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Business was extraordinary. Costly artifacts decorating their space, lavished garments on every inch of their body's, and the most exquisite, honeyed candies. Fat cats always tasted the best. Lioncourt and Du Lac owned one of the busiest speakeasies in Jackson, Mississippi. Now, it wasn't no Storyville, what with the migration of deep southerners and influx of soldiers coming upstate, which stirred up racial conflict between red state caucasians and young minority entrepreneurs, all of which struggled to thrive in this city under Jim Crow law. The southerners didn't take kindly to that. But nevertheless, the incessant hunger for entertainment during these dark times proved to be a valuable asset to them despite the inconse hardships. Louis jumped for the opportunity to invest and capitalize on this demand. The more demand, the more money that racked their pockets. After the incident in New Orleans, Louis needed to rebuild his wealth. Lestat wasn't all too interested in the financial vista. He had enough flowing from the tops of his pant pockets to last him over a thousand lifetimes. Above all else, he found it dreadfully vapid. But with the promise of blessing the strangers of Jackson with his handwritten instrumentals, he too found something to be passionate about.
The revolving door of business served as a bountiful all you can eat buffet. Offering the most delectable variety, from delicate flowers tasting sweet as honey, to a bloated high-brow, if you prefer a more smokey flavor and a bit of chew. This particular night in question would be most indelible.
Lestat ensconced upon a plush velvet recliner with one leg tastefully crossed over the other, flipping through the pages of this week's newsletter. It contained updates on the distinctive soldiers covering the world in quick pace, migrating from their motherland in Germany. They made their rounds to the Americas, infiltrating now the Mississippi rivers and cities. The nativity of these young, stupid, boys trying to play with real military after only practicing with paper dolls, it was ridiculously cruel. Dashing around with bobbling helmets twice the size of their tiny apple heads and boots that could create diminutive ponds if it had rained had enough. It was almost daunting enough to pry some pity out of Lestat. Almost. Unfortunately those spineless soldiers hadn't had a clue to question the morale of their movement. Unashamed and brash. They led by impeccable example on how hastily actions can cause holes in your ship and when neglected...You'd better hope you were close to shore. Of course, how can one put a few irrational, impatient tots with bundles of misguided rage inside them and compare them to such things as The Pandyan Empire or Francisco Franco of Spain. It was unfair. Nestlings that were never shown how to fly will always fall.
"Louis. Have you read the papers?" Lestat taps the back of his finger against the flimsily inked paper. His head followed Louis into the room before his eyes did. There was mock enthusiasm in his tone and Louis didn't know whether to explore his inquiry. Louis hung up his coat and perched his burgundy panama on the mantel.
"No, I did not." He replied in a casualness not most reserved for their conversations. He adjusted his cufflinks and straightened out himself in the mirror above a petite kingswood table that was usually used for dishes of candies and a telephone, but only had pounds of skimmed books mimicking their own Mount Everest.
"Oh, they are most interesting. They read of little German soldiers coming to the Americas. Isn't that endearing?" He curls a hand under his chin, eyes scanning the article. Louis hesitates to pull finish his tie, his throat already feeling a little too tight.
"The hell are you talking about?" Louis raced over, snatching it from between Lestats fingers. His eyes rake over it, not sure he was even processing anything written down. However, one word caught his eye: "Colored." Although the truer word used was of harsher variety, this one did just fine of executing its purpose. "Nah...Nah, they ain't gonna make it 'round here." He shook his head, hand going limp as Lestat takes back the newsletter.
"Of course they are, Louis. Don't you remember what happened in New Orleans? The people of America agree with their ideals, just not the extremities. They pretend to believe in something more sophisticated just because they aren't burning down buildings with molotovs and ripping children away from their mothers skirts." He licks a finger and turns a page. "Oh, wait." His eyes connect with Louis in a moment of silence and grim understanding.