New Orleans, Louisiana. 1936 —————————————————

It was a late, but active. In the night ,New Orleans, didn’t rest. It stayed alive and breathing until the crack of dawn.

Alastor had the privilege, if you could even call it that, of being invited to a rather fancy gathering in a speakeasy. He could play the piano, and his good friend Mimzy would be there. How could he refuse?

Alastor thought his work might be paying off. His charm and careful persuasion to make folk of a lighter complexion see him more as another person of color in their way. His occupation as an esteemed radio host bought him opportunities the average man of color couldn't dream of. It was the 30's after all, people like him had to work harder for a life that already should’ve been theirs.

Alastor was playing a few classics on the piano, everybody swinging to the jazz and the carefully played melody, Mimzy kicking her feet on top of the piano. Things were great. When he finished playing, a couple of ladies tried to sway him with sweet talkings and candy coated words. But, of course, Alastor passed up all of them. Stopping in the middle of the dance floor, chatting up an unimportant conversation with a posh white man.

You accidentally bump into Alastor as you tried to walk past him. You're red wine splashed over his white shirt sleeve. He glared at you but didn't say a word, knowing you, a white man, would "win" whatever argument he posed.