#[alastor]

[deaddixie]

Alastor suddenly lays on Dixie and pulls him close, nibbling at his neck.

Attacked out of nowhere, and losing his hat, he is understandably flustered. "Ah- mon dieu-"

Upon realization that it is simply one Alastor, he grumbles to himself. "Warn me next time...bâtard."

[deaddixie]

It’s been a week since he and Alastor had last talked. He’d made sure the bar was clear today. A couple disgruntled murmurs here and there but they understood. Business was business.

As he anxiously awaits the arrival of the other, he’s got himself a whiskey glass with an ice cube in it. Mid-sip, he hears the door open. To be expected around this time.

He glances over, thinking nothing of their entry, before glancing again and doing a good spit-take, wiping their mouth. Their face says it all. A conglomeration of confusion and bewilderment. Hurrdily something is scribbled on the board.

‘You’ve got to be messing with me.’

@kingofvoodoo

[deaddixie]

Dixie cannot possible write any faster than he is right now. It’s in extra big letters.

‘BUSINESS PARTNERS’

[deaddixie]

“Hah! Can you believe this shit? Man, that princess is in for a wild surprise once we light this bitch up! Buildin’ a hotel on my turf, who the fuck does she think she is?” Spouts one particularly mouthy Turf Boss.

“I mean I would be careful, you never know what she’ll do to you.” Comes a reply from his lackey. One of many.

“Can it, bitch, we’re sending a message.”

“Boss, you don’t know how she’ll react. She might-” They’re slapped upside the head.

“Oh, what, be nice to me? Sh’yeah, right. Get this shit off my block.” He pulls a bottle of flammable liquid out from behind his back, lighting the rag inserted into it. He cocks back his hand and tosses it. There’s the crack of a rifle, and the bottle explodes, flames going everywhere as the rest of it harmlessly hits the ground.

The Boss and his lackies recoil, looking around and drawing weapons. Guns, knives, whatever it might be. Another shot rings out, a plume of smoke from the roof of the Hotel itself. One lackey clutches his chest and collapses. The rest look to the roof, but the assassin’s already gone.

Dixie’s slid down the roof and used his tail to hang upside down from a street lamp, stuffing a paper cartridge down the barrel of his Whitworth sniper and then ramming it home with the ramrod, stowing it and clicking the hammer back. He’s made few modifications to it over the years, favoring the original muzzle-loading configuration to anything else. Upside down, he takes another shot, this one ripping through a second demon’s spine. By now, they’re on to him, and Dixie slings his rifle and pulls the strap tight, dropping onto the street below.

The boss snarls. “We had a deal, Dixie! This ain’t even your turf!”

Dixie raises his revolver and clicks the hammer back. “I-It is n-now.” He pulls the trigger, cratering the Boss’s skull with a .44 Magnum round. They fall to their knees, blood spurting from their neck and viscera splattering as they collapse into the road. The rest of the lackies take a step back.

Dixie clicks the hammer back on his revolver again. “We c-c-can do this t-the easy way, or th-the hard way.” Burning eyes scan the small crowd. “Ya’ll g-got me outnumbered f-f-f-fifteen to one.” He pulls out his second revolver. “S-Seven rounds, plus s-s-s-six. Thirteen sh-shots. Fift-t-teen heads.” He clicks the hammer back.

“You feel lucky, punks?”

They look at each other, then at him, then back at each other, then at their boss. The group decision is final, and they scatter like cockroaches.