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The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2
Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.
Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.
What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.
But two could play that game.
Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)
Word Count: 6800
Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)
Taglist - comment or message to be added!
Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)
< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >
PART 1: Chapter 2
Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.
Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.
The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.
The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.
Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.
Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.
Until October hit.
Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.
“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”
It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.
It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.
It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.
It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.
After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.
Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.
Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.
“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”
You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.
“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”
“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”
As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.
“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”
Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.
The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.
Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.
When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.
Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.
Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.
Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.
It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.
Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.
To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.
Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:
To the Owner.
Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.
---
December 4 th, 1929
Dear Owner,
I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.
I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.
Regards,
Mr A. Boudreaux
---
You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.
Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.
Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.
---
December 6 th, 1929
Dear Mr Boudreaux,
Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.
The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.
Regards,
---
Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.
Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.
--------------------------------------------------------------
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.
Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.
Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.
“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.
Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.
“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”
He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”
You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.
“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”
You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”
“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.
You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.
“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.
“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”
“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”
You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.
The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.
“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.
You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”
“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”
You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.
He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.
‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’
Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.
Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)
You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”
Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”
You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.
Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”
You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”
At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”
You frowned. “Them?”
He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”
Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.
“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”
Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.
“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”
Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.
A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”
“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.
He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”
Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”
“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”
All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.
----------------------------------------
After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.
Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.
Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.
You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.
“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.
Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:
‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’
“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.
The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.
“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”
He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”
You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.
Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.
---
December 7 th, 1929
To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,
I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.
I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Best Wishes,
Mr A. Boudreaux
---
If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.
Was this guy fucking for real??
You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.
Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.
It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.
You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.
Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”
“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.
“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.
“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.
You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”
“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.
“I got your letter.”
“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”
Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.
And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.
“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”
You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.
Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.
“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.
“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Does uh, anyone want more memes?
I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!
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< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >
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*feeds you content a lot earlier than I thought*
Taglist: @theredviolets @mybrainsautocorrect @all-user-error @belos-simp69 @boogiemansbitch @elio-ee @snowlotr @mistresslemonsuger @sugasweettea @jaygrl22 @mysterypotatoink @yunimimii @threefingeredpencil @mydeardelphi @glowinthedarkbones1150 @fluffismystaplefood @writer-girl99 @rl800 @the-unhinged-raccoon @riritvt
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: COACH~5180~Vintage 1970s USA~Metropolitan~BLACK LEATHER LAPTOP BAG.
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What are the Most Popular Designer Handbags Right Now?
The Current Favorites in the USA
In the dynamic world of fashion, designer handbags are a key accessory that signifies style, status, and personal taste. In the USA, certain designer handbags have risen to prominence, captivating the hearts of both women and men. Let’s explore the most popular designer handbags right now across various communities and genders in the USA.
Top Designer Handbags for Women
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The Louis Vuitton Neverfull continues to be a favorite among American women. Known for its spacious design and timeless elegance, the Neverfull is versatile enough for both everyday use and special occasions. Its durability and the prestige of the Louis Vuitton brand make it a must-have for many.
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Top Designer Handbags for Men
1. Louis Vuitton Keepall
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2. Prada Saffiano Leather Briefcase
The Prada Saffiano Leather Briefcase is favored by professionals for its sleek design and practicality. This briefcase is crafted from Prada’s signature Saffiano leather, known for its resilience and sophisticated appearance. It’s ideal for men who want to make a refined impression in the business world.
3. Gucci Messenger Bag
The Gucci Messenger Bag is a trendy and practical option for men. Its crossbody design and ample storage space make it ideal for everyday use, while the iconic Gucci branding ensures a stylish look. It’s perfect for men who need a functional yet fashionable bag.
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Social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok play a significant role in popularizing these designer handbags. Influencers and celebrities frequently showcase their latest acquisitions, driving demand and setting trends. This visibility has a profound impact on the preferences of American consumers.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: COACH Vintage Lexington British Tan Leather Briefcase Bag Made in USA.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: COACH VINTAGE LEATHER CURTIS BAG CROSSBODY BAG STYLE 9975 VTG.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage LAURA USA Leather & Solid Brass Brown Messenger Shoulder Bag.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Leather Messenger Bag Tan Brown Shoulder Strap Made in USA Briefcase.
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Make a Statement with Pride Leather Messenger Bags Made in the USA for Every Occasion
Make a bold and proud statement with our made-in-USA leather messenger bags. Crafted with exceptional quality and attention to detail, these bags exude style and durability. Our leather messenger bags, made in the USA, are ideal for every occasion.
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How to choose a leather bag for your devices
There is no doubting the importance of leather bags; leather handbags are at the top of your list of "fashion essentials," and you won't be content until you have at least one. Bags and briefcases are becoming more than simply practical devices for transporting your daily essentials they are also a stylish statement. It makes sense why women spend more time than men looking for the ideal leather bag to complement their sense of style.
You should look for authentic leather bag stores online as soon as you've decided on the style of bag you need for your trip wardrobe, special occasion, party, or event. As a result, well-made websites with a variety of pricing and designs are sure to mislead online shops who advertise the sale of genuine leather bags. Leather bags have long been a favourite among the wide selection of bags on CarryMeBags. You are given the option to purchase items from either the USA or India with FREE shipping. At incredibly low costs, they'll offer a wide selection of the best-quality, stylish leather bags.
One such retailer is CarryMeBags, which provides a large selection of premium and real leather bags for men that mix the luxury and affordability of real full-grain leather bags. The online store has a wide range of options, including Agile bags, men's leather messenger bags, leather laptop briefcases, tote bags, duffel leather bags, and cross-body bags.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: COACH~5180~Vintage 19070s USA~Metropolitan~BLACK LEATHER LAPTOP BAG.
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Examining Leather Laptop Backpack Options Available Online
There are many options for transporting your notebook computer. But the best and most luxurious option is the McKlein USA leather laptop backpack. This company makes messenger bags, briefcases and laptop cases for men and women.Two models of leather backpacks are available online in black or business.
Briefcases are usually carried with a handle, while messenger bags have a strap for the shoulder. Backpacks can be worn or carried as a briefcase.Comfortable padding and long-wearing Neoprene make the shoulder straps ideal for relieving stress. A heavy bag that is too heavy to be carried over one shoulder should not be allowed. This can cause uneven strain on the spine, shoulder and neck muscles.
The fine leather case can be pulled along by two detachable wheels. Also, the handle retracts to 19 inches.The padded shoulder straps can be attached to make it a traditional briefcase or a backpack.If you're traveling with additional luggage, another strap can be used for attachment to the suitcase.Kanken Sale
McKlein's first leather case was designed for those with larger laptops who have to travel long distances or need to carry their laptop around on the road. It features a detachable system that allows you to attach wheels and a telescoping handle.The strap on this high-end case can be used to attach it to luggage or to roll it along when you travel through airports or metro stations.You can also use the heavier and larger style as a backpack, or carry it with the hand grip as a regular briefcase.
The larger bag is made from oil-tanned leather and the smaller one is made from cashmere.Both can be customized with initials and a company logo.Waterproof cases can be added to protect finely made items from the elements and dirt of travel.
Manufacturers offer personalization. Custom orders may take longer, but it will be so nice to have your bag branded with your initials or your name.For employee recognition or rewards, companies can have their logo printed on the bags.
You can easily find leather laptop backpacks online. However, you may want to shop at a site that has the best prices.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Copper River Bag Co. 17" Large Bag Brown Distressed messenger satchel Leather.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: COACH VINTAGE LEATHER CURTIS BAG CROSSBODY BAG STYLE 9975 VTG.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage LAURA USA Leather & Solid Brass Brown Messenger Shoulder Bag.
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The Monthly Huckberry Giveaway: March 2019
Below you’ll find some of my favorite recent offerings from Huckberry. Enter the giveaway to win any of these items, or anything else available in their store (up to a value of $500). My Picks This Month 1. Filson Briefcase. The Filson name alone means this bag will hold up for decades. Made with a heavy-duty nylon fabric, this bag finds the sweet spot between hard-sided briefcases and unstructured messenger bags. 2. Klitmoller Benjamin Flannel. Hardy apparel inspired by the sea and built for a lifetime of adventure. Made with a durable cotton fabric and pre-washed/pre-shrunk so that it’s cozy and fits perfectly right out the box. 3. Relwen Covert CPO. The sleekest and most stylish windbreaker available. While winter months may technically be nearing an end, that nip in the air — especially when it’s dark out — won’t soon be going away. This jacket cuts the wind, but looks sharp enough to wear to the office when needed. 4. Bexar Goods Duffel. Every leather and canvas good from Bexar is handmade in San Antonio. This particular duffel features a waxed canvas body and premium leather straps, all sourced from the USA. The last duffel you’ll ever need. 5. PackMack FZ Jacket. A European-engineered waterproof jacket that weighs about the same as a cup o’ noodles. Breathable construction keeps you dry both outside and in — no more sweating in your stuffy jacket. 6. MWC G-10 Watch. MWC — Military Watch Company — has long been supplying their wares to military units, first responders, and police forces. Their vintage-inspired watches aren’t just for those folks though; as a civilian you can get your hands on them as well. Features tough stainless steel, 100-meter water resistance, and 10-year battery life. 7. DB Equipment Carryall. A spacious duffel bag for every occasion (that also happens to be compliant with airline overhead bins). DB has taken their penchant for ski bags and made a duffel for the masses. A handy bottom pocket keeps dirty stuff separate. 8. Give’r Gloves. Heavy-duty, waterproof, and insulated, these bad boys are built to withstand anything, from grabbing a burning log out of a fire to ice fishing in below-zero temps. These have been my favorite gloves for years. 9. Case Knives Mini Trapper. With over a century of expertise packed into every blade, this classic two-bladed trapper knife from Case is sure to find a spot in your EDC. Special high-carbon steel holds an edge longer than conventional steel. 10. Upstate Sheets. Pure cotton sheets that get softer with every wash. Sleeps perfectly in every season, and they generously included a Top/Bottom indicator, so there’s no more guessing which direction the sheets go. Why don’t more companies do that? The Prize Any item currently available on Huckberry (up to a value of $500). Be sure to check out the current line-up of items as it changes every week. Enter the Giveaway If you are an email subscriber, do not reply to this email to make your entry. You must click on the title of this post, which will take you to the post on our web page where you can make your entry. Use the form below to enter. Don’t forget that you have multiple ways to enter! The more of them you do, the better your chances are! Monthly Huckberry Giveaway: March ’19 Deadline to enter is Tuesday, March 12th at 11:59PM (CT). We’ll then select one random winner. Good luck! The post The Monthly Huckberry Giveaway: March 2019 appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/R0Bb9Q
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