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“You're not actually going to call it, are you?”
“That number's probably somebody else's by now, Papi.”
On the coffee table in front of them, the rim of a clear glass bottle glinted in the lamplight. Beside it, curling at the edges and threatening to roll itself back up, lay a note written in calligraphically neat handwriting that said only this:
For an unforgettable experience, call 504-666-5455
Though his partners saw it as a novel waste of time, Vincent saw an opportunity for adventure. “Ah, c'mon. Taking chances led me to you two, didn't it?”
Valentino and Velvette sighed in unison. He was right, of course, and they couldn't deny it.
“If you meet up with some stranger and wind up murdered, don't say I didn't warn you,” Velvette countered smartly before diving back into Instagram for another round of doomscrolling.
“You know he never listens, queridita.” Val sank deeper into the couch cushions and casually lit another cigarette.
Vincent reached for his phone.
Another day, another corpse buried beneath a freshly planted rose bush.
It had been his first kill since that obnoxious tourist on Mardi Gras, and Alastor had savored every moment of it. From the terror flashing in his unsuspecting victim's eyes to the familiar heft of his shovel packing the dirt around the latest addition to his garden, the process was almost meditative. There was always a certain je nais se quoi about wrapping a wire around a poor soul's neck and feeling him thrash about like a hooked catfish until the life left his eyes. The most satisfying part, however, was always gutting his prey, the edge of his knife splitting the exposed skin like an overripe tomato and the soft squish of entrails hot between his fingers.
Covered in blood, he never felt more alive.
Just as he finished spreading the last handful of mulch around the base of the bush, his back pocket began to ring. There was only one person who could possibly be calling his brand new burner phone:
Victim #23
Once again, the hot flush of anticipation sang in his veins.
“Can you believe it? It was a guy, and he still wants to take me out!” Vincent preened, ready to prove both of his partners wrong about the lonely bottle messenger. “He didn't even care that I'm poly, either! What are the odds, you know?”
Velvette's eyes peeked over the edge of her phone as Val pulled the cigarette from his mouth.
“Serial killer,” the two agreed flatly in unison.
“Oh, come on!” Vincent threw his jacket on and made one final check in the mirror. “Gay people exist!”
Val snorted wryly, twin clouds of smoke rolling out of his nostrils like a mystical dragon. “Just because I had your dick in my mouth last night doesn't mean you're not meeting a murderer.”
Vincent rolled his eyes and growled as he wrenched the door open to leave.
“Have fun getting stabbed!” Velvette called out as he then slammed it behind himself.
Twenty Three arrived right on schedule, dressed in the kind of sharp business attire that said, “I've never ventured outside the big city! Please lure me into the bayou where no one can hear my screams!”
He also carried himself with the sort of foolishly arrogant demeanor that a body could infer meant nothing was happening behind his mismatched eyes. The streak of gray hair above his blue one might've been more intriguing if he would ever stop flapping his lips for one second.
Something something TV studios.
Whatever. It didn't matter because he wouldn't be doing it for much longer.
Regardless, Alastor smiled and nodded, casually sipping his coffee while Twenty Three rambled on about the mundane life he'd fled to New Orleans to escape.
“And that's when I told him to shove it up his ass! Can't a guy get a break anymore?” he complained about something or other.
Alastor considered gagging him or knocking him out with a sedative before doing the usual.
Unfortunately, there was one tiny hiccup to his usual plan: Twenty Three had gone on vacation with a couple of his lovers, who strangely didn't mind sharing him with each other and a potential new partner. The added difficulty in evading the authorities was less than welcome.
Then again, Alastor had never tried taking multiple victims at once.
“But enough about me,” Twenty Three said finally. “You said you're local, right? What kinda business you in?”
Alastor's persistent smile widened. “I'm a butcher.”