A/N1: TO CHASTINE WRITERS: First off, this A/N is NOT a flame towards Chastine writers, in general or specifically, not an insult or a blow or anything, but it's my strong, STRONG suggestion/advice for them (and it's not rude, I promise). You don't like it, I'm sorry, and I hope no one stops reading my fic because of it. Here it is:
Chastine can ONLY HAPPEN if either a) the movie never happened and it's an AU or b) John and Angela break up (in a BELIEVABLE FASHION), and preferably (STRONG preferably here) NOT because John wants to be with Chas. -.-" .Either way, it would take A LOT OF TIME passing in the fic—it would NOT happen instantaneously—, NO ANGELA BASHING (that just… no), thought (most likely a good amount), and a LOT of attention to character. If you have to make it OOC, even just a tad, for it to work, don't do it. The point is they're IN CHARACTER. --" Otherwise, you're sticking in your own characters (based STRONGLY off of the movie ones) into the movie world. In that case, it's not Chaz/Constantine, it's Quasi-Chas/Quasi-Constantine, which is just bad fanfiction.
Now I don't necessarily like Chastine. I admit it. But notice how I'm not saying that it CAN'T be done. I'm sure in the right hands it could be. I have just yet to see it, and from what I've observed, people (for the most part) don't like to take the time and care necessary for it but just do it because it's "hot." Please, I beg you Chastine writers, if you must, write it WELL, not just for kicks with no attention to all the aforementioned unless it's meant to be Humor.
And, as always, to ALL writers… grammar, detail, and personalities. Pay attention to all three, not just dialogue, thoughts, please. And proofread, proofread, proofread, or get a beta. If those aren't right, it just makes the fic SO hard to read.
Thank you for listening to my rant. XD

A/N2: Now that that's out of the way… hi guys. :D What's up? Here it is, as promised, the next chapter. Oh, this one was fun… . . Enjoy! Critique encouraged! Be sure to R&R!

A/N3: WARNING Definitely a make out scene in this chapter, guys. Just thought I'd warn y'all, just in case someone's not comfortable with it. This one doesn't go too far, so it's still under M and you don't have to go to my site to read it in full.

Chas: A little snippy, aren't we?
Me: Oh hush, you slave. -.-"
Chaz: I'm not a slave!
John: He's my apprentice.
Me: Your dead apprentice.
Chas: We dead prefer half-angel.
Me: We living prefer pizza... >.>

The Truth Behind the World

That night at nine, when she got home, Angela was still steaming, not to mention anxious to the point of paranoia. She'd seen them everywhere, walking down the street, just around the corner, through windows and past parked cars; the fact that a good three-fourths of these spottings were just her imagination playing tricks on her didn't really make her feel any better.

And the whole time, she'd been able to sense her surroundings, feel that there'd been a killing in this alley, a brawl in this bar, a car crash there. It was insane, and she hadn't been able to figure out how to make it all stop. She still couldn't.

How had she let that bastard get away? How? She should've found some way to take him in, to keep him from causing harm to anyone else.

And how exactly would I have done that? she asked herself.

Somehow. Somehow, damn it!

Isabel would have found a way.

To top it all off, driving home, Angela had only narrowly missed getting into an accident, having been so preoccupied with her thoughts, the half-breed, and the case that she'd run a red light. That wasn't exactly what she'd needed at that moment.

Once in the house, Angela moved immediately to her cream-colored couch, sat down, and took out her hair elastic and slid off her shoes, looking to relax, watch some television, and try to figure out the whole mess in her head. This was when she remembered: she had to call John, and surprisingly enough, she didn't really want to. She didn't really want to see or talk to anyone right then. At all.

Well, at least this way, she'd learn to hone her powers more. At least this way, the good she wanted to do would be that much easier to achieve. Maybe she'd even be able to get rid of the half-breeds influencing atrocities like murder, or at least hold her own.

Although she really didn't want to, although she was physically and mentally exhausted, Angela stood up and walked over to her computer desk—right beside her television, only a plush, high-backed chair stacked with books standing between the two. There, she picked up the portable phone. Next to her laptop was a paper with his number scribbled on it, and Angela dialed it, not that she really needed this written reminder. She practically had this particular phone number memorized by heart already.

He wasn't there when she called, and Angela got the answering machine. "You've reached John Constantine. If it's important, leave a message. If not, don't waste my time." The corners of Angela's mouth tipped upwards; typical John. Blunt and succinct.

"John, it's Angela. You told me to call when I got home, so… I'm calling. I guess I'll see you when I see you… Bye."

Angela hung up the phone.

About an hour later, she was falling asleep on the couch, the television on and droning off some news program. Demons, nightmares, and Izzy burning and screaming danced on the outskirts of her conscious mind. A knock on the door woke her instantly, and she shot up, her hand instinctively moving towards her thigh. However, her holster wasn't there; she'd taken it off and placed it on the desk. The rest of her outfit was the same, though; she still wore the long, black pants and short-sleeved, navy blue shirt she'd worn underneath her coat to work.

Her heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through her veins, Angela forced herself to calm as she regained her wits. It was just a knock on the door, most likely John. Although her mind was muddled, she did have some clue as to what was going on.

But there was no way of knowing that it was John, and so, walking over to the door in her white socks, she took her gun. Nor did she open the door right away. "Who is it?" she called.

"Constantine," the voice on the other side of the door answered, and again, despite herself, she couldn't help but smile.

Her heart beating at a more normal rate, her breath slowing, her mind waking up, Angela opened the door.

"What took you so long?" she asked and stepped aside, allowing him to walk in.

"I had business to take care of."

John noticed the gun in Angela's hand. He would have commented, but just then, Duck ran up with a mew, rubbing up against the man's leg.

That reminded her…

"Duck! I forgot to feed you, didn't I?" she said to the dark gray cat, interrupting anything Constantine would have said, and she bent down, picked him up, and carried him to the kitchen, placing the gun back on her desk as she moved past it. "Make yourself comfortable," she called over her shoulder to John, and she poured some Purina™ Cat Chow into the cat's bowl. Poor kitty; what would Isabel think knowing Angela was forgetting about her cat?

After petting the cat that was munching happily away on the off-white tile floor, she moved back to her living room, walking through two doorways, no doors, and past a large cross on a white wall. John was sitting on the crème-colored, Victorian style chair with wooden legs and frame beside her computer desk, waiting for her. He stood up.

"Ready to go?"

Again, she considered not going. She considered saying she was too tired, thinking of Isabel, anything. She walked over to the couch and her sneakers, sitting down to slip them on and kill time. Her hair, a half wavy, half straight mess on account of the pony tail she'd kept it in all day, fell to either side of her face, and at least twice, she had to shove strands back behind her ears. It gave her more time to think up a reason, a real reason, as to why she was unable to go with John. When she was done, she looked up and spoke, standing up.

She'd made up her mind, her decision as inevitable as a gloomy, rainy day on at least one of the birthdays in a person's life.

"What are we waiting for? Come on; let's go." Angela grabbed her coat off of the arm of the clean, white couch, and putting it on, she walked over to him. "So where exactly are we going?"

John could tell there was something off with her, something not quite right. He knew her well enough to know that, by now. At least he was pretty sure he did.

But he did not ask. If it were important, she'd tell him. Hopefully. Besides, he had a feeling that he knew what was troubling her. Seeing the things she was seeing, after spending so long a time in denial… it would be hard on anybody.

And he was probably about to make it all that much worse, but she wanted to know. And John had never believed in gradual immersion.

"Ever hear of Midnite?"

Actually, she had. Around the precinct, she hadn't just heard of the infamous Constantine; Midnite and his establishment, one located in one of the seedier parts of Los Angeles, held some notoriety as well.

She looked up at him, their bodies once again very, very close to one another.

"Isn't that a nightclub?" Her face radiated confusion. Why were they going to a nightclub?

"Yeah, but one where only a special few can get in."

"Special few?" Angela had a feeling she knew what he meant, but she just wanted to be sure…

"Half-breeds and psychics, Angela," he elaborated. "Half-breeds and psychics."

Although it wouldn't do much good, she made sure to have her gun and badge on her as they left.

In front of her apartment building was the taxi, and Angela got in the passenger-side seat, John in the driver's seat.

As Constantine pulled out onto the road, she decided to ask some questions. "John, just what should I be expecting at this place? A bunch of plastered half-breeds?"

"Actually," he answered, his eyes flicking over to her from the street, "that's exactly what you should expect."

Well that… was actually rather pathetic. But it came nowhere near explaining to Angela just what she would witness at the nightclub. It came nowhere near preparing Angela for it.

After pulling into a spot across the street from their destination, Constantine put the car into park. Angela unbuckled her seatbelt and was about to open her door when he did another very "John thing" to do: he leaned in, and as usual, Angela tensed up in anticipation of a kiss that never came.

Memories of their one and only such embrace rushed to both of them, but both refused to acknowledge them. Instead, John put the Celtic amulet round her neck, just as he'd done when he'd gone after Balthazar.

Angela made to protest, but he spoke first, his eyes fixed on hers.

"There's no fighting in there, but just in case, I want you to wear this. Just this once." Just so I don't worry out of my mind about you.

Although she had absolutely no urge to wear the thing—if he didn't have to wear one of the things, why did she; she needed to get used to this whole business!—Angela agreed. However, before he had a chance to pull back, she, for the second time, gave into her desires.

"John," she said quietly, and this time, she leaned in. This time, she kissed him.

Although Constantine knew this was probably a very bad idea when they were in front of a half-breed infested hole like Midnite's, he didn't much care. Instead, his left hand moved to the back of her head, and he furthered the kiss.

Fucking hell, what did this woman do to him?

Angela no longer regretted going out with John this night. In fact, she was rather happy she did.

Yet there was still a part of her unaffected by his presence; there was still a portion of her obsessed with the events of the day, with the dead 26-year old. Killed by them. Just like her sister.

Was Alicia burning for it too?

And just like in Angela's case, within John there was an empty chasm untouched, but his was a bottomless pit dug by decades of untold sorrows and agonies. Hers was only now becoming large enough to notice.

And in both, this hole in their souls burned all the stronger as the kiss deepened and deepened.

Despite all of this, Angela drew herself closer to John, needing him. She needed him. Her hand slipped under his coat onto the fabric of his 200-dollar white collared shirt, to his side, her other onto his shoulder. His grip tightened on the nape of her neck, and his other hand pushed up the bottom of her coat and the bottom of her shirt, sliding up her bare back.

For a moment, he was all there was for her, and she was all there was for him. They were in their own realm, one in which problems could be ignored, one in which hardship and guilt and pain slipped so far into the background that they didn't even exist.

Although it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, John pulled away first. "We should go in," he said, his voice an out-of-breath whisper.

It was obvious his body did not quite agree with this decision, but as was often the case, his mind won out. They were nowhere near the point of no return, yet still surprisingly close.

Angela smiled, looked down and then back up. "Yeah, we should," she agreed, her voice just as quiet. Angela began to move back, moved forward again, jarred back—she was a conglomeration of indecision—and finally moved forward one last time to give him a peck on the lips. The next moment, the car door opened, and she was getting out.

John sat there for a moment, took a deep breath and collected himself. This was just insane.

To calm his nerves and a craving all at once, he reached into his coat pocket and took out his pack of nicotine gum. Taking out a piece, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, putting the half-empty pack and the wrapper into his inner coat pocket, beside his holy golden knuckles. Now ready to leave, he opened the car door and stepped out.

However, in the interval between Angela's departure from the taxicab and his, she remembered something; she remembered the amulet. The smile on her face faded as she hastily undid the clasp, taking the necklace and placing it into her coat pocket. Her golden necklace with its minute cross stayed on.

When John exited the car, Angela half-forced, half-allowed a smile to come. She prayed he wouldn't notice the absence of the amulet, and he didn't.

The fact that even veteran cops wore "bullet-proof vests," as John had once told her to think of the amulet, did not even cross her mind. Neither did the fact that only the stupid, reckless ones didn't.

Together, the pair walked across the dry, gray pavement and crossed the street. The sidewalks were filled with people milling about, and the roads were just a step away from traffic. One really wouldn't have expected there to be such a heavy crowd at this hour.

Once on the club's side of the street, Angela followed John to the doors of the entrance to the underground club. But, before they'd quite reached them, he stopped.

"John?" she said, noticing that they weren't actually in front of any entrances. Was it hidden or something? More magic?

"To get in, you're going to have to do just what we did yesterday," he told her. "Just remember, either look through their eyes or at the whole card, and you'll do fine."

She'd have to guess a card to enter the club?

"All right," she said, but inside, as she followed him once again, she was only thinking of how cliché this was, and obviously, about what had just gone on in the car.

And, of course, about the dead girl and the half-breed from earlier in the day.

And, indirectly, Isabel.

Angela and John walked to the entrance, and here he opened the right-hand door, motioning for her to enter. After a slight hesitation, she did, and strangely enough, the dark interior wasn't really all that out of the ordinary. At all. It was your typical, gothic nightclub. Past the doors, there was only a landing, and past that, a stairwell. The lighting was entirely red, and once you'd reached the bottom of the stairwell, this colored glow was all you had to go by. With it, though, you could make out most everything.

Along the wall behind the bouncer, there were two chairs, one a metal foldout type, the second also made of metal, but with its shape set, its back and seat padded. One or two decorative curtains were there, as was a small, ceramic stand, like a plain, miniature fountain only a foot tall. Other objects Angela couldn't quite make out were strewn against the wall in a rather orderly mess as well.

Nonetheless, there were still shadows, and in the far corner, surrounded by bits of junk, for all anyone knew, there was a colony of rabid mini-spooks, just waiting to make their move.

Angela and Constantine walked side-by-side down the stairs, but about two steps up from the floor, he stopped, allowing her to go ahead. Hesitantly, after a glance back up at him, she did so, down to the small, corded-off square space in front of the last step. Strands of rock music you could dance to wafted in from the main area of the club, still a level down. The steps directly to Angela's right led there, and here, at this crossroads between out there with the humans and in here with the half-breeds, was the gatekeeper: a bouncer, just the usual, every-day bouncer, with an extremely short, dark brown crew-cut, a tattoo going all the way around the biceps of his left arm, long black pants, and a sleeveless, skin-tight shirt with straps and buckles. He was the strong but silent type, not really saying much of anything, focused solely on his job.

However, there was one thing about him that set him apart from all the other bouncers out there: Instead of checking I.D., he checked psychic ability; guess the card, come right in.

Beside him was a table on which lay a stack of large picture cards, once that looked like Tarot cards but were not, and once Angela had come down to him, this man wordlessly held up a card, his face unreadable.

She could see from his eyes that he wasn't even looking at the card but at her. That ruled looking through his eyes at the card out. She would have to look at the card itself, see it as a whole.

Damn, that was the method she found most difficult, although she had practiced earlier that day at the precinct. She'd been told off for slacking and goofing around, and in a way, Angela was glad for it. At least the captain, an elderly, tall man with an amenable manner and strong hatred of crime, was treating her normally and not like damaged goods, like the poor, weak damsel with the dead sister. She was just any other cop to him, and that was exactly what she wanted.

Angela hated being treated differently, and she especially hated pity.

Now, unlike at the precinct where it had only gotten her in trouble, perhaps her earlier practice would pay off.

Taking a deep breath, Angela forced herself to focus. She could do this; she'd done this a hundred times before. She'd only just done this earlier in the day and the day before with John.

Take in the card as a whole… the whole card… What is the card?

John's voice rang in her head. "What card am I holding?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and in that moment between blindness and sight, between dark and light, between black and red, it came to her. But this image was strange. It was so random, so very out there, that only the cards at this club could be blessed with it.

"Three cats on a bench," she said a few seconds after the card was drawn, a time longer than was typical in this club, and she half-expected the bouncer to keep her out of the Midnite's establishment based solely on her slow response time. However, she had guessed correctly, and so he put the card down and unclipped the thick, round, red velvet cord, letting her by.

John didn't even pause when the next card was drawn. With a "Two fish in a pond," he was in.

Moving past the bouncer, Constantine couldn't help but smirk. Apparently, Midnite had made certain his employee wouldn't keep a grudge against John for knocking him out. Some bouncer; he'd gone down in one shot.

Down the second set of stairs Angela and John went, and through a cheap, shimmering curtain into a short hallway, past which was the main floor.

They were in.

At first glance, it really did seem to be an average nightclub; blood red lights illuminated the place from oriental lamps on the ceiling, and further on down, on the dance floor, white and green and blue would flash in split-second succession during the faster music. Several square, wooden columns held the ceiling up, but they also served as decoration. Perhaps they served solely as decoration, as they were more than pleasing to the eyes, being well-crafted and clean with careful molding of a darker shade along the edges. Around the dance floor, tables were scattered about, and to Angela's far right and far left were the bars where drinks could be purchased.

There wasn't anything special or spectacular about the establishment itself; it was the people, if you could even call them that. At first, all Angela noticed was a tint to their eyes. Red, like that of living, devilish red-eye in a poorly taken photograph, marked the Hell-spawn, and a greenish-white luminosity marked those of Heaven. Then, the flesh peeled off of some, revealing the shrunken mummy-flesh of the half-breed demons. Gray-black wings filled the place from those part angel. These especially made the place seem more crowded than it really was.

And this mismatched nightmare vision did not fade. Instead, it moved in and out of focus, the wings flickering in and out, angels and demons coming in and out of focus. But the scene itself did not shift; it stayed.

Angela practically staggered, her mouth agape. So many… there were so many. And they were all socializing, all of them; the good with the bad, the moral with the immoral, the blessed with the damned. Apparently, psychics were a minority. Forced to lean on the wall for support, she was unable to both keep her balance and examine her surroundings. John stood silently behind and to the side of her, the specter watching, aiding, and abetting her entrance into this new world.

A few tables down from the hallway in which they stood, in a fairly secluded area near the wall, were two "women," encompassed by the coal wings of one of these females. The other woman was nowhere near as angelic, was, in truth, more than repulsive in Angela's eyes, but this didn't seem to phase either of the two as hands and lips caressed.

How, how could all of these beings have been real people at one point? It seemed impossible to Angela now; they were so obviously not anymore. And they so obviously didn't care.

On the dance floor, figures gyrated to "Vodevil" by Marilyn Manson, and to Angela's left, half-angels in suits drank glasses of red wine that had once been water, as the half-demons drank other such alcoholic beverages purchased at the bars.

They sat in groups, they associated, they mingled, they copulated and ignored and argued and got along; God, how many were there? And what was really going on? If they could really get along this well, if Heaven and Hell were so buddy-buddy, was good really supposed to be superior to evil? Should good even fight evil? From the picture before her, the answer Angela received was an adamant, screeching no.

Somehow, it all seemed wrong. It just all seemed so very wrong, in the worst sense of the word. It was like growing up thinking you were living with your birth parents only to found out you'd been found abandoned in a ditch as a baby. How could this be?

She felt ill.

After giving her a minute or two to absorb what she was seeing, Constantine spoke. "Let's find a table."

She couldn't speak, she'd forgotten how to; how did she even understand what he was saying? What was language in face of this?

John had said once, "Heaven and Hell were right here, behind every wall, every window, the world behind the world." Talk about the understatement of the millennia.

She nodded dumbly. "Okay."

Angela and Constantine made their way past crowded tables until they found an empty one placed amidst all the others. It seemed all the private corners were taken.

They sat down across from each other.

"John, what is this place?" she asked, trying to block out the nightmare visions that assaulted her from all sides and focus only on him.

"I told you: a nightclub, where all the really good and really bad little boys and girls can fuck with each other all they want." His double meaning was not lost on Angela, and she smiled. He really did have a way with words. A very special sort of Constantine way.

Even if the club really wasn't that bad, sardonic humor was his forte.

"How does Midnite keep peace in here? What keeps them from attacking each other?"

"Why would they? They like time off, just like anyone else, though if you ask me, it's just another example of the goddamn hypocrisy."

Angela looked around again, the beings' true forms still flashing in and out like the whitecaps on a restless ocean. Gorgeous wings and hideous faces, glowing eyes barely noticeable in the red or flashing, multicolored lights. She turned her eyes back to John.

"How-how do you live with all of this? Knowing that they're always here, that there are so many of them? That they even get along!" This, perhaps, was the most horrible part.

Although the Mammon affair had quite literally created John's faith in God, it had only served to shake Angela's and rip away at its foundation, like overzealous termites on steroids.

"You get used to it," was all he said, and the sad part was, it was true. This was mainly why he was so bitter; God and the Devil had a standing bet on people's souls, and when you really looked, especially in places like this, it was more than apparent. It was impossible to miss. To make matters worse, no matter the life you led, if you killed yourself from pain or desperation, you went straight to a place of eternal damnation and suffering. However, if you slaughtered people in life, if you received pleasure in such carnage, you received the opportunity to escape eternal damnation and suffering. Instead, you were able to stay on Earth and encourage others to do just as you had done.

It was ridiculous, and it pissed him off to no end. Life shouldn't have worked this way; reality should not have been this way.

But it was, and the unfairness and cruelty of it all made John disgusted, whether he now believed that God had a plan or not. God might have had a plan for all of them, but although there were likable parts to it, for the most part, he didn't find himself very pleased.

Angela was just starting to see how horrible things truly were. Sure, she'd witnessed atrocities in her police work, but she'd always believed God would be more civilized. He'd be more understanding. Before, the rules had never really bothered her; some seemed understandable, others just hadn't seemed that important. But as she'd seen firsthand in the case of her sister and John, some rules were meant to be gray.

Yet they weren't, and she was disgusted.

What kind of a world was this?

Now she knew how John Constantine felt, at least to a certain extent. She'd lost her sister; he'd lost a dozen more like her. She'd abandoned Isabel; he'd been the cause of Cheryl, his sister's, death. And although she did blame herself for what happened to Isabel, he blamed himself for the fatalities of so many more.

And he had been in Hell.

"Yeah," Angela said, and examined the smooth wooden tabletop before her, running her fingernails across it, distractedly searching out cracks. John could barely hear her over the din. "I guess you do."

After a moment of silence between them, on one level uncomfortable, on another level simply a hiatus in time in which there was nothing that really could be said, he stood up. Angela looked at him from her seat. Where was he going?

"I have some business with Midnite. Sit tight, keep the amulet on, and get used to what you see. Pretty or not, this is what the world is."

He still hadn't noticed she wasn't wearing the amulet. Good thing her shirt was not low-cut today.

"Go take care of your business," she replied. Although she didn't particularly want to be left alone among all these half-breeds, it was best that she was. He knew it; she knew it.

He hesitated. "Be careful." Angela practically had to lip-read these words over the music.

And with that, he turned and walked away, down the path between Heaven and Hell, or at least their representatives on Earth.

With him gone, Angela took to examining her surroundings. There were half-breeds everywhere, talking, dancing, sitting, standing. Were she not able to see them all for what they really were, it would have seemed to her to be the archetypal, thriving nightclub. No doubt this was what any casual passer-by took it for, if they were even aware of its presence.

The music changed, from rock to something more techno, but she barely noticed. Angela was entranced; she was repulsed and attracted all at once. She couldn't take her eyes off of it.

Only when he was about a foot from her table did she even notice him.

Angela could say nothing as the black-haired half-breed she'd so wanted to arrest earlier in the day took the seat in which John had been sitting.

"Why, hello detective," he grinned, his youthful, somewhat feminine features and expressive lips leering.

Before Angela's very eyes, the flesh rotted away, and all that was left was the slimy, emaciated corpse underneath.

Vagrant: Yes, two replies for two reviews! . And I hope you're enjoying the "dinner" so far. As you can see, it's not really much of one. O.o

Danielle: Well they're not technically having dinner at all. O.o In fact, they don't actually eat a thing, but it's not as if they're really hungry either. Maybe John. Anyway, hope you liked! And yes, Angela can now see half-breeds.

heraldtalia: Being evil is fun! . As is angst, reading it and writing it. I'm glad you enjoyed it, I spent three days in a row blowing off my homework and writing that thing. O.o :P But yes, onto this fic… It's going to drive Angela bonkers, as you can probably already tell, although really Isabel is the main problem on her mind right now, though she's ignoring it to focus on the Alicia case for a variety of reasons. There's some mini-angst here and some mini-angst in the next chappie, but I don't really get deep into it till longer along (sorta far along, but trust me, does it get angsty . . BUAHAHAHA XD). EEEEE, and someone commented on the prologue! See, I put that thing up after Chapter 3, so that would be why you didn't notice it before. Glad you liked, it was fun to write. . And thank you for the rambling! I like long reviews! They make me a happy Salienne. You rule too for writing them. XD
-John: I'm adorable now?
-Me, Angela, and Fred: Yes.
-John: (looks at us all as if there's something very wrong with us)

Slvrbldrain: I got inspiration from Law and Order actually… . . And I love Buffy. . Woot, rambling is good, tho'! And ignoring very very bad. But I'm glad you liked the chappie! . Thank you!

MP: Thank you! . And see, 'tis longer!