WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE
A huge shout out to Jim, jezz, Bryan James and Obsessively Compulsive. Thank you ever so much for the reviews. They were very much appreciated!
Chapter One
The great John Constantine felt neglected. He wanted the company of his remaining affiliates, yet the very thought filled him with self loathing. He ignored these emotions, but his endeavours were in vain. Self denial made his mental turmoil intensify.
"Why does it bother me?" he brooded.
When he sacrificed an associate, his lonely seed blossomed from pity's condemned soil. The past had stolen useful allies, and the seed had grown. The present had stolen beloved companions, and the seed had grown into a tree. Underneath its blooming branches slept three friends. Father Hennessy, Beeman and Chas.
"I never watered it with tears," he contemplated. "Only poisoned it with bitter fears."
He needed sex. Nothing else. Just sex. Angela? Constantine assumed she favoured solemn commitment over casual copulation. She wasn't even in Los Angeles, thus making the idea very unrealistic. Where had she gone? Mexico to recuperate. Back next week. Damn! He needed sex. It would soothe his desolate anguish.
"Women!" he scoffed. "They're running from me, or I'm running from them."
Angela hadn't run. She'd requested his company on holiday, but he had abruptly declined. It was too intimate. He'd just endanger her life. He already had several skeletons in his cupboard, and he didn't want anymore. He would run. Again.
"I'm like a magnet for the damned," he sighed. "I touch someone and they die. By my hand, or by an external one."
Who was next? Feeling alarmed and cautious, Constantine's attention returned to his present location. He was seated in an expensive restaurant. He hated expensive restaurants. He hated the reputation associated with them. And he hated the glamorous people. So why had he come? When he suffered from self-pity, he indulged in stupid, spur of the moment activities.
"The damn story of my life," he grumbled. "Glad I don't suffer financially."
He didn't have a normal job, and so didn't earn a normal wage. He was a voluntary exorcist, working with the Roman Catholic Church. Aside from a few token donations, he received nothing for his exorcisms. After Beeman's death, his other ventures had ended. Beeman had travelled overseas, searching for lost relics, which he'd sold to wealthy clientele. Constantine had purchased many of these artefacts, and had traded them for triple the original fee. He'd never told Beeman this small fact… The tremendous profits ensured John's future retirement, whilst his opulent parents funded his present day operations. They'd died ten years ago, leaving him with a huge inheritance.
"Even they weren't immune," he mused. "At least I was an only child."
He wanted to forget. And he would. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a small, cardboard box. Following an inborn routine, he shook the packet violently. The contents rustled loudly. Tearing open the top, he removed a piece of nicotine flavoured gum. Inserting the strip into his mouth, the nicotine flooded his senses, and contrasted with his prior meal. As he shoved the box back into his breast pocket, he found himself enjoying the discordant piquancy. He blamed his bad taste on cigarette depravation.
"My God," he growled. "I miss cigarettes."
Two weeks ago, Lucifer had cured his lung cancer. And for two weeks, Constantine hadn't touched cigarettes. He didn't fancy getting lung cancer again, but the nicotine cravings persisted. When the pangs became too agonising, he'd wash them away with alcohol. Good and bad health were both painful.
"He always did have a sick sense of humour," he reminisced.
John resumed his vigilance over the restaurant. He sat outside the building, where the midday sun did not shine. Seeking relief from the seething summer weather, he'd chosen a table covered in jagged shadows. Despite the sudden heat wave, he continued to wear his formal black clothing. He led a routinely life. But no matter how much he fought for tranquillity, the smouldering climate continued to boil temperature and temperament.
"Warmed by God's love," he mocked.
Large social groups occupied the sunlit tables. No one else sat in the darkness. No one else sat alone. The realisations made him feel bitter and envious. The diners were blind and naïve, and so led normal, peaceful lives. They'd never glimpsed Satan, nor visited Hell. Demons and half breeds didn't hunt them, nor murder their companions. They had friendships which would last forever. The lucky bastards!
"Sentimental prick!" he fumed. "I don't need friends! I'm a selfish asshole! Hennessey was weak, Beeman irritated me, and Chas had a smart mouth! And I hate Angela!"
Self denial made his jealousy grow. Oblivious to his sullen presence, the diners chatted and laughed. He distinguished two different sounds; the masculine, uproarious chortle, and the feminine, hysterical titter. They even looked the same; the men were in their fifties with greying hair and three piece suits, whereas the women were slightly younger and dressed in smart black dresses.
"Do I really want to be normal?" he pondered. "I could change. I could end the exorcisms, ignore my True Sight, and stop interfering with half breed affairs. I could get a proper job and proper friends. But I won't. It's boring. I need the adrenaline rush."
Constantine's mutterings went unnoticed in the noisy restaurant. Despite the tumultuous cries, he heard a sudden sharp buzzing issue nearby. The new sound piqued his curiosity, and he instantly located its whereabouts. It originated from his table. The speckled plastic supported a plate of half eaten pasta. The food was smothered in a white dressing, and so he immediately noticed the single, black speck soiling the surface. A blow fly crawled across the meal, its tiny little legs leaving microscopic footprints. The insect buzzed repeatedly, as though voicing its enthusiasm.
"Bloody freeloader," he snarled.
A fork stood beside his plate. Grabbing the steel implement, he steadied it above the accursed pest. Preoccupied by the leftovers, the insect didn't acknowledge the ominous object. A pronged shadow fell across the plate. The fly did not flee. Earth's microcosm. The fly represented humankind, whilst the food's colouring and texture resembled snow covered mountains. And he held Satan's trident above the barren, forsaken land.
With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent the fork plunging downwards. The tongs pierced the fly's black body, brittle flesh crunching sickeningly. He wondered if flies felt pain. As though in answer, the pest's monotonous buzz became an alarmed wail.
Desiring a closer inspection, he turned the fork upside down. The fly was now eye level. Three sharp prongs protruded from its thorax, the very ends smeared in white sauce. He watched the fly trying desperately to escape, its hairy legs writhing backwards and forwards. The insect's constant cries filled him with simultaneous satisfaction and remorse.
"Welcome to Hell," he jeered.
As he scrutinised the squirming pest, something strange snagged his attention. He abruptly dropped the fork, the metal clattering against the plastic tabletop. He ignored the fly's incessant moans, and studied the bizarre spectacle instead.
"What the Hell?" he murmured.
Opposite the exorcist stood a large table, containing an even larger man. John hadn't noticed him before, as he blended in with the crowd. Like the other restaurant goers, he wore a formal, dark suit. The similarities stopped there. He was grotesquely overweight. The stranger's receding hairline made his bulbous skull and hanging jowls look even worse. Several flies crawled across his forehead, feeding on the sweat there. Whenever he leant backwards or forwards, the metal chair would creak threateningly. His capacious stomach nudged and jostled the table violently. His suit buttons had difficulty holding the swollen mass of fat and flesh.
"Jesus," Constantine remarked. "No wonder famine's never been eradicated."
The tabletop had completely disappeared under an accumulation of cups and plates. Some empty, some full. A roasted chicken stood in the centre, its skin scorched to perfection. Several soups surrounded the burnt bird, like an assortment of kaleidoscopic spotlights. And there was more. Voluminous meals were crammed into every possible space, whereas the empty dishes were stacked together. Broiled meat and fresh vegetables wafted into one, forming a foul, cloying stench. Fouler than sulfur. Fouler than decay.
"He's eating the whole goddamn restaurant," John complained.
But the man's eating habits were far fouler. He attacked a plate of spaghetti, with podgy, fat fingers. Like a fly's fidgeting maw, his writhing hands collected maggoty spaghetti strands. When he'd harvested enough, he shoved the scraps into his mouth. Gnashing frenziedly, his yellowed teeth smashed the food into a revolting pulp. The mashed contents spilled from his quaking jaws, and smeared across his dark overcoat. Mouth, chin and hands were smothered in red sauce; he resembled a gnarled predator, feeding on rancid meat.
"Beautiful!" Constantine retched.
The man's corpulent features were wrinkled in fearful desperation. The flies rejoiced. Whilst he attacked the spaghetti, he swiped at the minuscule irritations. His reddened palm frightened the pests away. Once the hand had gone, they immediately returned. His fingers had left behind a red smudge. Now the flies dined on sweet sweat and sour sauce.
"He'll have a heart attack soon," the exorcist predicted.
The neighbouring diners noticed the man's abhorrent eating habits. They cast sidelong glances at each other, their expressions communicating revulsion and disbelief. The happy, bright atmosphere of the restaurant had darkened into anticipation and perplexity.
"Something's not right," John realised.
The man finished his spaghetti. Squealing angrily, he flung the empty plate against the ground. The porcelain smashed into jagged fragments, and leftover sauce reddened the white tiles. The obstreperous crash plunged the restaurant into deathly silence.
Squawking in frustration, the man leapt to his feet. The force sent his chair toppling backwards. He leant across the table, his arms reaching for the roast chicken. He attacked the bird with outstretched hands. Grease stained his red digits. Predatory talons tore the carcass apart. Flesh lodged underneath his fingernails. He was oblivious. He shovelled meaty chunks into his gaping, drooling beak. And ate flesh and bone. Gristle and fat. Anything.
"Something's definitely not right," Constantine repeated. "He's…"
In only five minutes, the obese man had lost weight. A deflated balloon now replaced his swollen abdomen. The suit was too big for his shrivelled frame, and the baggy sleeves dogged his reckless movements. Even the fat, limp skin marring his face, had started to tighten.
"Damn!" the exorcist cursed. "Another mess to investigate."
John hated getting involved, so he stalled instead. He suddenly noticed his abandoned drink. A full shot glass stood beside his neglected meal. The rich brown elixir glistened invitingly. Seizing the glass, he quickly downed the contents in one go. The alcohol tasted warm and stale. Incensed by this small displeasure, he smacked the glass against the tabletop. The solid crack spurred him into action, and he jumped to his feet.
"This'll be fun," Constantine grumbled.
He approached the madman. From various tables, he sensed cautious eyes watching him. He hated being the centre of attention, so he ignored these restaurant goers. Suddenly craving a cigarette, Constantine realised he'd swallowed his nicotine gum with the alcohol.
"Shit," he swore.
He needed nicotine.
By the time he'd reached the table, he had obtained some new gum. Chewing vigorously, he stood near the lunatic. The madman didn't notice his presence, and continued to devour the roast chicken. John realised that the maniac had grown even thinner. Wrinkled twigs now replaced his fat, swollen fingers, whilst the flesh on his face had tightened considerably.
"What's the matter?" Constantine asked. "Did you skip breakfast?"
The man froze. He wide, bulging, blue eyes stared at the exorcist. Mashed chicken and saliva dribbled from his gaping mouth. The soiled hands were tensed, as though in terror or sudden realisation. The gaunt fingers were wrapped around the corpse's ravaged ribcage. He was about to tear the bones apart.
"Fooooood!" the lunatic groaned.
"Aaaaaaand?" John mimicked.
The man straightened. He was shorter than Constantine, but his stare contained a ferocious intensity.
"FOOOOOOD!" the maniac roared.
The diners uttered frightened screams. These cries provoked the man. With surprising speed, he lurched across the table. The table rocked violently, upsetting all the plates. They smashed against the ground, sending food and porcelain crashing everywhere. The lunatic lunged again, and the rocking table rocked no more. It clattered against the cement flooring, plastic legs severed beyond repair.
Before Constantine could react, the man slammed into his chest. The exorcist lost his balance. Landing on his backbone, pain knocked the oxygen from his lungs. As he gasped for breath, the lunatic pinned him to the ground. Greasy hands crushed his shoulders, soiling his expensive overcoat. The madman's feet pulverised his knees, so he couldn't move his legs. John was forced to stare into his attacker's wide, bulging eyes. They stared at him hungrily.
"A little help please!" Constantine choked.
But nobody helped him.
A manmade thunderstorm buffeted the restaurant. Tables and chairs fell over, bellowing thunderously. Expensive china and silverware shattered against the ground, the crashes resembling broken hail. The diners screamed hysterically and ran for their lives. But the lightening had already struck.
"Selfish bastards!" the exorcist shouted.
Absolutely furious, John spat in the lunatic's face. Nicotine gum struck his assailant's forehead, squelching wetly. It lingered there momentarily, before dropping to the ground. The maniac didn't even acknowledge the incident.
"Must eat!" the man moaned.
The lunatic's mouth leered nearer and nearer. Constantine stared into the gaping, growing, gorge. Mangled flesh and putrid fluids smeared the toothy stones. Constant suicides had broken those rocks. Gathering in the chasm's corners were more mashed remains, whilst a thick paste lined the writhing, wriggling canyon walls. He smelt the foul conglomeration of rancid wind and roasted meat.
"Gah!" the exorcist retched.
The monstrous hands tightened around John's shoulders, but they'd neglected to secure his lower arms. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, Constantine removed the Holy knuckle-dusters. Slipping his fingers through the holes, the comfortable weight reassured him. He curled his hand into a fist and the gold squeezed back, as though ready for battle. Weapons were more useful than friends.
"Do you like your meat tenderised?" the exorcist demanded.
The madman exposed his teeth in an agonised groan. Constantine felt the fevered breath burning his bare neck.
"Asshole," John snarled.
The lunatic lunged for his throat.
"This is for wasting my gum!" the exorcist roared.
The knuckle-dusters collided into the man's jawbone. He was sent rocketing backwards, his grip on John's shoulders and legs promptly broken. An assortment of mashed food, saliva and blood guttered from his mandible. The regurgitated mess smashed against the restaurant tiles. So did the lunatic.
Constantine got to his feet, spasms of pain nipping his bruised spine. Ignoring the minor irritations, he returned the knuckle-dusters to their original location.
"Glad I didn't sell these to Midnite," John remarked.
Only he spoke in the quiescent restaurant. He studied the wrecked surroundings. Tables and chairs were upturned, their severed legs scattered across the ground. Shattered plates and trodden food soiled the damaged tiles. Most of the diners had fled, but a small percentage sat stupidly in their seats. They stared at John, idiotic expressions frozen on their faces.
"Thanks for your help!" Constantine lowered his voice. "I have to do everything by my goddamn self."
With cautious movements, he approached the man's rigid body. John was amazed at how he'd practically shrivelled away to nothing. His clothes looked four sizes too big. He lay on his back, a hand pressed against his chest. Heart attack? The hands and fingers had grown even more skeletal in appearance. The lunatic's face was little more than a skull, wrapped in strained flesh. The eyes had rolled back in the skull and were buried inside two hollow, black sockets.
"Jesus," he murmured. "He's nothing but skin and bone."
Standing beside his fallen head, he tried to avoid the gruesome expression. He knelt over the man, his spine still complaining now and again. Pressing an index finger against his neck, he couldn't find a pulse.
"Impossible," he hesitated. "He starved to death."
Constantine wanted a cigarette.
ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 12TH AUGUST