Disclaimer:
John Constantine is the property of DC comics, used without permission. Present usage is not intended as a challenge to the copyright holder's ownership. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
John Edward belongs to no one but himself. He is a real person, and has not been consulted or even notified as to his appearance in this and/or future chapters.
Part One: Six Fags 'Till Doomsday
Coincidence is an ugly mask. It's like when the doctor says "this won't hurt a bit" or when some bloke you've just met at the pub tells you he isn't married. It's an obvious lie covering an ugly truth, the sort of thing someone says when they want you to ignore your own better judgment.
The bitch of it is, you almost always know better. You know the other guy's full of shite, but you go on with it anyway. Because it's easier, because it gives you an excuse not to take responsibility for what comes next.
Because it's just a coincidence, you don't have to wonder if it's a link in some causal chain, binding you up with your past like old Jake Marley's ghostly chains and strong-boxes. It's just something that happened, just one of those weird things.
Bollocks. I ought to know better by now, but I'm a lazy bastard at heart, and I'm willing to drift down the synchronicity freeway so long as I've got a pack of fags and a drink and nobody's getting in my face. So I ignore the big neon warning signs, take another pull at my pint, and tell myself, "John, me boy, relax. It's not all bad weirdness."
At my age, with the places I've been, I really ought to know better. Let me tell you a story…
I was in this fleabag motel in New York, waiting to get a packet together to pay for a flight back to London. I had a favor or two to call in, and I was waiting to hear back from somebody who owed me. The telly was worthless, as the only thing that came in clearly was this horrible pay- per-view porn channel. Besides anorexics with plastic tits, all I had to entertain myself was yesterday's Enquirer and a Gideon Bible.
I opted for the fiction, and picked up the Bible. I was flipping through it, looking to see if anybody had marked their favorite excuse to hate somebody, when I discovered that the last half of the Revelation of St. John was missing. Some wit had ripped out everything from page 1203 on.
I smirked to myself, feeling like I'd got a joke most people would have missed. It's like ripping out the last chapter of a mystery novel, I thought. Now I'll never know how the world ends. For laughs, I read the last words in the book: "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me."
That was when there was a knock at the door. I damn near leapt out of my skin, tossing the Bible off the end of the bed as I sat up. I had one foot on the floor and was reaching for the pack of Silk Cut and lighter on the nightstand, trying hard not to imagine what could be outside on the walk.
That's when I bring out the ugly mask. "Get a grip, Constantine. It's just a coincidence." I shook out a fag and lit it, tossing the pack and lighter onto the bed. There was another knock at the door, and another, while I dragged smoke into my lungs and waited for the nicotine to calm the jitters in my hands. "Hang on a minute," I called to whoever it was, and went to the door.
I looked through the peephole, but all I could see was the silhouette of a bald head, since whoever it was stood between my door and the streetlight. The person spoke, "Constantine? John? Open up already, it's fucking cold out here." That whoever it was knew me and managed to find me was not exactly reassuring, but I'd calmed down enough to put on the old Constantine glamour, all hard eyes and mystery. I opened the door.
"Bloody hell…"
The guy outside my door had seen better days. He was bald all right, completely, his hair, eyebrows, even eyelashes singed off in what could only have been a murderous fire. His skin was black and red, all cracks and blisters. His eyes were milk-white, but I still got the feeling that he was staring at me. Smoke trailed out of mouth and what was left of his nose, despite the fact that he had no cigarette in his hands. What clothes had survived were ripped and charred, stuck to his flesh with dried fluids I don't want to try to name. I don't remember checking, but I know he cast no shadow.
"John," it said, reaching for me, "we gotta talk."
I slammed the door then, throwing the bolt and putting the chain on. I'd be damned before I'd dine with that ghost, whoever he is or was. I just wanted a quiet night or three before the trip home. I'd left my long spoon in my other coat. Whatever the fuck it was, I wanted no part of it.
I finished my fag in three more long, hard draws, and crushed the butt out in the little gold foil ashtray on the nightstand before sitting back down on the bed. I sat there massaging my temples while Smokey the Ghost was pounding away at the door and shouting my name. At least I knew that none of the neighbors was likely to complain, this was a message for my ears only.
I threw myself back on the bed crossways, with my legs hanging off the mattress at the knees. I felt the packet of smokes crush under my back, and fished it and the lighter out with my left hand. Cursing quietly, I opened the pack and found, to my immense relief, that my last six fags had survived the accident. I sat back up, staring at the door, and realized that dawn was still seven long hours off.
John Constantine is the property of DC comics, used without permission. Present usage is not intended as a challenge to the copyright holder's ownership. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
John Edward belongs to no one but himself. He is a real person, and has not been consulted or even notified as to his appearance in this and/or future chapters.
Part One: Six Fags 'Till Doomsday
Coincidence is an ugly mask. It's like when the doctor says "this won't hurt a bit" or when some bloke you've just met at the pub tells you he isn't married. It's an obvious lie covering an ugly truth, the sort of thing someone says when they want you to ignore your own better judgment.
The bitch of it is, you almost always know better. You know the other guy's full of shite, but you go on with it anyway. Because it's easier, because it gives you an excuse not to take responsibility for what comes next.
Because it's just a coincidence, you don't have to wonder if it's a link in some causal chain, binding you up with your past like old Jake Marley's ghostly chains and strong-boxes. It's just something that happened, just one of those weird things.
Bollocks. I ought to know better by now, but I'm a lazy bastard at heart, and I'm willing to drift down the synchronicity freeway so long as I've got a pack of fags and a drink and nobody's getting in my face. So I ignore the big neon warning signs, take another pull at my pint, and tell myself, "John, me boy, relax. It's not all bad weirdness."
At my age, with the places I've been, I really ought to know better. Let me tell you a story…
I was in this fleabag motel in New York, waiting to get a packet together to pay for a flight back to London. I had a favor or two to call in, and I was waiting to hear back from somebody who owed me. The telly was worthless, as the only thing that came in clearly was this horrible pay- per-view porn channel. Besides anorexics with plastic tits, all I had to entertain myself was yesterday's Enquirer and a Gideon Bible.
I opted for the fiction, and picked up the Bible. I was flipping through it, looking to see if anybody had marked their favorite excuse to hate somebody, when I discovered that the last half of the Revelation of St. John was missing. Some wit had ripped out everything from page 1203 on.
I smirked to myself, feeling like I'd got a joke most people would have missed. It's like ripping out the last chapter of a mystery novel, I thought. Now I'll never know how the world ends. For laughs, I read the last words in the book: "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me."
That was when there was a knock at the door. I damn near leapt out of my skin, tossing the Bible off the end of the bed as I sat up. I had one foot on the floor and was reaching for the pack of Silk Cut and lighter on the nightstand, trying hard not to imagine what could be outside on the walk.
That's when I bring out the ugly mask. "Get a grip, Constantine. It's just a coincidence." I shook out a fag and lit it, tossing the pack and lighter onto the bed. There was another knock at the door, and another, while I dragged smoke into my lungs and waited for the nicotine to calm the jitters in my hands. "Hang on a minute," I called to whoever it was, and went to the door.
I looked through the peephole, but all I could see was the silhouette of a bald head, since whoever it was stood between my door and the streetlight. The person spoke, "Constantine? John? Open up already, it's fucking cold out here." That whoever it was knew me and managed to find me was not exactly reassuring, but I'd calmed down enough to put on the old Constantine glamour, all hard eyes and mystery. I opened the door.
"Bloody hell…"
The guy outside my door had seen better days. He was bald all right, completely, his hair, eyebrows, even eyelashes singed off in what could only have been a murderous fire. His skin was black and red, all cracks and blisters. His eyes were milk-white, but I still got the feeling that he was staring at me. Smoke trailed out of mouth and what was left of his nose, despite the fact that he had no cigarette in his hands. What clothes had survived were ripped and charred, stuck to his flesh with dried fluids I don't want to try to name. I don't remember checking, but I know he cast no shadow.
"John," it said, reaching for me, "we gotta talk."
I slammed the door then, throwing the bolt and putting the chain on. I'd be damned before I'd dine with that ghost, whoever he is or was. I just wanted a quiet night or three before the trip home. I'd left my long spoon in my other coat. Whatever the fuck it was, I wanted no part of it.
I finished my fag in three more long, hard draws, and crushed the butt out in the little gold foil ashtray on the nightstand before sitting back down on the bed. I sat there massaging my temples while Smokey the Ghost was pounding away at the door and shouting my name. At least I knew that none of the neighbors was likely to complain, this was a message for my ears only.
I threw myself back on the bed crossways, with my legs hanging off the mattress at the knees. I felt the packet of smokes crush under my back, and fished it and the lighter out with my left hand. Cursing quietly, I opened the pack and found, to my immense relief, that my last six fags had survived the accident. I sat back up, staring at the door, and realized that dawn was still seven long hours off.
