Post by jordan on Apr 6, 2015 9:37:56 GMT -7
Infinite DC Comics Proudly Presents
John Constantine: Hellblazer
In
Humble Beginnings
By Jordan
*
Then
Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. The wind blow softly through the narrow streets of Liverpool, the small autumn leaves fluttering through the air, a soft rain drizzling down on the small English town. Alone, under a small rock in the face of an evenly small hill, sits a ragged boy, his hair blonde as an angel’s and dirty as a beggars, his eyes a crystal blue like that of the channel he so wishes to cross some day. To find somewhere else. To find new worlds.
He has nothing but the clothes on his back—a small, thin, white dress shirt, two scuffed up black boots, ripped up tan trousers, and a similarly-colored trench-coat about four sizes too big—and a small stick he taps away at on the cold, hard earth with. He mutters senselessly to himself, his words inaudible whispers meant to be heard by no one. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.
“Hello? Is someone under there?” A retched voice calls out, chocking and whither by the tests of time. The little boy drops the stick and climbs behind a large rock where he has been sleeping for the last few days because it shields him from the wind. “Hello?” An old man garbed in purple cloaks turns the corner into the smallish hideout. “I heard a noise over here. Is anyone here?” The boy makes no sound as the man takes steps closer. ”Speak or forever hold your peace,” the man’s words reverberate through the crowded outing, echoing off the walls in overwhelming waves.
“I’m right here,” the boy calls out, much to his own dismay.
“And what are you doing here, young lad?” The boy steps out from behind the rock, his blue eyes staring down.
“I got nowhere else ta go,” the man in purple looks the boy clothed in ratty, oversized clothes up and down a few times, his eyes wandering, his mind pondering.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“John. John Constantine.”
“John,” the man reaches out, setting his hand on Constantine’s oversized trench-coat clad shoulder, but the boy shakes the hand off his shoulder and backs away, suddenly becoming extremely defensive.
“Don’t touch my coat ye ol’ bugger.”
“Sorry,” the man throws his hands beside his head in a “Don’t Shoot” gesture. “I mean you no harm, John. But I do have a question for you,” the boy again turns on a dime, no longer being so defensive, but instead quizzical.
“And what is that?”
“Do you like magic tricks?”
*
Now
Rain drizzles ever so lightly outside, coming softly down from the thick, grumpy storm clouds, with no thunder or lightning pervading the night sky. Underneath the cover of the clouds and bombarded by drizzle of the rain, stuck in a little back alley just off the corner of Hanbury and Spital—in an historically dark part of Whitechapel, just barely two blocks from the Annie Chapman murder, an area covered in myth and tales—is a small little bar sits tucked away, barely noticeable to the common passerby. Tourists who stumble upon it find it as fun as any attraction in London, while the locals who avoid it refer to it as the “Ripper’s Bar”, in reference to the infamous kill who once roamed the lands. But to those who frequent the bar for a relaxing shot or two know it only as “Long Journey’s End”, the greatest bar on Earth.
On this very day, drenched in the drizzle of the rain, his dirty blonde hair padded down by the heavy droplets, his eyes bright blue and piercing, the infamous John Constantine strolls slowly into the bar, his body pulled down by the weight of the rain. Clothed in a dirty white button-down shirt, his black tie loosened and cocked to the side, his jaw scruffy with an unkempt beard, and a tan trench-coat thrown over the entire ensemble.
All eyes in the bar meet John’s as he strolls through the doors, looking to take his regular seat in the corner booth of the bar, in perfect view of the television to see the games, while also allowing him the surveillance of any possible coming threats. As his muddied boots pad softly through the bar, he notices a large man, his muscles practically bulging from his body, his shirt tearing in two places, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, sitting silently in his seat, smoking a small cigarette.
“What the bloody hell do ye think ye doin’, mate?” Constantine’s voice comes out strained and exhausted, his breath seeming breathless and his body barely able to support itself.
“I think I’m trynna enjoy a nice smoke. The hell you think you’re doin’?” The man replies, his accent obviously from across the pound, his shoulders wide and his teeth gritted.
“I think I’m trying ta do the same thing. So, if you could kindly move your ass for me, that’d be greatly appreciated.” John offers, his wary blue eyes refusing to break contact with the man’s. Suddenly, the man stands tall, his muscular arms flexing, standing well above John.
“Wanna say that again, lil’ bitch?” By this point, the whole bar stands breathless and watching to see who will win the fight between the great John Constantine and the bulky newcomer. John’s eyes flick around the room, looking for anything to use against the man, when he finally sees a deck of cards sitting in the counter just beside the bartender.
“How ‘bout we play a game, ye oversized bloke?” The man raises an eyebrow, and John keeps going. “It’ll be a card game, ye see? Winner takes the seat, loser leaves the bar,” the bar, stuck in an utter silence, not even a whisper can be heard.
“What game?”
“Ye ever play Catch Twenty-Two?
"Nah, what kinda game ‘s that?” John slowly begins to move to his right, and the massive man never takes his eyes off of John.
“I’mma just grab these cards right over here,” John puts his hand on the small deck of cards, his eyes never moving from the large American man.
“I don’t much like card games, lil’ man,” John puts his hands up in an “I surrender” signal, his stark blue eyes still staring at the massive man.
“How’s ‘bout ye just give it a try?”
“How’s ‘bout I just smash your stupid cockney face?” A small smile cracks across John’s face as he suddenly sees a way out.
“So what, ye sayin’ all cockney’s are stupid?” John says this just loud enough to get the attention of the dozen or so other patrons around the bar, sipping on their drinks, not trying to draw attention to themselves but still listening to the entire altercation.
“Well ain’t that what the word means, asshole?”
“Well, I think ‘f ye looked around, you’d find that all of us in here are stupid cockneys, mate,” the man’s eyes widen beneath his shades, his jaw dropping as he sees the angered expressions of every man in the bar, especially the one equally as large as himself reaching for a pool que in the corner. “Maybe it’s ‘bout time that ye leave, ye oversized bloke,” without another word, the American man steps away from John and out the front door, taking his leave from the Long Journey’s End. John sits down in his usual corner seat, raises his hand at the bartender and orders “One of my regulars, Zed,” he hollers over to the beautiful woman working the bar, wearing a tight black cutoff shirt and even tighter black leather pants. She nods and flashes one of her strangely crooked smiles.
John turns his attention back to himself, pulling a long cigarette from a pocket on the inside of his coat, lighting it with his fingertips, just like magic. Zed brings him his drink and he sips ever so lightly on it. He won’t admit this to anyone other than the barkeep who makes it, but it’s a Long Island Ice Tea, and it is hands down his favorite drink around.
“Watcha drinkin’, buddy?” A deep voice comes from just above John, and as he turns his head he sees a face he had hoped he’d never see again. A tall, lanky body covered in the most pale of white skin, clothed in a black leather jacket over clothes very similar to John’s own, a head of long, jet-black hair covering his face, and a smile as crooked and broken as any aorund.
“Enjoyin’ the weather, Basty?”
“A little drizzle never hurt no one,” the man, Basty, takes a seat across from John, asking the bartender for whatever John’s drinking.
“I’m surprised you ‘aven’t tried changin’ that yet.”
“Is that a challenge, Johny boy?” Basty raises and eyebrown, his crooked smile changing to a crooked grin. John just shrugs and takes another drag off his cigarette as Basty snaps his fingers, and immediately a massive thunder rocks the small bar, knocking several drinks onto the ground and raising the angers of the patrons. Zed slowly walks over and sets the second Long Island Ice Tea down in front of Basty.
“Didn’t know ya had friends, John,” Zed says, her smile a stark white and he beautiful eyes piercing John’s heart.
“Not so sure I’d call him a friend, between you and me.”
“He’s right,” Basty starts, turning his broken smile to the barkeep. “The name’s Sebastian Faust. I more or less raised this little shit,” Sebastian raises his hand for a shake, but Zed blows him off, walking back behind the bar. “That’s a right cute one, Johnny, ya getting’ any?” John flicks his wrist and Sebastian’s glass cracks, spilling the fruity drink from the crevice. “Bloody Christ, John. Just askin’ an innocent question. Why ya gotta be so rude?”
“Because nothin’s innocent when you’re in town, Basty. What’re ye here for?” Basty whips the liquid away, clearing it instantly with a wave of his hand. He waves over to Zed for another drink, but she blows him off, pretending to be too enticed with another costumer.
“Gimme the benefit a’th’ doubt, aye Johny?”
“Been there, done that. Watcha need, Sebastian?” The small table is covered in a veil of silence as John and Sebastian try and figure out what the other is going to do next.
“You ‘aven’t used that name since we first met, Johnny.”
“Why ye here?”
“Daddy’s back,” John’s eyes grow wide and his body stiff as his mind reels backwards with hundreds of memories of a dark, horrible man.
*
Then
“Welcome, John, to the House of Faust—welcome home!” The large man in the purple robes, Felix, exclaims, throwing his hands high into the air as the two step out of the small car together. The sprawling mansion covers thirteen acres of prime North-London property, and the legends say that it used to be a castle owned by the Black Knight himself. Intricate carvings of lions adorn the side and gold accents run beautifully along the cropping of the house.
“Why are we here?”
“Because, my boy, you’re out of luck and I’m offering you an opportunity,” John and Felix slowly walk through the large gates and into the main foyer which stands dozens of feet tall with a massive, gaudy chandelier hanging down from it. Maids and butlers roam the house, cleaning it up and scuttling away from Felix, refusing even to make eye contact. A small boy runs down the main stair-case, his hair swept to one side, his eyes a deep red, dressed in the best clothes an Englishman can wear.
“Daddy, who’s this?”
“Sebastian, I would like you to meet John. John Constantine. He’ll be staying with us for a while,” Felix’s eyes glint as a wide smile braeks across his face and John crosses the room to his new brother. The shake hands awkwardly and quickly back away from each other.
“Nice ta meet cha, John. I have a feelin’ you’ll learn a lot here,” John nods his head and begins to explore the massive manor.
TO BE CONTINUED
John Constantine: Hellblazer
In
Humble Beginnings
By Jordan
*
Then
Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. The wind blow softly through the narrow streets of Liverpool, the small autumn leaves fluttering through the air, a soft rain drizzling down on the small English town. Alone, under a small rock in the face of an evenly small hill, sits a ragged boy, his hair blonde as an angel’s and dirty as a beggars, his eyes a crystal blue like that of the channel he so wishes to cross some day. To find somewhere else. To find new worlds.
He has nothing but the clothes on his back—a small, thin, white dress shirt, two scuffed up black boots, ripped up tan trousers, and a similarly-colored trench-coat about four sizes too big—and a small stick he taps away at on the cold, hard earth with. He mutters senselessly to himself, his words inaudible whispers meant to be heard by no one. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.
“Hello? Is someone under there?” A retched voice calls out, chocking and whither by the tests of time. The little boy drops the stick and climbs behind a large rock where he has been sleeping for the last few days because it shields him from the wind. “Hello?” An old man garbed in purple cloaks turns the corner into the smallish hideout. “I heard a noise over here. Is anyone here?” The boy makes no sound as the man takes steps closer. ”Speak or forever hold your peace,” the man’s words reverberate through the crowded outing, echoing off the walls in overwhelming waves.
“I’m right here,” the boy calls out, much to his own dismay.
“And what are you doing here, young lad?” The boy steps out from behind the rock, his blue eyes staring down.
“I got nowhere else ta go,” the man in purple looks the boy clothed in ratty, oversized clothes up and down a few times, his eyes wandering, his mind pondering.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“John. John Constantine.”
“John,” the man reaches out, setting his hand on Constantine’s oversized trench-coat clad shoulder, but the boy shakes the hand off his shoulder and backs away, suddenly becoming extremely defensive.
“Don’t touch my coat ye ol’ bugger.”
“Sorry,” the man throws his hands beside his head in a “Don’t Shoot” gesture. “I mean you no harm, John. But I do have a question for you,” the boy again turns on a dime, no longer being so defensive, but instead quizzical.
“And what is that?”
“Do you like magic tricks?”
*
Now
Rain drizzles ever so lightly outside, coming softly down from the thick, grumpy storm clouds, with no thunder or lightning pervading the night sky. Underneath the cover of the clouds and bombarded by drizzle of the rain, stuck in a little back alley just off the corner of Hanbury and Spital—in an historically dark part of Whitechapel, just barely two blocks from the Annie Chapman murder, an area covered in myth and tales—is a small little bar sits tucked away, barely noticeable to the common passerby. Tourists who stumble upon it find it as fun as any attraction in London, while the locals who avoid it refer to it as the “Ripper’s Bar”, in reference to the infamous kill who once roamed the lands. But to those who frequent the bar for a relaxing shot or two know it only as “Long Journey’s End”, the greatest bar on Earth.
On this very day, drenched in the drizzle of the rain, his dirty blonde hair padded down by the heavy droplets, his eyes bright blue and piercing, the infamous John Constantine strolls slowly into the bar, his body pulled down by the weight of the rain. Clothed in a dirty white button-down shirt, his black tie loosened and cocked to the side, his jaw scruffy with an unkempt beard, and a tan trench-coat thrown over the entire ensemble.
All eyes in the bar meet John’s as he strolls through the doors, looking to take his regular seat in the corner booth of the bar, in perfect view of the television to see the games, while also allowing him the surveillance of any possible coming threats. As his muddied boots pad softly through the bar, he notices a large man, his muscles practically bulging from his body, his shirt tearing in two places, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, sitting silently in his seat, smoking a small cigarette.
“What the bloody hell do ye think ye doin’, mate?” Constantine’s voice comes out strained and exhausted, his breath seeming breathless and his body barely able to support itself.
“I think I’m trynna enjoy a nice smoke. The hell you think you’re doin’?” The man replies, his accent obviously from across the pound, his shoulders wide and his teeth gritted.
“I think I’m trying ta do the same thing. So, if you could kindly move your ass for me, that’d be greatly appreciated.” John offers, his wary blue eyes refusing to break contact with the man’s. Suddenly, the man stands tall, his muscular arms flexing, standing well above John.
“Wanna say that again, lil’ bitch?” By this point, the whole bar stands breathless and watching to see who will win the fight between the great John Constantine and the bulky newcomer. John’s eyes flick around the room, looking for anything to use against the man, when he finally sees a deck of cards sitting in the counter just beside the bartender.
“How ‘bout we play a game, ye oversized bloke?” The man raises an eyebrow, and John keeps going. “It’ll be a card game, ye see? Winner takes the seat, loser leaves the bar,” the bar, stuck in an utter silence, not even a whisper can be heard.
“What game?”
“Ye ever play Catch Twenty-Two?
"Nah, what kinda game ‘s that?” John slowly begins to move to his right, and the massive man never takes his eyes off of John.
“I’mma just grab these cards right over here,” John puts his hand on the small deck of cards, his eyes never moving from the large American man.
“I don’t much like card games, lil’ man,” John puts his hands up in an “I surrender” signal, his stark blue eyes still staring at the massive man.
“How’s ‘bout ye just give it a try?”
“How’s ‘bout I just smash your stupid cockney face?” A small smile cracks across John’s face as he suddenly sees a way out.
“So what, ye sayin’ all cockney’s are stupid?” John says this just loud enough to get the attention of the dozen or so other patrons around the bar, sipping on their drinks, not trying to draw attention to themselves but still listening to the entire altercation.
“Well ain’t that what the word means, asshole?”
“Well, I think ‘f ye looked around, you’d find that all of us in here are stupid cockneys, mate,” the man’s eyes widen beneath his shades, his jaw dropping as he sees the angered expressions of every man in the bar, especially the one equally as large as himself reaching for a pool que in the corner. “Maybe it’s ‘bout time that ye leave, ye oversized bloke,” without another word, the American man steps away from John and out the front door, taking his leave from the Long Journey’s End. John sits down in his usual corner seat, raises his hand at the bartender and orders “One of my regulars, Zed,” he hollers over to the beautiful woman working the bar, wearing a tight black cutoff shirt and even tighter black leather pants. She nods and flashes one of her strangely crooked smiles.
John turns his attention back to himself, pulling a long cigarette from a pocket on the inside of his coat, lighting it with his fingertips, just like magic. Zed brings him his drink and he sips ever so lightly on it. He won’t admit this to anyone other than the barkeep who makes it, but it’s a Long Island Ice Tea, and it is hands down his favorite drink around.
“Watcha drinkin’, buddy?” A deep voice comes from just above John, and as he turns his head he sees a face he had hoped he’d never see again. A tall, lanky body covered in the most pale of white skin, clothed in a black leather jacket over clothes very similar to John’s own, a head of long, jet-black hair covering his face, and a smile as crooked and broken as any aorund.
“Enjoyin’ the weather, Basty?”
“A little drizzle never hurt no one,” the man, Basty, takes a seat across from John, asking the bartender for whatever John’s drinking.
“I’m surprised you ‘aven’t tried changin’ that yet.”
“Is that a challenge, Johny boy?” Basty raises and eyebrown, his crooked smile changing to a crooked grin. John just shrugs and takes another drag off his cigarette as Basty snaps his fingers, and immediately a massive thunder rocks the small bar, knocking several drinks onto the ground and raising the angers of the patrons. Zed slowly walks over and sets the second Long Island Ice Tea down in front of Basty.
“Didn’t know ya had friends, John,” Zed says, her smile a stark white and he beautiful eyes piercing John’s heart.
“Not so sure I’d call him a friend, between you and me.”
“He’s right,” Basty starts, turning his broken smile to the barkeep. “The name’s Sebastian Faust. I more or less raised this little shit,” Sebastian raises his hand for a shake, but Zed blows him off, walking back behind the bar. “That’s a right cute one, Johnny, ya getting’ any?” John flicks his wrist and Sebastian’s glass cracks, spilling the fruity drink from the crevice. “Bloody Christ, John. Just askin’ an innocent question. Why ya gotta be so rude?”
“Because nothin’s innocent when you’re in town, Basty. What’re ye here for?” Basty whips the liquid away, clearing it instantly with a wave of his hand. He waves over to Zed for another drink, but she blows him off, pretending to be too enticed with another costumer.
“Gimme the benefit a’th’ doubt, aye Johny?”
“Been there, done that. Watcha need, Sebastian?” The small table is covered in a veil of silence as John and Sebastian try and figure out what the other is going to do next.
“You ‘aven’t used that name since we first met, Johnny.”
“Why ye here?”
“Daddy’s back,” John’s eyes grow wide and his body stiff as his mind reels backwards with hundreds of memories of a dark, horrible man.
*
Then
“Welcome, John, to the House of Faust—welcome home!” The large man in the purple robes, Felix, exclaims, throwing his hands high into the air as the two step out of the small car together. The sprawling mansion covers thirteen acres of prime North-London property, and the legends say that it used to be a castle owned by the Black Knight himself. Intricate carvings of lions adorn the side and gold accents run beautifully along the cropping of the house.
“Why are we here?”
“Because, my boy, you’re out of luck and I’m offering you an opportunity,” John and Felix slowly walk through the large gates and into the main foyer which stands dozens of feet tall with a massive, gaudy chandelier hanging down from it. Maids and butlers roam the house, cleaning it up and scuttling away from Felix, refusing even to make eye contact. A small boy runs down the main stair-case, his hair swept to one side, his eyes a deep red, dressed in the best clothes an Englishman can wear.
“Daddy, who’s this?”
“Sebastian, I would like you to meet John. John Constantine. He’ll be staying with us for a while,” Felix’s eyes glint as a wide smile braeks across his face and John crosses the room to his new brother. The shake hands awkwardly and quickly back away from each other.
“Nice ta meet cha, John. I have a feelin’ you’ll learn a lot here,” John nods his head and begins to explore the massive manor.
TO BE CONTINUED