Chapter Text

Friday, September 13th, 1968

A shrill ringing cut through the air, the sound a common occurrence and enough to drive anyone up the wall, but it gave Rody a rush of dopamine each time he heard it, for he always knew who was on the other end. Hastily, he slammed the fridge shut and rushed over to the coffee table beside it, the dialing phones charming crimson a sharp contrast to the rest of the apartments nauseating beige, lean hand reaching over, fingers curling around the cheap plastic encasing, he brought the vibrating phone to his mouth

 “Hello?” He spoke eagerly into the receiver.

“Rodrick, you fucking douchbag ” 

He grinned at the sound of the honeyed voice, coated with a thick, New yorkers accent belonging to none other than his darling Mannon.

“Hey baby, how was work? Danced ‘till ya’ dropped dead again?” 

“I don’t know, how was another day of doing absolutely fucking nothing in your pathetic excuse of a house that you live in? Esme told me you got laid off, again! And you didn’t even bother to tell me? tu enfoiré de merde!” Her voice grew high-pitched whenever she yelled, something the man had come to treasure; unless, of course, he was on the receiving end of the yelling.

“I know, I’m sorry,” He sighed, “I just didn’t know how to tell you, I didn’t want to make you upset! I tried to, that other night at the pier! But you kept going on and on about your Instructor and how much of an asshole he was! I couldn’t fit it in!”

He paced around the room, his only room besides the bathroom, actually, the place wasn’t much, but Rody called it home. A monthly payment of only 200 francs for a whole 10 square meters of housing, albeit moldy, virtually crumbling housing, with paint flaking off the walls, managing to simultaneously smell of both the sterility of hospital equipment and the sickly-sweet smell of human sewage, probably a result of the poor piping that caused it to constantly leak from the roof, the steady drip of water into a dingy metal bucket often being what lulled him to sleep most nights as he tossed and turned on his old, dirty-beige couch. Rody thinks he might’ve broken the springs a while back, probably when he’d thrown Mannon onto it and fucked her ‘till she was screaming, causing the neighbours to hammer on the walls to get them to quiet down; they didn’t. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyways, as his back always hurt regardless of where he’d lay, even in Mannons four-poster king-sized that she’d scatter a variety of miscellaneous satin pillows consisting of different shades of yellow all over the base of the head-board, swearing it was great for your skin. She took great pride in maintaining her appearance, and had somehow gotten Rody into the habit also. 

“Yeah, I know! I’ll get another job, I swear! Just give me some time dear, and you never answered my question, anyhow, so - how was your day?” Perhaps in guilt of the days laze, as pointed out by his girlfriend, Rody desperately stumbled around looking for something to do, the dialing phone’s base tucked under his arm and the phone itself pressed between his slanted head and shoulder. His gaze briefly came across the sink full of dishes, but decided to save it for another day, instead he made his way to the bathroom, placing the phones base on the sink, tilting his shoulder closer to his ear in order to hear Mannon properly as she proceeded to talk about the contents of her day, not before she made Rody swear to her that he’d get to job-hunting as soon as he had lunch. He caught his own gaze in the cracked mirror above, where the red-head would meticulously work on his complexion every morning and, having neglected his usual routine that day, he opened up the drawer behind it, revealing an array of self-care products, ranging from cheap, corner-store facemasks, to high end luxury scrubs that he’s pocketed from a wealthy woman, having not noticing the subtle shift in the weight of her Chanel purse, too busy scrunching her face in disgust, muttering under her breath of the audacity of some street Junkie to knock into someone like her, did he know who she was ? Yeah, a total prick , he remembered thinking. He set the bottles alongside the phones base, arranging them in the chronological order of his routine, used some hairclips to clip back the excess strands of hair falling on his face, and set to work as Mannon voice spoke endearingly from the speaker, complaints of her domestic struggles, alongside work ones. Rody would respond when appropriate, else just hum in agreement whenever there was a slight pause in her monologue. Sure, the rest of his life was decaying around him, and he may have no job or any noteworthy qualifications but at the very least his skin was akin to

a Greek god, and he had an ever-loving girlfriend that could put fucking Aphrodite to shame, what more could he ever want?

As the day bled into night, the semi-circle of the sun peeked over the horizon, a harsh orange surrounded by a ring of red that claimed territory on the depressing grey 

remainder of the sky, the whole of it being dusted by even greyer clouds; a visual telling of how it had rained only a few hours prior. Rody biked through the roads he’d grown to love so dearly these past seven years. The bike, much like his landline, was also a shocking shade of crimson, its pedals worn out due to years of use. One specific part of the front wheel seemed to be hopelessly in love with the ground, however, for it always seemed to linger on it for far too long, no matter how hard Rody kicked the pedals. He rang his bell at pedestrians on the street whenever he rode past in order to warn them of the upcoming splash of water each time his wheels rammed into the excess of puddles scattering across the cobble-stone paths, rims of each stone reflecting the golden glow of the sun, illuminating the way as he made haste for the convenience-store before stopping outside the familiar hexagon-shaped building, walls a calming opal, titled the Magasin de tout. Propping the bike against the outer-wall, he pushed the door open, the little bell chiming gently to indicate his arrival. 

“Mornin’ Rody” The shopkeeper said, nodding in his direction.

“Morning, sir” He bowed back, albeit more lower than necessary, eliciting a chuckle from the older man. Rody picked up a shopping basket and made his way through the aisles, knocking down the items he needed off the shelf and catching them once they fell. Finally, he came across the magazine section, placed on one of the the outward curves of the shelf, probably to put emphasis on it, sat a fresh, glossy copy of the Collectionneurs latest addition, centred around gourmet cooking. It was 10 francs, and 10 more francs than Rody could afford. Glancing around to see if no one was looking, he silently slipped the magazine inside his coat, tucking it under his arm, before walking over to the counter and paying for the rest of his groceries as though nothing happened.  

Instead of heading home, Rody sat on the park bench, eating a packet of crisps, flicking through his newly acquired magazine. On the cover was a tall, handsome man not unlike what one would expect of a vampire. In a pristine white chefs uniform that looked too tight to be practical. His skin was pale and there were heavy bags under his eyes, his cheekbones and jaw sharp enough to cut paper. The composition made the photo appear candid, depicting him engaging in the simple act of chopping vegetables, but he looked so composed it looked unnerving, a straight posture, head tilted down ever so slightly and bony fingers firm around the wooden handle of a knife that looked as though it could slice human skin like paper. The inside contained recipes that Rody knew he’d burn the whole kitchen down if he ever tried them, as well as exclusive interviews with lots of famous food critics and chefs, the final article, however, was what stood out to him the most.

A total of 7 years have past since the opening of the renowned “La Gueule De Saturne”, a place where only the wealthy dine, the price of a mere steak costing more than most peoples rent, staff consisting of only 6 chefs, a security guard and none other than Vincent Charbonneau himself (See cover for appearance), who personally served all patrons dining at the establishment. However, he recently came out with the news that he was now searching for a waiter, one of high qualifications and eloquent mannerisms to serve the guests on his behalf, as he is no longer able to do so, when questioned as to why, he refused to give a direct answer. He contacted a variety of high-end newspapers and magazines to showcase the job advertisement, ours included, saying that those who wish to apply should call at the number below: 

+2 86 4 2684

Call only was emphasised, as it was stated that all other forms of contact would be ignored. 

Content about the position, including hours and wages was never specified, but one thing can be said for sure, Monsieur Charbonneau would only ever choose the best of the best to serve his esteemed diners.

La Gueule De Saturne wasn’t too far from where Rody lived, It was the kind of place nobody mentioned to each other but somehow everyone knew, a gothic structure reminiscent of a church, with stained glass windows that depicted infamous painting of gruesome acts, the place perched on the edge of the Seine like some kind colossal sea monster crawling its way to the surface. It smelled of money, the air around it thick with ignorance and privilege, it made Rody sick whenever he walked passed. Perhaps simply for motivation, to act like a witness to his attempt of bagging himself a job, he searched his pockets for something to circle the number with. His fingers curled around an expensive lipstick, a talisman from his ex, who had dumped him back in university after he got himself kicked out. He had simply taken it from her purse during the dinner she called it quits. He wasn’t upset, he didn’t really love her; she was one of many, and he had gotten used to it. He had simply kept her around for sexual satisfaction, and he could tell that the feeling was mutual. 

Rody pulled off the cap and twisted the base, again a shocking crimson, for it always seemed to be everywhere for him, he didn’t mind, for it was his favourite, giving him a sense of child-like joy and bittersweet grief at the same time. Bringing the worn out edge to the paper, he dragged it in a messy oval; the tip broke off under the pressure. Guess expensive doesn’t always mean better.

It was past midnight from what Rody could gather, he wasn’t sure, he hadn’t gone home since reading the magazine, couldn’t get his mind off the restaurant. The double-doors were made of solid chestnut, and stood at 7 feet high, towering over him. He eyed the brass knocker, it had the face of a lion, with a single gold hoop emerging from it’s mouth. Rody ignored it, and fist-hammered on the door with all his might. A single window on the upper floor opened, the smell of expensive tobacco wafted out the room as the silhouette of a thin, lanky man could be seen leaning out of it, his facial features indiscernible. Rody barely spared him a glance, and instead continued to hammer against the door, getting louder each time. Suddenly a flash-light lit up his face, burning his eyes for a moment before he snapped them shut out of reflex, making him unable to see who had pointed it at him.

“Oï ! Ivre, va-t’en, tu n’as pas ta place ici!” Came the gravelly voice of an middle-aged man, who clearly smoked several packs a day; the security guard. 

“Wha- No, Sir! I’m not drunk! I came here for the job! Le travail!” Rody said, flailing his arms as he did so, which was not helping his case. 

“Oh, comme si quelqu'un comme toi avait déjà mis les pieds dans un lieu de travail de sa vie!” He grabbed Rody by the shoulder and attempted to drag him away, he broke out of his grip with ease.

 “Qu'est-ce que tu insinues? Que je suis une sorte de clochard?” He spat, causing the guard to then grab him by the collar.

“évidemment ! Je veux dire - regarde-toi ! Alors fais-moi juste une faveur et ne rends pas ma nuit plus diffic-”

The doors suddenly opened wide, and there he stood; Vincent Charbonneau himself. His cold gaze locked with Rodys stunned one. Dark-brown searching in Dusty-green. It was very clear who had been smoking the tobacco upstairs, for he reeked of it. Rody was dumbfounded on how well put together he looked, at midnight? Not a single hair was out of place, and he wore yet another form-fitting top, this time in charcoal black, much like the color of his hair. He looked as though he was straight off the cover of La cuisine, or Vouge, or maybe even both. The security guard quickly let go of him.

“Sorry, sir, he was a drunkie- I was- I won’t let him bother you, I’ll take him away!” He stuttered, clearly afraid of this man.

 “No need,” said Vincent, his voice raspy, cruel and laced with contempt. “I’ll deal with him myself, go back to your post,” The guard mumbled apologies over and over as he made his way back to his designated area; the back of the restaurant. Rodys eyes followed him all the while, wondering why he was so afraid of someone half his age. 

“ So. ” Rody quickly looked back at Vincent, who was now leaning against the door frame. “Why are you here?” The red-head quickly composed himself.

 “I’m here for that waiter position that you’re offering,” He said, causing Vincent to sneer. 

“And why would I hire someone like you ?” He asked, eyeing him up and down all the while. 

“Because…” Rody paused for a moment, thinking of an answer, “Because if you murdered someone in front of me, I wouldn’t tell a soul so long as you keep paying me, hell- give me a raise and I’d even help you hide the body and act as your alibi,” He grinned, as though he hadn’t just said the most dumbest shit known to man. Vincent genuinely stilled, lips parting ever so slightly at the absurdity of the statement. His turn to pause now, taking a moment to  regain his composure, before; 

"Come at the restaurant tomorrow, 22nd hour of the clock, I’ll take your interview then," And simply slammed the door shut behind him. Rody just stood there, yet again dumbfounded, how had that even worked? Was this guy sick in the head? 

He stood there in silence for about 2 minutes, before grinning like a madman. He turned on his heel and made his way home, eager to call Mannon and tell her the news.