Gotham City, present day.
It was a bitterly cold night to be standing around outside, but Constantine didn't seem to mind. He was leaning casually on a lamppost, the sodium light giving his face a jaundiced hue. Lighting a cigarette, he gingerly checked his watch, grunting a complaint. Beeman was late, again. He blew a large cloud of blue, unfiltered smoke out his nose, giving him the appearance of a blond, trenchcoated cartoon bull. Down the sidewalk he saw a dark figure walking towards him. Judging by the hunched gait and lanky silhouette, he knew it was Beeman. Puffing into the pool of light, Beeman dropped a large briefcase at Constantine's feet. "You owe me, John," he said, gasping. "I had to lug this all over the place before I found you—damn lousy directions." Suitably annoyed, Beeman turned on his heel, leaving Constantine alone with the briefcase. "So, this is what he found." The case clicked open, and Constantine picked up a file. "Hello, Scarecrow. Meet Constantine."
John flicked the tip of his cigarette and once again lifted it to his lips. Inhale. He thought: "Man, if I was gay, I'd totally want a piece of THAT." John smirked. "Yeah—but I like chicks, so this guy can just eat my shorts." Constantine kept reading, noticing that the man in question was a psychiatrist, suspected of manufacturing a "fear toxin." John flipped to the back of the sheet, looking for an address. It was listed as a place on the East End. "FUCK! I HAVE TO WALK!" With the puff of a cigarette and a turn of a dress shoe, he was off.
Meanwhile, Jonathan Crane has just gotten home after a long day at Arkham Asylum. The DA's office had been investigating his work with particular vehemence lately, and his clever mind was being put to the test more than ever. He flicked the lightswitch, allowing his pale blue eyes to adjust to the bright interior of the apartment. Throwing his rain soaked trenchcoat across his increasingly messy table, he turned and began to make himself a cup of tea. He stopped when he thought he heard footsteps, but then he just smirked. "Even if they suspect me, there's nothing they can do. The wheels are in motion, and I hold the key to the ignition," he thought to himself. However, his smirk quickly became a glance of worry and indignation when someone began to pound on his door. "Crane, OPEN UP."
Nervously, Crane opened the door. A blast of wind soaked his chic sweater vest and fogged up his designer glasses. In the door way stood a haggard man in a beige trenchcoat, a limp cigarette glued to his lips. "Name's Constantine. John Constantine, asshole," the man said, polishing his nails on his coat and slicking back his hair. "Well, pooh on you," replied Dr. Crane. "I don't know you; you're not welcome here. Besides, you got my cashmere sweater vest wet!" He stomped his foot in irritation. "Ooh man," thought Constantine. "This guy's a flamer—but kind of cute…Wait! What am I thinking? Aaaagh!" Constantine ran away, leaving a very confused Dr. Crane in the doorway.
After fleeing into the nearest alley, Constantine rested against the moist brick wall, catching his breath and then lighting up again. "Damn yuppie," he thought. He didn't know why he was getting these weird urges. "Uggh". He exhaled a few smoke rings for emphasis on the "uggh". Well, nothing ever cleared John's head like a good piss. He headed over to a part of the alley where the wall was dry, unzipped his pants and wrote his initials on the wall. As "J.C." dripped onto the pavement, John decided that A) it was a good thing he didn't piss himself, and B) he was going to go back and do his job.
Meanwhile, Crane was visibly flustered—highly out of character. The mysterious visitor had surprised him and then blown out the door as quickly as he had barged in. "I wish he had stayed for tea," Crane mumbled to himself. "He was awfully cute…in that rugged, smoke-addled British hobo sort of way." Crane's shaking hand stirred the sugar into the steaming mug. Just as he picked it up to breath in the relaxing smoky smell, he heard the banging on the door again and dropped the cup with a smash. Crane smiled at the sound of the rough accent hoarsely screaming, "Crane, I'm back! Open up!" Crane smirked wider and raked a hand through his dark glossy locks. Adjusting his glasses, straightening his sweater, and pinching his cheeks (to give them a rosy hue), he opened the door. Leaning suavely against the frame, he winked at Constantine. "What do you want this time?"
Constantine grunted gruffly. 'Looks like you pissed some people off, Crane. And I'm here to FIX YOUR WAGON! He dropped a match with a flourish, lighting a pentacle on the doorstep. "Your goose is cooked, Crane. Unless, of course, you want to visit the triumvirate…"
Crane gasped, feigning surprise. "Ooh, how forceful you are, John. So…dominant." His lips curled into a seductive smile as he flicked his wrist, releasing a blast of fear toxin. Constantine fell to his knees, seeing his worst fear before him…
Flashback to third grade…"I can see Ms. Cummings…" thought John. It was March 28th…the day from HELL. "Oh my God—this is when it all began." John saw himself walking to the front of the class to talk about Waterloo. Napoleon…Waterloo… water…waterfall…before he knew it, he was soaked in pee. His class was hysterical as his teacher put a textbook over his damp crotch. "No…no more…MAKE IT STOP!"
When Constantine awoke from this horrid vision, he was propped up in one of Crane's Pier One armchairs. To his immense disturbance, Crane was sitting on a chair nest to him, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "Aww, does little Johnny feel better now?" he cooed. "I need a cigarette—now," he demanded, flustered at the bizarre situation he had landed himself into this time. Crane pulled a cigarette out of Constantine's pack and gently stuck it between his lips. After he lit it, Constantine rapidly began puffing away to relieve his discomfort. "So what were you saying about this triumvirate? Didn't Caesar die years ago?" "The triumvirate of HELL, you ponce," Constantine growled. He was beginning to regain his senses. "Seeing that you just incriminated yourself by using that bloody fear toxin on me, you better have a good excuse for me not to just give your soul up to them RIGHT NOW. You and your girly teacups and all."
"Oh, you'll be fine, Johnny. Look—I even washed your pants for you!" Crane held up Constantine's pants—washed, dried and pressed with a crisp pleat down the middle. "I even used Snuggle," he smiled. "What the bloody hell to you have my pants for?" roared Constantine, cupping his hands over the crotch of his yellowed tighty whities. "Jesus Christ! Poof! Flamer! Help me!" John was still screaming as he lost consciousness from embarrassment.
"Oh dear," Jonathan thought aloud. "A hunky pee-stained man is passed out in my apartment, and hid tighty whities are turning me on…I can see the chafe marks!" He wanted to peek, but held back…hell as probably full of badly upholstered couches and razorburn, and John could send him there very easily. He took a plush chenille thorn off of one of his wicker chairs and covered john's legs…and waited for him to wake up.
Constantine wasn't out for long. We woke up only a few minutes later, felt the chenille on his legs, and jumped up in a rage. As an afterthought, he grabbed the chenille throw to cover his bulging crotch. 'Please don't let it get any bigger in front of this freak," he thought to himself.
"CRANE! Stop fucking with me! I am the one in control here! I came here to stop you, not to fall prey to your queer little mind games! What are you doing with the fear toxin? What is it made of? Who are you working for? Tell me," he roared, "or this cigarette goes straight into your velour upholstery." He held the lit cigarette dangerously close to the arm of the couch.
Crane gasped, his plump lips puckering in fright. He flew across the room, trying to wrestle the cigarette from Constantine's hand. Constantine lazily knocked him down with the flat of his hand. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you everything," Crane panted, "just put down the cigarette…and not on ANY of my furniture." He was on his knees, clutching the throw around Constantine's waist. This didn't ease Constantine in the slightest. "Get off the ground," he grumbled, "and spill it all—NOW—or the couch gets it."
Crane sat down shakily, crossing his legs and picking up his bone china teacup. To his dismay, he was trembling so badly that the teacup rattled, nearly spilling the tea onto Crane's Lord & Taylor pants. "Dearie me!" he exclaimed with a gasp, "I'll just put that down." "Just start!" Constantine growled. Carne cleared his throat and began. "I work for Ra's Al Ghul, and I am to take over and purify Gotham. Satisfied?" He ran his fingers though his dark hair, a bulge growing in his pants. "You know, John, all threats aside, you're really cute."
"WHAT!" John roared. "That's it—your ass is mine-- but not like that…" "Aww, come ON!" whined Dr. Crane. "We can just forget that I could have done anything to you when I hit you with my fear toxin, and we can protect your reputation—sound like a deal?" "I'M NOT A POOF!" John yelled, still trying to overcompensate for thinking this flamethrower was cute earlier. "Well," Crane sniffed, "while you make up your mind I'm going to change into something more…comfortable." Crane sashayed out of the room and into his bedroom. John looked at his pants, then the chenille throw, and the pillow covering his junk. "Man this is gonna be a long night…" But then Constantine had an idea. He grabbed his pants and quickly wriggled into the snug khaki fabric. Looking down in disgust at the pleats, he muttered, "Asshole." Then he pulled out another cigarette, not before flicking the ash of the last one all over the chenille. With a vicious curl of lip, he meandered confidently towards the door. Just as he thought he was home free, a bony hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Constantine saw assailant and his jaw dropped, cigarette hitting the floor.
It was Crane again… at least he thought it was. The periwinkle terrycloth robe he was wearing had "J.C" embroidered on it in fancy white script, but the face was concealed by a grotesque mask. It appeared to be roughly stitched from an old potato sack, with glaring eyes and a gaping black hole of a mouth. So, Constantine, do you like my mask?" Crane's voice was no longer a girlish giggle but a sinister hiss. Constantine was frozen in shock, only one work escaping his lips-- "Scarecrow."
"You've done your homework, I see," Crane whispered, face moving in closer. "How about a…reward?" And with that word, and another flick of the wrist, Constantine began to writhe and scream. A huge cloud of fear toxin had been released, even more than the first time. Constantine looked up at the Scarecrow/ Dr. Crane and whimpered in fear at the gruesome sight he had turned into.
Where the Scarecrow had stood, Constantine now saw himself—only different. He was clean-shaven , nary a blemish on his face. His eyebrows were plucked, his hair styled neatly. Instead of a silk cut in his mouth, he sported a clove. His trenchcoat was gone, replaced by a designer blazer and sandblasted jeans. On his feet were man-clogs. "NOOOO!" screamed Constantine. "I'm not gay!"—and proceeded to wet his pants in agony. His doppelganger cackled evilly. "Oh John, " it began with a suspicious lisp. "You've always been one of us." The voices multiplied. "Gooble gabble one of us, one of us, gooble gabble one of us," until the entire room was full of the barbaric chortling. Constantine could take it no more. "Yarbles to you sods!" he screamed. "I'm outta here!"
Constantine managed to kick down the door and flee into the hallways. All of his training as an occultist had never prepared him for going up against a flaming homosexual. "This shit's not gonna work," John thought as he looked down at his holy water vials and other religious weapons. He saw the Scarecrow coming towards him with a string of anal beads. "I'll deport your ass" Constantine hissed. "No," giggle-hissed the Scarecrow, "but I'll pound your ass." John was running out of ideas, and was sure he was about to get the cornholing of a lifetime when suddenly, the answer came to him.
He reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a razorblade. The Scarecrow doubled over in hysterics. "Kill yourself? Suicide is never the solution, Constantine. We have support groups for that kind of thing. Coming out of the closet can be very traumatic for some, but think of it as an opportunity to truly live!" He was about to open the bathrobe when Constantine held the blade to his own cheek. "I have far too much stubble, don't you think, Crane? I think it's time I shaved." And with that he proceeded to do what any homosexual around the world would see and cower in fear—he began to shave AGAINST the grain.
"Nooooo! What are you doing? Don't mar your beautiful natural English Rose complexion!" Crane shrieked, tearing off his mask. The piercing blue eyes had lost their icy quality and were widening in disbelief as they filled with tears. Constantine grinned demonically and allowed the blade to scrape his face in slow motion. Blood droplets formed on his cheeks. "I can't take it anymore! At least let me get you some shaving cream!" Crane wailed. He got up off the floor (he had been writhing in agony) and ran back into the apartment. Constantine's face was searing with razorburn and dripping with blood, but it was with intense euphoria that he sprinted down the hallways and into the elevator. As he lit a congratulatory light on his way down, he swore NOT to pursue that case further. Beeman could just suck his dick—wait! No! Not that again! Anyways, he didn't care how much the officials of Gotham begged and pleaded. "Let them called the bat freak/. If he likes to fly around in a shiny bodysuit and cape, he's probably EXACTLY Crane's type. I'm going all the way across the Atlantic to escape that freak." It was back to foggy England and the occult for Constantine, two things he knew far better how to handle than gay scientists.
Meanwhile, Crane was edging out into the hallways with a can of Gillette's for Women—he liked the peachy-clean smell. He looked around in confusion. "Constantine, darling, where are you?" he whistled. Seeing that he had failed in his quest for action that night, he shoulders slumped in despair. "Oh well, better luck next time," he sghied, He glanced down in his robe and in disgust shook that can of shaving cream. He himself was long overdue. Then he went inside for his triple-bladed razor and a nice warm bubble bath, all while plotting the fall of Gotham.