Disclaimer: Hellblazer is the property of DC Comics and The Discworld is
the property of Terry Pratchett.
The Shite Fantastic
A Hellblazer/Discworld Crossover
By: Mozphoto
Chapter 1: Getting There is Half the Fun
John had enough.
The nightmares were getting weirder and it was getting so that no amount of alcohol would numb his mind enough for him to have just one peaceful night. So he decided that maybe he should take a holiday. No magic, no demons, no bug-eyed monsters, no serial killers, and definitely no one else that wears a bloody trenchcoat! Yes sir, John Constantine was going somewhere sunny. Somewhere with a white sandy beach and crystal clear, blue water. Somewhere that young, nubile girls wore the latest fashion in bikinis. Somewhere with ridiculously over-priced drinks.
And that was why he was standing in Heathrow airport, staring at the departures board.
Where to go, where to go? He thought to himself. Barbados? Fiji? Anywhere that wasn't England, America, or Haiti (they hated him in Haiti) (sorry, couldn't resist). Destinations weren't a problem because. well, because he was John Constantine. Time and space just had a habit of sitting up and begging. The only real problem nowadays was customs. Ever since 9/11, travelling anywhere had become a nightmare even for him.
John remembered talking to a few minor demons in the know after it had happened. The sheer scale of the attack had even shocked the First of the Fallen. Just goes to show, who needs hell? We mortals can bugger ourselves just fine on our own, thank you very much.
Well, so long as no loony, gun-toting, religious fanatic interrupted his holiday, thought John. That's the last thing he nee - there was a loud crash and screaming coming from the front of the line. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon?
What John saw next surprised him (and let's face it, it takes a lot to surprise John Constantine). Running towards him, knocking people aside, was a wooden trunk on (and this was the freaky part) hundreds of little legs. John turned to run, but tripped over his own carryall. He thrust out his hands to protect his head from hitting the floor, when the trunk ran under him and opened. John fell into the trunk. The last thing he saw before it slammed shut was a neatly folded pile of underwear, smelling faintly of lavender.
The Shite Fantastic
A Hellblazer/Discworld Crossover
By: Mozphoto
Chapter 1: Getting There is Half the Fun
John had enough.
The nightmares were getting weirder and it was getting so that no amount of alcohol would numb his mind enough for him to have just one peaceful night. So he decided that maybe he should take a holiday. No magic, no demons, no bug-eyed monsters, no serial killers, and definitely no one else that wears a bloody trenchcoat! Yes sir, John Constantine was going somewhere sunny. Somewhere with a white sandy beach and crystal clear, blue water. Somewhere that young, nubile girls wore the latest fashion in bikinis. Somewhere with ridiculously over-priced drinks.
And that was why he was standing in Heathrow airport, staring at the departures board.
Where to go, where to go? He thought to himself. Barbados? Fiji? Anywhere that wasn't England, America, or Haiti (they hated him in Haiti) (sorry, couldn't resist). Destinations weren't a problem because. well, because he was John Constantine. Time and space just had a habit of sitting up and begging. The only real problem nowadays was customs. Ever since 9/11, travelling anywhere had become a nightmare even for him.
John remembered talking to a few minor demons in the know after it had happened. The sheer scale of the attack had even shocked the First of the Fallen. Just goes to show, who needs hell? We mortals can bugger ourselves just fine on our own, thank you very much.
Well, so long as no loony, gun-toting, religious fanatic interrupted his holiday, thought John. That's the last thing he nee - there was a loud crash and screaming coming from the front of the line. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon?
What John saw next surprised him (and let's face it, it takes a lot to surprise John Constantine). Running towards him, knocking people aside, was a wooden trunk on (and this was the freaky part) hundreds of little legs. John turned to run, but tripped over his own carryall. He thrust out his hands to protect his head from hitting the floor, when the trunk ran under him and opened. John fell into the trunk. The last thing he saw before it slammed shut was a neatly folded pile of underwear, smelling faintly of lavender.