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Now, “dipped in sin from birth” is not a phrase Lonnie Crisp would ever hear in his waking days, but if he were to, it would surely be something he’d take upon himself and wear with pride.
It’s not like he came from rough beginnings, no, not at all, rough beginnings are for fools who wear the masks of devils, not the devils themselves. Lonnie was born with a silver spoon on his forked tongue, bestowed the name Bartenstein Fox , son of some very wealthy Prussian merchants.
With enough wealth comes the freedom to do nothing, and nothing Bartenstein did. He spent the morning with his private tutors, the afternoon avoiding his obnoxious younger siblings, and the evenings and nights nothing.
And it was at the age of seven that Bartenstein realized he didn’t much like doing nothing.
So, one afternoon, he narrowly escaped the clutches of his little siblings, through the front door, and out the grand gate that shut off his parent’s little patch of paradise from the uncivilized outside world.
As the boy made his way through town, he learned there was a great deal of somethings to do. And he cannot decide which ones he’d like to do first.
At one moment, he’s crushing ants against the sidewalk, just to feel powerful. The next, he’s chasing a street cat until it climbs somewhere his small frame can’t reach. In another, he’s wiggling his two loose front teeth to make a little girl scream.
There is so much to do that he cannot comprehend why anyone would keep him locked up in that dusty old mansion.
As the sky began to be painted with reds and golds, Bartenstein’s stomach growled. The one bad thing with having something to do is that it made him quite hungry. At least there were plenty of vendors near him, soon to close up shop for the night.
Bartenstein was a boy who knew nothing of need or want. Everything was placed directly into his expecting hands. So, he didn’t know you had to give something up to receive what you want outside of his parent’s estate. He was Bartenstein Fox! He gets whatever he wants!
That’s why he took an apple off of a cart and began just walking away with it, wiping the dirty skin off on his expensive shirt. He didn’t even notice the owner of the cart screaming at him until a disgusting hand was placed on his shoulder, spinning him around.
The owner was saying something in a dialect Bartenstein was too rich to understand, reaching for the apple.
But Bartenstein Fox knew not of need or want or the exchange of commerce. All he knew was that this horrid man was stealing what was his.
So he sunk his teeth into the man’s hand, and bit harder and harder until he tasted iron.
(Later, when returned home by a police officer, Bartenstein offered his parents a smile, the front two teeth missing. He’d left them in the man’s hand as payment for the apple.)
~*~
The thing about doing something is that you can do something far too often, often enough that it turns boring, boring enough it turns nothing.
And, at the age of eighteen, Bartenstein Fox still doesn’t like doing nothing.
Unfortunately, as he grew, schooling faded into something of his past and his father began to bring him into business meetings full of nothing men with nothing to say, but so many words tumbling out of their brain dead mouths.
So, eighteen was the age he started sneaking out his window, over the gate, and into the seedier parts of town. Bars and whorehouses and back rooms of run-down stores where people gather and pass around either drink or pipe.
It’s in one of those bars where Bartenstein met Otto Kaufmann. Or, at least, it’s where Otto met him. The man was obsessed with him from first sight – and Bartenstein, or Barty, as Otto would take to calling him, wasn’t truly surprised. He knew he made a pretty picture. And for Barty’s feelings on Otto?
Well, Barty never had much proclivities for either sex. He just needed a warm body willing to give him all their attention for a spell, and he’s set.
Otto was what led him to a back room of the old merchant who had been run out of town years ago. Barty was sitting on the floor between Otto’s legs, resting his cheek on the man’s thigh. He would never actually submit to him, but Otto preferred timid boys, and Barty preferred someone’s hands on him.
Sometime during that night, Otto pressed a pipe to his lips and commanded him to take a hit. Barty felt a rush, felt more alive than he ever had before–
The feeling just lessened with every hit he took.
And coming down was the worst experience he’s ever had, and he swears to never do it again.
However, the next time he sat between Otto’s legs, he just… observed. Watched how every single person in that room went crazy for it, hands shaking with need until they finally got the pipe, cracked lips wrapping around it like a lover they’re failing to pleasure. It disgusted him. But, more than that, he saw opportunity.
So, later that night, after Otto took him to bed and Barty pretended like he was the greatest man alive, Barty slid a pouch of the drug from the front pocket of Otto’s discarded trousers.
Not for himself. He never wanted to feel that feeling again. Barty knew neither want or need, but he wanted something to do, and those who are foolish enough to fall down that rabbit hole deserved to be swindled by a rich man.
This went well for a few weeks until Barty got a little sloppy, and Otto wrapped his hand around Barty’s wrist so tight it bruised for a week afterwards. Barty barely got out a surprised sound when a knife kissed his throat.
“You stupid fucking whore–”
Unfair for Otto to call Barty the whore, considering he was always the one lusting after Barty, but that didn’t matter then. What mattered was that Bartenstein Fox was not, and would never be, threatened by a man as small as Otto Kaufmann.
The man’s grip on the weapon was pathetic at best and perhaps what he’d expect out of a toddler at worst. So, when he goes to move his hand (just to disarm him, he swears), and Otto overcorrects, the knife ends up slashing straight across Otto’s face.
(The sound his eye made as the point of blade went straight through it will never leave Barty’s mind.)
Blood on his hands. Blood on his clothes.
Otto was still moving, still squirming in pain on the floor. Barty would be lying if he said that he didn’t get some sort of enjoyment out of it.
Not so strong now, are you, Otto?
Bartenstein Fox was not, and never will be, too foolish of a man. He knew what it looked like, knew how Otto would spin it if he survived. Knew there would only be one place for him if he stayed.
And, besides, hopping on the first ship to America also takes care of that pesky draft he’s been running from.
~*~
Alex Wilson, formerly Bartenstein Fox and a half dozen other names over the last decade, really loved America. So much to do, so many places to go, and so, so many fools to scam and steal.
Alex’s German accent was long gone by then, replaced by a kind of drawl that makes people look down on and underestimate him. A smile and a word, and nobody expects him to be the one in charge of the opium ring.
At least until Sheriff Bailey figured him out and threw his ass in prison. Fucking bastard Sammy Williams ratted him out, just to get off scott free. Fuck her.
(He did. Multiple times. But he means it in a very different way, now.)
Fourty. Fucking. Years. For what? A bit of opium?
…a lot of opium?
Whatever. In a prison, there is nothing to do. And Alex Wilson still despised doing nothing. So, he did what he did best.
He planned. Better than dying of boredom, at least.
There’s a guard at the prison – a short, stout man that Alex would’ve never given a second glance to in any other situation. In this one, however, Alex watched like a hawk. Watched him get too handsy with the inmates. Watched him leer at men in the showers. Watched him sneak off with a prisoner or two, besides, who was watching?
He disgusted Alex. Not for his homosexuality, or his clear abuse of his powers, but because he was so damn obvious about it. This man’s density had equal chances of helping and destroying Alex’s plan.
Luckily, the man was stupid, yes, but also so incredibly lustful that it only took three days of lounging lackadaisically in his cell, shirt riding up, pants hanging low, for the man to drag him aside.
It was quite simple from there. When he went to kiss Alex, he headbutted him instead. When the guard stumbled back, Alex grabbed onto his collar and slammed his head into the concrete wall.
(Not enough to kill him. Never enough to kill someone. He’s seen the inside of a prison once, and he’d much rather not do it again.)
From there, he just had to steal a key and slip out unnoticed. Not a hard thing to do, seeing how stupid the entire prison seemed to be, inmates and guards both.
On his way into town, he shed his prison uniform and chucked it into a creek before stealing some new clothing from a line where it was drying in the sun. He needed it more, anyhow.
As he grew closer, the smell of salt grew thicker, and Alex had a new realization.
He needed a new identity, one completely disconnected from his old one.
A moment and a piece of paper on the ground, clearly lost.
Alex picked it up.
It was a seaman’s certificate for one Lon Crisp.
Well, sorry, Lonnie, but Alex needed it more.
~*~
For the first time in a damn long time, Lon Crisp wasn’t quite sure what to do.
He hung around New Bedford a few days, just trying to figure out the next step, ducking away from any form of authority he saw.
On the third day, he ducked the wrong way, and found himself in an… incredibly smokey room. He cleared his throat – he has no aversion to cigarette smoke, but there truly was so much in there.
They were an… interesting looking bunch. All men with painted faces and ladies and women in tight, sparkling costumes and an animal that Lon’s sure he’s never even heard of. A hand on his shoulder, somewhere between gentle and welcoming and firm.
“You look lost, stranger,” a sweet southern accent drawled from behind him. He turned to see a shorter woman with blonde ringlets falling around her face, wearing a costume that made her look a bit more like a sporting lady than whatever she’s supposed to be. A lit cigarette dangled between the thin fingers of her other hand.
A pretty woman, in any regard, and, by the way she was looking Lon up and down, he guessed she may like the view as well.
“Well, if I was, I doubt I am anymore.” Flirting came as easy breathing to Lon, after all this time.
She smirked back up at him, taking a drag of her cigarette. A wedding ring – a damn big one at that – glints on her finger.
“Well, I find only two type of folks come to the circus, sir. Those who are lost…” She took a step closer. “And those who are runnin’.”
“Which one am I?”
“Now that’s somethin’ you have to tell me, stranger. All I know is that if you need a place to hide, I got room to spare for a night.”
She offered him a hit of her cigarette.
And who would he be if he ever turned down a pretty face?
He took a drag off of it, and it tasted ever so slightly… off. It made his head spin in such a lovely way, though.
So, she led him through the back of the bar they were apparently in and to a railroad track nearby that was housing a circus train. As soon as they entered her small cabin, Lon was shoved against the door, being kissed wildly.
Hey. He likes a woman who knows what she wants.
He had her on the bed, unlacing her corset, when he took a glance up and finally noticed the gigantic poster of a man’s face, eyes staring straight into Lon’s soul. It had written advertisement – COME SEE THE INCREDIBLE HERSCHEL THE ALL SEEING!
The woman underneath him noticed his pause and followed his gaze to the poster. She scoffed in annoyance. “Oh, Lord, ignore that, please, he insists on puttin’ them everywhere they let him.”
“That your husband?”
He couldn’t seem to be able to look away. The man’s eyes were hypnotizing.
“Yeah. Don’t worry about that all-seeing thing, it's all psychic mumbo jumbo, but the crowds eat it up.”
Her hand curled behind his neck and yanked him back down.
…well. He couldn’t have been a very good psychic if he couldn’t even stop a man from sleeping with his wife.
~*~
When Lon woke up next, it was dark, and he was alone. He was not happy, because he doesn’t like waking up to a cold bed when he goes to sleep comfortable and warm. Or, at least, he thought he was alone.
In the corner stood a dark figure, a silhouette that Lon could only just make out.
“...hello?”
“Lon Crisp?”
The voice seemed to echo in his head like it was bouncing off each surface of his skull. He’d put his hands over his ears if he wasn’t frozen solid. He couldn’t even make his fingers twitch.
“Or should I say Alex Wilson?”
The figure stepped more into the light.
“Perhaps even… Bartenstein Fox?”
How the fuck did this guy know that?!
He stepped closer, and the moonlight streaming through the window finally fell upon his face.
Those eyes. He’d never forget them. They were the same ones that hung behind him. He was being watched from both angles. The hair stood on the back of his neck.
“Entwined with a lie, so you too shall die.”
What the fuck is this guy talking about?
Herschel just… continued to repeat the line, staring at Lon. And Lon. Couldn’t. Move.
Then, the greatest pain Lon Crisp had ever felt, the greatest pain Bartenstein Fox and every other person he had ever been had ever felt, wrapped around his arm, squeezed, burned.
Lon did not scream. He refused to let the man in front of him have the satisfaction.
When he finally, finally broke, he glanced down at his arm. What was once bare, smooth skin had been marred with the image of a snake. Visually, it looked almost tattoo-like, but if Lon were to touch it, he swore it looked like he could feel the scales.
He knew his mouth opened, but he did not remember screaming.
Something snapped within Lon, and he could finally move. He didn’t even bother to grab his overshirt as he fled from the circus train.
He ran and he ran and he ran until his lungs finally started to constrict and he was forced to slow. He patted his pockets – money clip still there. The money clip that held together the few things he really needed, cash and Lon Crisp’s papers.
Lon looked down at his arm. The snake stared back, the skin around the new black ink a bright red.
Fuck.
…Lon needed a drink.
~*~
Lon laid low for the next week until the circus left town again. Mostly bounced from whorehouse to whorehouse to bar to tavern to inn to wherever he could that he didn’t see any circus folk at.
When he finally heard the train whistle blow and didn’t see any more obnoxiously sparkly outfits, he relaxed, walked his ass to the most populated tavern he could find, and sat and drank until he found someone who caught his eye.
Now, Lon wasn’t unfamiliar with sailors, hell, he’s bedded a few of them, as rough and unattractive as the lot of them may be, but it’s never an enjoyable experience when too many of them are at one bar. Like there are right now.
One sailor, however, intrigued the hell out of Lon.
And, just looking at the man, he looked like he knew how to suck cock.
So, Lon saunters up, all bravado and suave, before leaning himself up against the bar. He grins at the man, too many teeth.
“Hey, sailor.” He arches his back so that his too-unbuttoned shirt shows off his chest a little more.
The man looks him up and down before smiling back, just as many teeth.
“Your fly is down.”
(God
dammit–
)
Lon is never one to back down from a challenge, though. Without breaking eye contact, his hand travels downwards to make himself
decent.
“Sorry about that,” he drawls. Usually, he would never be this bold in public with a man, but he’s been to this tavern before to know it’s safe, and he’s fucked the owner enough to know that no one would say a word.
The man across from him seems… unimpressed, but not at all uninterested. He leans in closer, eyes intense.
“Look, friend, I’m not here to find a rent-boy and pay–”
“Wait, stop–” Lon holds up a hand. “Who said anything about paying? I’m just looking for a place to… spend the night, if you catch my meaning.”
The man pauses, visibly considers. After a long moment, he pulls a key from his pocket, makes sure that Lon sees the room number attached to it. ‘
12.
’
“I think I’m just going to turn in for the night.”
He pays for his drink, and he’s gone like that.
Lon waits a respectable amount of time, finishes his own drink, and then makes his way up to find the room. He doesn’t even knock, he just opens the door. Not his fault it wasn’t locked.
The man he met downstairs is relaxed on the bed, a lit cigarette dangled precariously on his lips. He smiles.
“Can’t a man get some privacy anymore?”
Lon saunters up to the side of the bed, puts a hand on the headboard and leans over him. Swiftly, Lon plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a drag.
“If you want privacy, your door’s got a lock.”
Smoke pours out of Lon’s lips as he speaks. The sailor beneath him raises an eyebrow. It’s clear he likes a challenge.
“Well, do I at least get a name?”
“Lonnie. You?”
“Mate.”
“Trust me,” Lon teases as he extinguishes the cigarette on the bedside table. “I plan to.”
~*~
Mate’s a good fuck. He’s in port for two weeks, and Lon finds himself in bed about eight times. It’s the last time, the day before he leaves again, when Lon’s getting dressed and a paper falls out his back pocket.
Mate (in a move he will later claim was purely helpful, though Lon knows he was snooping) picks them up. He goes to hand them back when—
“You’re a sailor?”
Lon turns, grabs the paper out of his hand a bit too roughly.
“And if I was?”
He’s probably acting a bit too defensive, but he doesn’t like to be caught with his pants down. Literally.
Mate just looks up at him. It’s what he likes about Mate, but at the same time what drives him fucking insane about the man. Lon can snap and bite and bare his teeth all he wants and Mate would just look at him like he was picking flowers.
It’s also incredibly attractive.
“Well, I’d tell you our crew is still short one, if you’d wanna join up. Have a real adventure insteada just hauling cargo from port to port,” Mate tells him, smiling like he’s never had a worry in the fucking world.
Lon’s about to tell him to go fuck himself when he catches a quick glimpse of a police cart rumbling down the street.
…can’t much be arrested when you’re in the middle of nowhere.
So, he looks to Mate and grins a shark grin.
“Why the hell not?”