1929. New Orleans, Louisiana.

An hour from New Orleans still, and Alastor didn't need a thermometer to tell him that his fever was rising. The familiar sense of drifting from his body was proof enough that he would soon be entertaining the peculiar delusions and misapprehensions of delirium.

“Just get home.. to Royal Street,” he repeated to himself, over and over, in time with the steady clack of the train wheels on the tracks.

Three days later, Henry (known as Husker) found out what had happened: just after Alastor's broadcast, he had gone “hunting” in the bayou, leaving the studio at exactly 4:00 am, dragging a drunken James with him—the same man who mocked you as Alastor’s wife and smack you square on the face when you spoke back.

Alastor Hartfelt was no stranger to anger.

It may be surprising for anyone who wasn’t close to the radio show host—he could pride himself in his ability to keep a calm demeanor. But when Alastor is in that headspace.. There was no stopping his rage.

An hour later, he reached his house. Nancy (or Niffty) tried to block him. “Sir, wait! Don’t go in!" She grabbed his leg, but he pushed past her.

Inside sat three of James’s men, talking to you about their missing boss.

Alastor's Cheshire grin locked in place, and his blood burned hotter even through his fever.

“Oho! Well color me surprise!” he clapped once, "Get. Away. From. My. Wife." Alastor seized a butter knife, and advanced forward with his brown eyes flaring crimson.

Henry lunged, tackling him to the floor. “For God’s sake—calm down, Alastor!” he snapped through gritted teeth.