect to him. "We have to look to the future, never look back. You never know, sir, how it'll change."

"I don't know about that much change," Mr Reed chuckled, a little nervously, "Outside of our city, especially. Maybe in due time..." A lot of time, clearly, by the way he sounded.

"Well, far be it from me to have any aspirations to make it onto the silver screen. Or the... much smaller, grey screen." Alastor shrugged and chugged his whiskey, handing the glass to the same waiter from before. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I think I've spotted a friend in the crowd."

That said, he moved past the two men and further into the room, until he found a woman he did actually know. He talked to her, soon having her laughing and gathering a small audience to their witty repartee. People could never resist a good show. He kept the conversation going, light and easy, downing another whiskey and eventually stepping away to the buffet, to consider his options. He really was not as fond of aspic as these parties seemed to believe one ought to be.

Damn Reed and his outdated views, scaring off his talent. He watched Alastor leave and then he was pulled away as well, back in the crowd and talking with various companies and producers. They were trying to work out the best way to handle the serial killer but Vincent knew what needed to be done.

"He needs a name, we have to spin it before anyone else does. That's the top pitch for tomorrow cause 'New Orleans stabber' is boring, it's got no razzamatazz." Vincent explained as he finished his scotch and soda. "Trust me, let me handle the branding and tomorrow will be a heck of a show."

People responded but laughter drowned them out and unable to resist, he turned to see Alastor palling around with some local admirers or friends, he didn't even know. He was telling some kind of tale or joke, he wasn't sure, but he couldn't focus on the conversation any more. He tried to but he kept looking over. Losing interest in others. When Alastor was breaking away, moving solo then that was it.

"Uh, you know what, excuse me for a second." Moving from the group of boring executives who didn't fully get the vision, Vincent went straight to the most important man in the room (besides himself, of course). "Alastor! We meet again."

"...yeah." That was not something people said when they had been in the same room ever since their initial introduction, was it? No, definitely not. Alastor smiled at Vincent, eyebrow arched. There it was again. Still. That man's eyes - two different colours, interesting - had too much sheen. He shuddered to think what he might have come over to talk to him about, so he decided to lead the conversation, gesturing to the buffet table.

"Have you had anything yet? I am not sure if any of these offerings tempt me. I do hope you have been out to eat some proper creole cuisine while you've been here, Vincent." Turning back to face him, his smile widened and he looked into those eyes. "Nothing beats my mother's jambalaya, of course, but there are some joints around that can almost live up to its memory."

"I can't say anything here is pulling me in." Given some of it was wobbling weirdly and it had really put him off. The sea food probably wasn't the best, given it had been sitting out, but it was his favourite. Especially shrimp. Still, it was better to eat the good stuff than suffer a pale imitation. "I haven't actually had the chance yet, I saw a few places on the way in but it's been all work and no fun."

He didn't usually care about experiencing culture or honestly much, he usually just cared about his job and himself but Alastor spoke so beautifully of this place on the radio, he was actually interested. For once. What a fucking trap this guy was. There was something in his stare, his smile, his body language. He didn't get him. He hated that.

"Maybe you could show me a place or two, if you've got the time while I'm in town." There. Bold. He was making a grab for what he wanted. "And you don't mind me talking your ear off." Big time.

"I can give you recommendations, at the very least. Antoine's, for instant. Or go to Dooky Chase's Restaurant. Leah Chase cooks there and she is the Queen of Creole cuisine, no one does it quite like her." With a grin and a wink, he added an amendment. "Unless you end up in my kitchen, that is. But I'm afraid that's a much more exclusive event, Vincent."

It was enjoyable, cooking for people, just like his mother had done and imparted on him. Although he was more likely to share his creations with the other side than anyone living. It was always good to make generous offerings, furthering his standing. Looking at Vincent as he had those thoughts, he had to let out a chuckle. Too up his own ass and in TV-land to even have tried the local cuisine, he could only imagine what he'd have thought of encountering true Voodoo.

"It's Creole Creeper, by the way," Alastor said it casually, "The name that will catch on with the public. Trust me. I'm the people's voice."

"The Creole Creeper? Huh. I like it. I was going more with the angle of 'The Axeman of New Orleans', the last psychopath you guys had running around. I think the 'the' adds the gravity. Not just some creeper, he is THE creeper." That wasn't half bad. "I heard he's killed four already. Random as all heck. Hard to make up a pattern yet." Which was a shame. He really wanted a sexual angle to work with or maybe some kind of weird Jazz connection like the last guy.

"I was considering 'The Voodoo Slasher'." Of course he was. Dark magic and all this sort of weird fuckery was very New Orleans. Outsiders would love it but maybe the locals less so.

He looked at Alastor with interest and grabbed a glass from the champagne tower. "Tell me, how does it feel being the people's voice."

"Alliteration always wins out in the end. But you are showing good instincts with the article, Vincent. There is something to 'the'. It's Jack the Ripper, after all." Alastor looked away from Vincent at the waiter, tossing him another coin and gladly accepting the newly offered drink. He took a sip and then turned his body to fully face Vincent again. Clearly the man liked having attention, so why not indulge him a little?

"It's a lot of responsibility. See, the people don't even know what they want to hear until I say it. So I have to understand them better than they do themselves." Alastor tilted his head to the side a little, some of his hair falling into his face. He reached up to tuck it back and smiled. "Luckily, I'm good at that. You should know, being so good yourself. Vincent."

Because that was what Vincent wanted to hear from him. He could tell.

"People know what they want, they just can't say it or think it. All people want to quick, fast information. Showiness, a display, some gruesome little features. Why do you think people are obsessed with the news? Let's be real, radio or television, people want to experience what they never do. If they're lucky. The dark side." Crime, murder, death, destruction, wholesome lovely shows and sitcoms, then more death. "If I say, you know, the news is about how useless those dumbasses in Washington are, no one is gonna watch. It's boring. We all know. Give them a serial killer, a car chase or civil unrest and they turn up in droves."

And that was part of why he had been so interested in Alastor. He managed to hook them with a little less shock value and more charm. And on top of that, he was respected as a black man. He had no idea how the hell he pulled it off.

"Look, my bosses, they'd old fashioned. Out dated. Trust me, you'd do well in television. Maybe a little controversy but who cares? That's the fun." Vincent smiled, feeling like they were finally getting each other. Talking as equals. "You might enjoy the transition. One day."

"It doesn't truly reach people, but it does hook them in. Is it exhausting to keep thinking up more and more ways to keep them hooked?" Alastor imagined it would have to be. He smiled evenly, slowly turning his head to look past Vincent and debating how much longer he even wanted to stay tonight. Was there anything worth doing around here? "How are you going to make them stay loyal, Vincent?"

He asked the question but he didn't look at him any more. Instead he walked past him for the second time tonight, this time to approach the piano. He sat down right away and began to play and, since it was New Orleans, there were a couple other instruments brought out to join in before long and people were cheering, especially when Alastor sang.

After a couple songs, despite people begging him to continue, he got up and smoothly ducked out of the way of a woman who wanted to grab his arm. He fended her off with a smile and a joke and then he walked to the other side of the room. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he adjusted his tie and checked his watch. Perhaps it was time to leave now.

Rebuffed again. Arrogant jerk. What was his fucking deal. So he could sing all nice and had a lovely voice, didn't mean he could be a dick to him. He was the fucking future and-- ah. Of course. He was threatened. An equal is also a rival and while he was in a dying medium, he was pushing ahead with future technology. He was merely defending himself.

Cute. Alastor was cute... not like that, not in any weird way, he was just kind of hiding everything behind that smile. All those insecurities for sure.

When Alastor was done showing off, Vincent knocked back his last glass of champagne and grabbed his coat, rushing through the party and stumbling out a bit after Alastor. He was drunk and determined, following along after the radio host. He kept distance but he didn't mind if Alastor knew. It was more fun like that. Being intimidated was healthy.

"I put a spell on you, cause you're mine." Vincent ideally sang as he shoved his hands into his pockets, fumbling to find his cigarettes. "You better stop the things you do. I ain't lying. No, I ain't lying. You know I can't stand it, you're running around"

Of course Alastor was aware of being followed. One didn't get away with doing all he was doing for years on end without having a lot of awareness. Most of the time, anyway, sometimes he could admittedly get into it. Especially when disposing of a body and reliving the fun. This was walking down the dark New Orleans streets followed by that pompous buffoon.

He didn't bother turning around, he simply let himself be chased on a merry walk further into areas of the city he perhaps wouldn't have recommended for the sheltered white boy to find himself in. Then he turned yet another corner and this time he waited, waited for Vincent to follow behind him. And he held out his leg for him to stumble over, then covered his mouth - and the smile there - with one hand in mock-surprise.

"Vincent, old boy! Whatever brings you here this time of night?"

It was a lively street in all the bad ways. Some prostitutes up ahead, an old woman with a table and a deck of cards not far from them, ready to read people's fortune, and some darker characters yet, lingering in the shadows.

Vincent had just been in a trance, not really thinking, just following half heartedly. It started out with determination to intimidate and reset their status but in the end, he just kind of enjoyed watching him from the back in a somewhat tipsy stupor. Not that he'd ever admit that. He was relatively handsome, a man could appreciate another man's handsomeness without it being queer.

"Fuck."

Vincent had stumbled over something stupid and dropped his fucking cigarette, almost going down but luckily, he had a wall for stability. He ended up snapped entirely out of his weird trance and looking around for the first time.

Fuck indeed.

He looked around in shock and then flushed. Oh boy. "Where the fuck..." He trailed off and then looked at Alastor, unsure how to answer. "I was just-- you know, exploring the neighbourhood. Like you said." That bastard tripped him. He nearly hit the fucking floor. There's piss there!

"Well. You've come to the wrong place morally and the right place for fun, depending on your vices." Alastor looked around briefly, ignoring that a few of the prostitutes up the street might have well recognised him - perhaps by voice - subtly creeping closer. "Although maybe you are a bit out of your element, pal."

Certainly looked it. "Maybe we can fetch a cab for you, hm? Wouldn't want you getting led astray. You're a bit-- you for that kind of entertainment."

He was baiting him. He didn't realise, of course he didn't, he felt it was just what men did. Challenged, pushed, encouraged. And he was not going to be talked down to by some old radio relic. There was nothing he couldn't handle, he deliberated focused his efforts on shit like this. Hell, it would be good reporting if nothing else.

"I'm a bit what? Go on, tell me? What am I? Cause we just met. So how do you know what kind of man I am?" Vincent looked at Alastor with a determined frown. "This is my element and I came to have fun. Stop talking to me like I'm a boy, yeah? I'm a fucking man."

"Ah, ah, ah, Vincent. You take things so personally." And clearly that amused Alastor a lot. Perhaps there was more amusement to be found with this one than he'd originally assumed. "Of course you are a man. My mistake."

Which did imply that he hadn't thought of him as a man so far. It was difficult, he was so incredibly childish. "You are in my world now, not your world. So let's see what's on offer, shall we?"

With that, he turned away and walked in the direction of the prostitutes, who were eyeing them both up like fresh meat. Alastor ignored that, he swerved to stop by the table the old woman sat at.

"Hello, auntie," he greeted her, bowing his head, "I hope you aren't too cold on a fresh night like this. Here, have an offering."

What he did offer was a wad of cash, which she vanished with slight of hand, smiling a mostly toothless smile at him that he answered with a brilliant one. "How kind, Alastor. Bondye bless you."

Alastor doubted he was overly blessed by anything good, but he kept that thought to himself. He simply turned to Vincent and indicated the chair opposite the old lady. "Have a seat, Vincent. Auntie, my pal here is tipping his toes. Won't you read him a spread?"

The woman looked at Vincent, noting his eyes. "You are blessed. Special. Sit down. Show your hands."

Right by Vincent, Alastor leaned against the table. "Don't fear, Vincent. It's only your past, present and future. What do you have to lose?"

"I'm not exactly afraid of this stuff. I got my fortune read in a carnival before. It's always the same old thing. It wowed me at 10 and lost me at 11." Vincent dismissed and then sat himself down, not overly wanting to be this close to some toothless old gal but he supposed he was proving his metal. Stupid Alastor, he was playing games with him, he knew it but what was he supposed to do? Not play them? That would be embarrassing!

"I'm blessed? Already? Look at that, not too shabby." Vincent boasted as he smirked up at Alastor. Then he turned back, held out his hands and hoped she wasn't as gross as she looked if she was going to touch them.

"I think you'll find my future is very bright." Like the glow of a TV screen.

She took his hand into her frail one, bony fingers turning it around and inspecting the palm. Then she reached for the cards and shuffled them, looking from him at Alastor. "Two different eyes in one man. He's been chosen."

"Hm," Alastor made the sound, clearly not too impressed. Or at least not wanting to act too impressed.

She snapped her fingers and the candles that lined the sides of the table all lit up at once. Alastor's smile widened. "What a show, auntie. Maybe you should be on television."

"Never," she said, while she laid three cards down, "They steal your soul."

He hummed in agreement and watches as she turned over the first card.

"Ace of cups in the past," she narrated, "Yearning for love."

"For adoration, perhaps?" Alastor mused aloud, "Attention, definitely. You would be one for cups, Vincent. I'm not surprised."

"It doesn't take your soul. By the way. It's like going to the pictures but smaller." Vincent tried to explain, knowing he was wasting his time but he couldn't let it go. He let her look him over and then leaned back in his seat, watching the three cards with idly curiosity. He was not expecting to be woahed.

"I wouldn't say I yearn for love but if you're good at what you do, why shouldn't people notice? If you say you don't like compliments and good feedback, you're a damn rotten liar." He felt that was just part of the human condition.

He wasn't yearning for just any attention, he wanted what he should have. He was hardly someone pitifully chasing love and affection. "You're hardly above adoring praise, Alastor. Don't bullshit me."

"I necessitate it. I don't need it." Alastor felt there was a small but important distinction to be made there. "Anyway, the cards don't judge. They reveal." He shrugged and watched as she flipped the second card over.

"The present. Two of Cups. In this position, that means potential for a deep, mutual bond. But upside down, so it may not work out that way. The future will tell." She hesitated, her hand hovering over the last of the three cards. Looking into those two-coloured eyes, she asked Vincent very seriously. "Do you want to know the future, mister?"

"Showmanship," Alastor complimented her, very amused, "Of course he wants to know. Vincent does not back down."

"You never know if you don't try. Potential is always a good thing." He turned and gave Alastor a look. He was sure this was all malarky but still. They had such potential if they worked together, he just had to get this stubborn jerk to stop brushing him off and take him and TV seriously. He was doing it for him! Who wanted someone with this kind of a potential as a washed up has-been.

Watching her stare into her eyes with sincerity, he idly noted away that one day, it would be fun to do some kind of live TV fortune reading channel or predictions, maybe even mediums!

"Show me what the future holds. I have no fear. I'll go how I want it to." Everything usually did.

She flipped over the final card, announcing it immediately. "Three of Swords."

"Ha!" That one sound was born of deep amusement, a satisfied smirk on Alastor's face that only lessened a little when she gave him a look. He waved his hand for her to continue, so she did.

"A heart pierced by three swords. Heartbreak, sorrow, and emotional pain." Looking at the spread before her, she shook her head, turning it to face him. "You need to guard yourself, mister. Always wanting can be terrible."

"Truly," Alastor added with fake sympathy, "Guard your heart, Vincent. So easy to break. A ribcage, that is. Just wait till you hear all about that in my next broadcast. What will that creep do next?"

"Haha. Very funny. Look, you got some kind of showmanship here and I admire it but let's all be real, it's hokum." He didn't listen, he didn't really care. He didn't see that as his future so it wouldn't be his future. Heartbreak? As if. He could get any girl he wanted. And emotional pain was part of life. Big whoop.

Getting up to his feet, Vincent smiled at Alastor, clearly not phased by his fortune. Wanting could never be a bad thing - without want, nothing could be gained.

"That rib cracking rascal is going to send my views sky high." He considered for a moment before cocking his head. "Is there a hot spot? Where the kills happen?" He wanted to get an interview with that sick freak if he could.

"A hot spot?" Alastor looked at him, still leaning against the table and raising his tilting his head a little, smiling. "I suppose you could say it's pretty warm around here."

He turned away from him to grab the pack of cards, shuffling it quickly and then laying three cards down. He flipped them over one by one, revealing the Fool, the King of Wands and then the Devil, in the positions he would have expected. He grinned at the old woman and then stepped away from the table, assuming that Vincent was going to come with him, no matter what.

"You know the kills don't happen where the bodies are found. Not with this one." Which was what made it fun, obviously. "But it does feel like a good place to get killed around here, don't you think?"

"It's also a good place to get syphilis." Vincent drawled as he looked around at the whores working their corner. "I'm not sure I want to spend my nights stalking around here. Besides, this guy is discreet, he's probably on the outskirts or by the bayou." Maybe Alastor knew better than him, he was more in tune with the city but this place was pretty active. Unsettlingly so.

"You ever want to do it, pal? Just catch a killer live or be right there in the thick of it, just for a scoop. Not many have ever done that sort of journalism before, it's all relayed information. It's boring." It would be far more fun to interview these assholes, exploit them for every penny they were worth.

"You are asking if I ever want to watch as someone gets disembodied? I don't know. The sound of ribs cracking might be something. I've witnessed murder up close before, my sheltered friend. It's not that special. Like a broadcast without a good personality, if you don't have someone with flair executing the deed, why bother tuning in?" Alastor kept on walking, leading them to better lit streets and ignoring anyone they passed by, even though some seemed to recognise him.

"What would you ask, then? If you interviewed a killer."

"I supposed I'd ask why. What's the benefit? Do you get off on it? Is it for the power or just the act? Do you feel justified? Cause I get it, means to an end and all. For all I know, they were dicks and he was just in a bad mood." How would he know? That was why he wanted a chance to talk to him first. Second hand information was something everyone had.

He wanted something first hand. "For this whole enterprise to work, we have to stand out and prove we're superior to other forms of entertainment - no offence, of course. We need to be unique. We need to push boundaries and do what others wouldn't."

Obviously, he couldn't broadcast a dead body but he could interview a killer, right?

"Most murders are either a matter of money or crimes of passion. I'm not sure what bores me more." Alastor yawned to showcase just how little interest those motives held for him. He stopped at a streetcorner, turning to face Vincent. "So maybe you are right, Vincent. Our current killer might be of more interest."

He shrugged, taking a step back. "Remember to catch my broadcast tomorrow. Lovely to meet you. I assume you won't be here for long, so remember to get some good food. You haven't lived until you've tasted a fresh beignet."

Salutations!

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