THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.
HELLBLAZER:DCF #8
"Poker Night"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Jericho Vilar
The Dreaming: Fiddler's Green
Rachel stepped gingerly up the primrose path before her to Fiddler's Green. Following their initial encounter here several days past, Rachel had soon developed the ability to return at will. She'd visited her two ancestors as often as she could, and it was soon decided that they were more like sisters than grandmothers and granddaughters to each other. It had since become their habit to refer to each other by their first names alone.
"Hello, Unity. Hey, Rose," said Rachel, hugging and kissing them both. "Has anything interesting happened in the Dreaming since I was last here?"
"Nope. It's been boring as hell," said Rose ruefully. "The only thing we have to look forward to are your visits, Rach." Looking about, she was mildly surprised to find the reddest roses growing everywhere. Hearing the singing of birds, she looked up to find that lovebirds had suddenly appeared to sit within Gilbert's many branches.
"Now, Rose, I'm certain that hell is a much more interesting place than you imagine," said Unity, who couldn't help admonishing Rose's constant use of profanities. "Still, I must agree. Very little of interest has happened here of late, and it seems clear that more interesting things have been happening in the waking world."
"What do you mean?" asked Rachel, pretending not to understand what Rose and Unity were talking about. She stretched out her hand, and a small bird swooped down to alight upon her finger, singing a sweet song for her alone. With her other hand, she plucked one of the roses and lifted it to her nostrils, inhaling deeply of its fragrance.
"That's what we're talking about," said Unity, gesturing simultaneously at both the birds and the roses. "The signs are clear."
"Hmm?" queried Rachel, distracted by the natural wonders that seemed to exist only for her at this moment. "What signs? What are you talking about?"
"She's talking about that," said Rose, gesturing at Rachel's blissful ignorance and shaking her head in disgust. "You've got a new man in your life. Damn it, you might even be in love! Please, just tell me it's not John Constantine."
NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar
"I'll see your ten and raise you another twenty."
The game had been going on for several hours now. Chips were piled in the middle of the table like offerings to the gods, and the five men seated around the table were already eying each other like enemies with their swords drawn. Or perhaps it was more like vultures hovering over a corpse, ready to devour each other? Then again, maybe it was only John who saw things this way.
"Too rich for my blood," said Tim, placing his cards face down in front of him. That wasn't even close to the truth, but Tim didn't want to press any unfair advantages here. As far as he was concerned, this was just an exercise in reading other people, not an opportunity to make more money, which he certainly didn't need.
"It's up to you, then, Guy," said Clark, smiling. Trying to intimidate Guy in a friendly fashion, he was leaning on the table with his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table.
Guy knew better than to wonder whether Clark was taking a peek at his cards with that x-ray vision of his, but the possibility had kept him on edge the whole game. Examining his own cards yet again, he wondered whether or not he should call what could be Clark's bluff. Three jacks were staring at him, and telepathically, they were telling him to go for it. After a minute spent in consideration, he made his decision. "Call," he said, tossing two more blue chips into the pot. "Goes to you, Hob."
As all eyes turned to him, Hob slumped back in his chair. Unlike the others gathered here, he'd played poker with John Constantine before, and he knew from experience that the situation was not to be taken lightly. After all, at any minute, John could start trying to wager his soul again. "I think I'll fold," he said, placing a pair of eights and a pair of tens face down on the table in front of him. He turned to look at John, expecting to see a smug expression on his face. He wasn't disappointed.
Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, John just stared Clark in the eyes. Not only were they the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, the intensity of his gaze made John imagine they could burn holes right through him. When they'd started playing, John had pegged Clark as a big boy scout, easy pickings over a poker table, but he'd proved himself an exceptional player, very difficult to read. "Call, mate. What have you got?"
Clark flipped his cards over for observation, revealing two pair, aces over queens. Guy hooted with pleasure, plopping his cards down on the table as well. "Three jacks, boys, read 'em and weep." He was about to reach forward and collect the pot when memory kicked in. The game had been going a particular way all night long. Turning to face John, he didn't even ask, letting the expression on his face ask for him.
"Sorry, mate," said John, revealing his own cards, "but a straight still beats both those hands." Reaching forward, he added this hand's pot to the sizable stack in front of him, his smile growing wider.
"And it was probably an inside straight, too," said Tim, shaking his head ever so slightly in disbelief. "Constantine, you have the damnedest luck."
"Mate, you don't know the half of it."
Western Eurasia: London, Lord Patterson's Estate
"Are you certain this is wise?" asked Patterson, comm unit in hand. "It's only been a few months since his incarceration. Blast that trial, anyway. I would have expected someone to have attacked Constantine before now. What in God's name is going on here?"
Harry Constantine just stood there, smirking. His flesh having been repaired by modern technology, he now appeared to be nothing more than a middle-aged man in his forties except for his stark-white hair. Its lifeless quality somehow prevented any dyes from improving its coloring. "If you'd asked my advice, I'd have told you that those in the supernatural community have more important things to worry about than old hatreds right now."
"And just what is that supposed to mean?" asked Patterson, frustrated with his supposed ally's reticence. "I know you only tell me half of what you know about what's really going on, and it's beginning to wear on my patience," he said, his eyebrows wrinkling with displeasure. He was, after all, a man long-accustomed to getting his way in all things.
"Never you mind," said Harry as he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling long and deep. "I only tell you what you need to know to get John Constantine. Nothing more."
Grumbling, Patterson turned away and started pacing and muttering to himself. "Since when did you take up that filthy habit?" he asked, pointing at the cigarette.
"Since I got me lungs back," said Harry, taking another drag. "Know thy enemy. How he lives... how he thinks..." he continued, puffing away. "Actually, this is surprisingly pleasant."
Patterson thought it all nonsense and wondered what could possibly have made his secret benefactor believe that this Harry Constantine could be of any use to him. Indeed, he'd done little to aid him in his quest so far, and he seemed more intent on barking orders than serving anyone else's wishes.
The door opened, and his son, Charles, walked in, carrying what appeared to be an old-style trench coat. "Yet another thing to help you think like Constantine, I take it?" asked Patterson, even less amused.
Harry just smiled.
NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar
"Damn," said Tim, savoring the taste of the stout in his hand. John's special brew, it was quite good, and he'd have to consider buying the recipe. Something John had picked up from an old friend named Brendan Finn, it was quite good and had quite a kick. "I thought this was just going to be a friendly little poker game. No one told me I'd end up losing Drake Industries," he joked.
They were taking a break in the game to snack, chat, and get to know each other better. Guy Gardner didn't have that many friends in this dark future, and with the loss of Troll, he'd felt a need to have everyone he felt close to meet each other socially. When John suggested a poker game, Guy had thought it a great idea, but that was before he'd started losing his shirt.
"So John, where'd you learn to play poker? Were you a professional dealer once? Or did you just pick it up? Traveling circus, maybe?" asked Guy as he poured John some more of his stout straight from the keg.
John was something of a mystery to Guy, but a good bartender knew better than to ask too many questions. As far as he knew, John didn't even have a job, but Hob Gadling picked up his bar tab. And he made a habit of saying some of the most outrageous things that Guy had ever heard, including the tallest tales and the strangest theories. Naturally, all of the regulars loved him.
John just chuckled. "Who, me? Not hardly," he said, watching his drink settle. "Actually, I've been banned from most casinos, and most bookies who've heard of me know better than to take my wagers. And as for traveling circuses, I try to avoid them when I can. Bearded fat women have a strange habit of taking a fancy to me. Of course, a little 'mooing' will generally get rid of them quickly enough, but that's not really the point, now is it?"
As far as John was concerned, the fact that Clark could see he was no good so quickly was a testament to the fact that he had good instincts, and he wasn't offended in the least. The last thing he wanted was to be in the same room as anyone who approved of him completely. Still, he was determined to get a laugh out of Clark, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
"Alright, Clark, cards on the table. Just what is it about me that you find so distasteful?" asked John, deciding to be blunt and get straight to the point. And Clark, who had probably been born mild-mannered and polite, was made uncomfortable by the directness of John's questioning. Indeed, it reminded him of the interviewing tactics of a certain lady reporter he'd once known and still missed terribly.
The sudden, awkward silence that erupted didn't help matters either. Indeed, all it did was make Clark more aware of the fog surrounding his thoughts, the strange fullness in his lower abdomen, and the mild, throbbing sensation between his temples.
"Ahem. I'm sorry, John, but I'm just not accustomed to such vulgar humor. I was raised a certain way, and I'm not used to seeing men your age behave in such a fashion," said Clark, clearing his throat. It was obvious to everyone at the table that the entire situation was making him very uncomfortable.
John just smiled. "Yeah, that's me," he said, obviously not bothered overmuch by Clark's opinion of him. After all, he'd guessed right. "No respect for anyone or anything and no responsibilities either. No wife, no kids, I guess I've just lived the life of the bachelor too long for me own good. Still, it's hardly easy being the forty-year-old man that never grew up," he finished, the strange statement drawing nods of concurrence from everyone but Tim. By far the youngest man at the table, he had no understanding of what it meant to be forty, let alone what it meant to be forty forever.
This second, awkward silence was broken by Clark, who stood up to make a most unusual statement. Well, it was unusual for him, anyway. "I think I have to go to the bathroom..." he said, with confusion in his voice and on his face, getting up to take care of business.
"What's the matter with Clarkyboy?" asked John, watching him walk away. "You'd think he'd never had to take a piss before or something."
Hob just let the comment pass, making nothing of it, but Tim and Guy looked at each other, not saying anything.
The Dreaming: Outside of Fiddler's Green
"Where are we going again?" asked Rachel, who held Rose's hand close, not liking the look of her surroundings. She had yet to venture anywhere in the Dreaming outside of Fiddler's Green, and she felt very vulnerable without Gilbert to protect her. She wished that Unity, at the least, had chosen to accompany them as well, but she'd made it clear that this place to which she was going was no place for her. It was clear that Rose was the more adventuresome of the two.
"I'm taking you to check out this Constantine guy's dreams. We'll leave his nightmares alone. Even I'm not crazy enough to mess around with that place, but a peek at his dreams should be enough to turn you away from him. This guy is bad news," said Rose, who stomped forward with very deliberate steps. It was obvious she knew exactly where she was going. Wherever they were headed, she'd been there before.
"What's the big deal?" asked Rachel, ignoring the fact that she'd first met John while defending him against charges of murder concerning a ritualistic killing. "And how do you know John?"
"Are you kidding? He's infamous here. Hell, he's infamous everywhere!" exclaimed Rose, finally stopping at what appeared to be a seedy bar straight out of the holovids. "Guess he hasn't told you much about himself. Go in. Take a look."
Stepping inside, Rachel was greeted by a sight that was simultaneously very ordinary and very unusual. What was ordinary about it was that it appeared to be on the inside what it looked like on the outside. It was a bar. Waitresses were serving drinks, a few antique television sets were scattered around the room, and patrons were gathered here and there, drinking and discussing this and that. Of course, all of the waitresses were stark naked, but that wasn't what was unusual about the scene. In fact, Rachel had sort of expected to see exactly that. What was unusual was the patrons. Most of them weren't human.
"Excuse me, ladies, but there's a strict dress code here at this establishment. I can't let you in unless you take off your clothes," said one of the waitresses, whose bountiful presence made Rachel feel very self-conscious. Not sure how to respond, Rachel turned to Rose for guidance, only to see that she was already getting undressed.
"Don't worry, no one will even notice," said Rose, stripping off her torn jeans. "But now you know why Unity didn't tag along. Go on and get naked, or have you seen enough?"
Blushing a little, but steeling her nerves, Rachel removed her clothes as well, handing them to the waitress. "No. I'm not going to give up on John yet," said Rachel, very gratified that Rose had been right about no one paying her nudity any notice. "Besides, it's just a dream, right?" she continued, thinking to herself that she'd make John pay for this indignity later.
"You should know better than to say things like that, but you'll learn. I'll be over here having drinks with the fellas. You go mingle and learn what you can," said Rose, moving off to a table where four men were sharing a few bottles of Glenmorangie, seemingly very comfortable with her nudity.
The scene made a curious picture, reminding Rachel of an old painting she'd seen hanging in Hob's penthouse. "Hi Alan, long time no see. Hey, Jamie. Garth. Nice to see you guys are still hanging around. Hi Paul, nice to see you're still keeping in touch. That Dave guy hasn't been creeping around here again, has he?"
Avoiding Rose's table, Rachel made her way to the bar. Seeing a man wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette, she mistook him for John. Getting a closer look, she realized that he was someone else. Whoever he was, he looked older and more tired than John, had a very sour expression on his face, and was wearing a felt hat. "Um...hello," she said, suddenly very aware of her body, its nakedness, and its minute flaws.
The strange man turned to look her up and down, his drink in hand and hovering somewhere between the bar top and his lips. "She was a hot little tomato, a real looker, the kind of girl that made you wish you were the marrying type. No pro skirt, I began to wonder what a nice girl like her was doing in a place like this, making nice with a no-good, ugly palooka like me," he said, turning away to focus his attention back on his drink.
"Excuse me?" she asked, not really sure what this strange man was talking about or who he was talking to. It almost seemed like he was talking to himself, or maybe even to some unseen audience.
"Don't mind him," said another voice attached to a strange figure at her feet. "Johnny boy dreamed him up while watching too much telly, he did." Maybe three feet tall, he had an unusual haircut that had been out of style for centuries and an unusually thick moustache. His accent was similar to John's, only thicker. Where had John been raised again? Someplace called Liverpool? The unusual creature appeared to be dressed in a marching band uniform of some kind.
"And who are you?" asked Rachel, eying the strange figure curiously. "What are you?"
"What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a Liverpootian before?" he asked, taking Rachel's hand and kissing it. "Just call me Ringo, or Sir Ringo if you like."
Rachel didn't want to know what part of John's imagination had dreamed this character up. "Nice to meet you," she said, smiling. "Who's your friend?"
The man in the trench coat and the felt hat only looked at Rachel out of the corner of his eye as he downed another shot of Jim Beam. "She was a pushy dame, but she had a point, maybe even a case. And Clint Flicker, Private Dick, never turned down a case."
Groaning, Rachel just shook her head, wondering how much more bizarre John's dreamscape would become. Hell, maybe Rose and Unity had a point.
"I think I need a drink."
NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar
"One last hand before we call it a night?" asked Hob, finishing off the last he had of Brendan's finest. "I mean, it's almost dawn, and some of us have businesses to run. At the least, I'm going to have to make back the money I've lost tonight."
"Sure, one last hand," concurred Tim, standing up to stretch out some stiff muscles. It had been a long night, and his joints made audible cracks and clicks as he tried to work several hours of card playing out of his system.
Guy was a bit out of it. He just sat there, holding his head, wondering what the hell was going on. Unlike Clark, Guy had been drunk before, and he remembered what it was like. It had been a long time, but he remembered. Assuming that his Vuldarian physiology would protect him from the effects of the stout that John had brought, Guy had been slamming them down all night like nobody's business. As for why that wasn't the case, who knew? Maybe he was just getting old. "Um...yeah," he said distractedly, rubbing his temples. "One last hand."
Clark, on the other hand, just chalked off the strange buzz between his ears as another side effect of whatever had kept his power level low following his rebirth in the Batcave. "Sounds good to me," he said, wondering what other uncomfortable changes he had to look forward to. "I certainly don't want to lose any more of Tim's money."
"Heh. I'd wish you luck, but that would cut into me profits," said John, picking up the cards and deftly shuffling them for one last deal. "Since this is the last hand, we'll make it short and simple. Five card stud. Nothin' wild."
Quickly passing out the cards, John pretended he was barely paying attention. Clark's eyes watched his movements closely as they had most of the game, and again, he saw nothing amiss. Apparently, John's luck this evening had actually been based on skill or something other than slight of hand.
"Let me tell you guys a joke," said John as he dealt two cards face down to each player, then two cards face up, and one last card face down. Bets were called and raised, and by the time the last card was dealt, over a thousand credits were sitting in the pot.
"A bloke walks into a bar looking all pale and shocked like. The barman asks what's wrong, and the guy says he's just met with God on the road in. Curious, the barman asks what God looked like, and the guy says he looked like a Scottish sheepherder. 'What's so shocking about that?' asks the barkeep, thinking that God's supposed to be a shepherd, and people are supposed to be his flock, right? And the guy answers, 'It's not the shepherd part that bothers me. It's the Scottish part. After all, you know what they say about Scotsmen and sheep."
Tim had a pair of kings showing, which beat everything else on the table, and John wondered how the young mega millionaire would react. "I'll raise you another 200," he said, leveling what he hoped was a cold gaze at John.
"Too rich for even my Vuldarian blood," said Guy, also leveling a cold stare at John, who'd been the big winner all evening. "I fold."
"I'll see your 200 and raise you another 500," said Hob, also turning his gaze John's way.
Shaking his head, John just tapped his fingers against the tabletop. It was everyone else against him, and he knew it. In fact, it was just the way he liked to win. Still, the truth of the matter was that he wasn't there to win. He was there to have fun. "Alright, I fold, too," he said, pushing his cards away. He considered the surprised looks on the faces of Tim, Guy, and Hob well worth whatever amount of money he'd just thrown away.
Clark just looked at John quizzically, also choosing to leave it between Tim and Hob. "I fold, too." Once that was said, a quick scan of John's cards with his x-ray vision revealed that John had four deuces in all. Maybe John wasn't quite as bad a guy as he'd thought.
"Call," said Tim, throwing another 300 credits into the pot. "What have you got?" he asked, his tone one of challenge.
"Read 'em and weep," said Hob, flipping over his cards to reveal a heart flush, king high.
"Not quite good enough," said Tim, revealing his own hidden cards dramatically to reveal a pair of threes and the missing king, a full house.
"Bloody hell," said Hob, stealing John's favorite line when confronted with unpleasant surprises.
"You said it," John concurred, finishing off his cigarette and putting it out. "Well, it's been fun, but I guess we've all got places to be, right? Me, I've got a dog to get back home to. You wouldn't believe how cranky Barnabas can get."
"You should have brought him along," said Guy, who'd grown very fond of Barnabas in the few weeks he'd known him. He well understood the value of the companionship of a good dog. "He's always welcome here, you know."
"Yeah, but Barnabas has this thing about dogs playing poker," replied John, drawing a few last chuckles. "Thinks it's tacky."
"This was fun," said Clark, much to John's surprise. "We should do this again."
"Yeah, and don't forget to bring more of this stout," said Tim, indicating Brendan's finest. "It has quite a kick."
John and Hob both smiled, and Clark and Guy exchanged wary glances. "Yep, that it does," said John, finishing off the last of his own pint. "Even better than Hob's Guinness, and just the thing when I don't want to worry about me high tolerance to all things alcoholic."
"I believe it," said Clark and Guy in unison.
Saying their goodbyes and setting a tentative date for their next poker game, four men made their way home while Guy locked up and went to bed. High atop the building across the street, a mysterious figure, unnoticed by any of them, watched them go.
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower [The Next Morning]
Rachel always found riding the express Penthouse elevator slightly disconcerting. Part of her subconscious always expected the elevator to shoot past the 200th floor and crash through the roof, ejecting her into space, but it was no more disconcerting than thoughts of John and his weird dreams. The next time she saw him, they were going to have to have a long talk about their relationship, but right now, she was running late for yet another meeting with Hob.
When she was ten floors away from Gadling's penthouse apartment, the gravity generators kicked in as usual, and the elevator settled comfortably to a position of rest. Rachel hopped off as was her wont and exhaled slowly before walking up to her employer and friend's apartment, buzzing the intercom. She waited for a few seconds, but there was no response so she buzzed again.
"Hello? Robert? Are you in there?" she asked, yelling so as to be heard. One thing about Robert Gadling was that he was never late for meetings. It was one of his odd quirks. He always acted like he had all the time in the world and never rushed anywhere, but he never kept anyone else waiting.
Not really sure what might be wrong, she pulled out the spare keycard that Gadling had told her to keep for emergencies and used it to gain entry. After the doors slid open, Rachel walked in quietly. The lights were on, and the sounds of wind and traffic were clearly audible.
"Robert, are you here? Why is the window open?" she asked, tiptoeing down the hallway into the main room, only to discover a most disturbing scene. Signs of a struggle were evident, including some overturned furniture and a shattered picture window. Minute traces of blood were splattered on the Persian rugs amidst pieces of broken glass, but Robert Gadling was nowhere to be found. "Oh my God..."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #8 -