"Fuck." Chas Kramer muttered into his cheap Styrofoam cup of coffee. The mumbled curse, now released into the universe, made its way through the stale air and curled neatly into the unused ashtray of the taxicab. Chas could just see it making a little nest in there, "Fuck."
This time, he tried to make it sound as though it belonged there, as though his was a mouth that often formed such vulgarities, as though he belonged there…but in truth, there was no way in Hell that he belonged here. Here was one of the dusky alleys of Los Angeles, one frequented by only the very worst creatures of the night—or so Chas assumed. And, were it not for his uncanny feeling that he was being followed, Chas would not have even been in this area to begin with. Unfortunately, he could sense something on his tail, and therefore—voila—here was Chas Kramer experimenting with curse words in the shadiest neighborhood he'd dared to drive his taxi into.
Yanking the drink holder out from above the stereo, Chas jammed the half-full cup of lukewarm liquid into it, and checked his rearview mirror. Darkness. Of course, it's not like he would expect to see something following him, "Fuck."
This time, it almost sounded like it belonged there, "Fuck, Chas, you're just being fucking paranoid."
And perhaps he was. But, a little paranoia never hurt anyone, right? Besides, it's not like whatever was following him was necessarily…earthly—Chas's dark eyes flickered toward a messy pile of books falling from a tired Barnes & Nobles bag on his dashboard—in which case, paranoia was a very good thing. He sighed, trying to allay his fears with the muscularity of thought, and picked up one of the books. Your Guide to the Paranormal, he read, Edited by Jason Eddings. He snorted, and tossed the book back on the dash, picking up the next one. But he never let his foot off the gas pedal.
-
"Shit!" Chas squeaked—there, that was more his kind of swear word—as he slammed on the breaks. Granted, he hadn't been going very fast, cruising at a couple miles per hour through this alleyway, but there was still enough of a jolt when he saw the dark figure in front of him. His headlights cut through the fog, highlighting the tall figure of a man with a cigarette between his lips, staring at the sky, and apparently unconcerned that he had almost been hit by a taxi.
If Chas had arrived at that spot a couple minutes earlier, he would have seen what John Constantine was watching, as he stared into the sky. A magnificent creature of the legends, with smooth, androgynous features, and glossy black wings. Of course, Chas would not have seen the wings, but he would have seen the human form of Gabriel. John continued to watch the half-breed angel melt into the skyway before turning to the scared little boy driving the standard Los Angeles taxicab.
-
Chas saw the man turn toward him, piercing dark eyes squinting into the windshield against the bright illumination. John may have been the one caught in the headlights, but it was Chas that had the ever-famous 'deer' look plastered across his face. John's eyes flickered to Chas's left, and Chas had about a half-second before the taxi window came crashing down into his lap.
Crash.
Chas jumped about six feet into the air, and an oddly beautiful face appeared in the broken window-frame.
"Little boy, it's past your bedtime." A voice hissed, "You don't want to play with the big boys."
Chas was not unprepared. He grabbed a piece of metal piping from his passenger seat and slammed it into the man's perfect skin. The man was momentarily thrown, and his face disappeared from the window for a brief second. Then it was back, and, to Chas's horror, still perfect and undamaged.
The man leaned into the cab, and Chas backed away. Suddenly, the man was pulled back and away from the car, and Chas watched in fascination as John Constantine spun the half-breed demon to face him.
"Leave the kid alone, Balthazar. This is between Hell and me."
The demon struggled to regain its footing on the pavement slick with rain, "Constantine. Pleasure."
John growled, and reached into his coat to pull something—a gun, perhaps? Chas wondered—out, but the demon pushed a manicured hand to stay the movement.
"Ah, ah, ah, Johnny-boy…do remember the balance."
Constantine ignored him and continued to rummage around in his overcoat, "Fuck the balance."
"Tsk, tsk, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. I thought you would have known better. Any hostility toward me…ahem…will not only be…what is it you people call it? Ah, yes, justice. 'Twould be unjust. And…would forfeit the lives of…oh, what do you refer to them as? Innocents."
With that last phrase, Chas had a distinct feeling the demon-man was referring to him. The quick glance from John Constantine confirmed it.
-
John weighed the options in his mind. He glanced toward the taxi, the driver a boy no more—John was certain—than eighteen years old. His grip tightened around Balthazar's neck, but this would be more trouble than it was worth.
He released the demon, who fell to the ground, scrabbling for footing.
"Good choice, Johnny-boy."
Constantine sneered, and Balthazar got the picture. One could only escape John Constantine's wrath so many times in one night.
-
Chas watched the demon-man hurry off into the darkness, as Constantine turned to regard him. Chas leaned out the window, brushing a couple of glass shards from his lap.
"Hey…hey! Thank you."
Constantine regarded him coolly for a minute.
"No problem."
With that, John Constantine turned on his heel and walked down the street.
Chas gunned his engine, "Hey sir? Sir?" He pulled up alongside John, who was walking briskly toward the upper East end of LA, "I'm Chas Kramer."
If John heard him, he gave no sign, and continued walking.
"You saved my life."
John pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one into his hand.
"Um…thanks. What…what was that?"
John tucked away his cigarettes and pulled out a battered-looking Zippo lighter.
"I mean, that…that wasn't real, was it?"
John lit the cigarette dangling from his lips, and took a long drag—never breaking his stride.
"I mean, it was real, of course, but…that thing…" Chas was getting a little frustrated, so he grabbed one of his books from the Barnes & Nobles bag and waved it out the window, "It wasn't from Earth, was it? I hit it with a fucking metal pipe, man, and nothing happened."
"Don't say that." John stopped walking, and turned toward the car.
Chas blinked, "Wha—what?"
"Don't say fuck. You suck at it." John turned back and continued walking.
"What…I…huh? Who are you?"
John kept walking for another ten or fifteen feet before stopping again. Chas rolled his taxi to a stop beside him.
"Constantine. John Constantine." John paused, "I'm an exorcist."
Chas stared, "A…an exorcist? Whoa! Really?"
John nodded, and took another long drag on his cigarette, "Go home, kid. It's late."
Chas kept staring, "No way…look, I've…this is gonna sound crazy, but I've been studying that kind of stuff! I knew that thing wasn't from Earth, I knew it!"
John shook his head and started walking again, "Real Einstein is what you are."
"What was it?"
"Demon."
"No way! A demon? Really?"
"Don't sound so damn excited, kid. That's the last thing demons are - exciting."
"This is…this is fate! I've been studying in the occult and exorcisms…I…I could help you."
"Don't need any help. Go. Home."
"You think this is a coincidence?"
"Yeah."
"C'mon, I could help you!" Chas knew he was beginning to whine, but he just couldn't help it. Destiny was staring him in the face.
John slanted a hard gaze at him.
"Kid, you were shittin' your pants back there. You were no fuckin' help at all. You don't want to get involved in this. Trust me."
"Yes, I do! I promise. Please, sir, let me help." Chas was begging now.
"No, kid, for the last time, no." With that, John gave a final turn and walked into the distance.
Chas followed.
After ten minutes of John walking and Chas cruising in silence, John let out a wearied sigh and turned to the cab.
"Fine, kid."
Chas blinked in astonishment, "You'll let me help? I can be your apprentice?"
John smirked.
"No, but if you're going to follow me all the way to my fucking house, you might as well give me a ride."
Chas narrowed his eyes, but pulled the door release.
-
It was a twenty-minute drive to John's bowling-alley apartment. When they arrived, John opened the door, but before he stepped out, Chas spoke.
"Can I help?"
John rolled his eyes, "Pick me up tomorrow. Eight. Sharp."
Chas nodded, confused as to whether that was a yes or a no to his question.
-
Two years later
-
Angela Dodson stood beside the stoic and imposing figure of John Constantine. She had been debating for the past half-hour as to whether or not she should grab his hand.
Do it, Angie, the small voice in her head coaxed, He'll be grateful for the contact.
She bit her lip, and glanced up at his cutting figure. It was in that second that he chose to glance down at her. She quickly focused straight ahead.
Do it, Angie.
John cleared his throat awkwardly.
"It was my fuckin' fault," he muttered, she wasn't sure if it was to her or himself, "This was never supposed to happen."
Unsure as to whether she was expected to say something or not, she chewed on her lower lip and stayed silent.
"I let him fucking die. Chas was never supposed to be a part of this. He was never supposed to be a fucking part of this."
John's voice was raw. Angela glanced back up at him, and he down at her. Vulnerability flashed through his eyes—she would have missed it, had she not glanced up at that very second. His next blink was long and deep, and it seemed he might be blinking back tears.
She reached out and took his hand. And squeezed it.
He squeezed back.
And the casket holding the body of Chas Michael Kramer was lowered into the cold earth.
-
Fin.