Post by Constantine on Feb 21, 2005 19:13:57 GMT -5
Saint, got a date with suicide
John Constantine has been to hell and back. Born with a gift he didn’t want, the ability to clearly recognize the half-breed angels and demons that walk the earth in human skin, Constantine was driven to take his own life to escape the tormenting clarity of his vision. But he failed. Resuscitated against his will, he found himself cast back into the land of the living. Now, marked as an attempted suicide with a temporary lease on life, he patrols the earthly border between heaven and hell, hoping in vain to earn his way to salvation by sending the devil’s foot soldiers back to the depths. But Constantine is no saint. Disillusioned by the world around him and at odds with the one beyond, he’s a hard-drinking, hard-living bitter hero who scorns the very idea of heroism. Constantine will fight to save your soul but he doesn’t want your admiration or your thanks – and certainly not your sympathy.
All he wants is a reprieve. But as it stands at the moment, it doesn’t seem that the cards are being dealt in his favor, in fact he suspected the deck was stacked. Constantine lounged against the building an unlit cigarette dangling from between his lips. He leaned down and cupped his hands around the tip of the cigarette as he lit it with the brass Zippo. The sudden spark of fire lit up his handsome, yet severe features. Leaning back, he rested his head on the hard brick of the building his eyelids closed and hiding hollow blue eyes. A wry sort of half smile pulled at the man's lips as he brought the lit cigarette to his mouth and inhaled the smoke into his near-dead lungs. Idly he lowered his arm back to his side as the ash gathered at the tip of his cigarette and fell soundlessly to the ground.
The scream from the fenced in grass was enough to shatter glass, he wasn’t sure if it was on this plane or the other, he so often walked the fine line. What he did know was that it signified the band playing his tune; Just the piper cajoling the rats back where they belonged.
“No rest for the wicked.”
He muttered to the empty sidewalk. Flicking the half burned smoke into the gutter he crossed the traffic littered street. His coat flew outward like a cape as he entered via the east gate. He ignored the long dead of this section; oddly it was the new graves that stirred his intentions. He noted the vampires wondering who would have hired them to protect the grave he’d planned to pillage. A Phrase worked over and over in his mind; was he running on faith or running on empty? - Likely the later. The first vampire was new to the game, green, naïve. The second was different, seasoned yet wild.
“Fuck off!” he muttered to the bloodsucker who stepped into his path to the mausoleum.
He blinked slowly. It was hard to know if he was half-asleep or just bored, but it didn't stop him from shoving the first undead creature aside and taking it out. His fist was wrapped in a cloth, doused with something from his pocket. The lighter flicked open and for a moment the vampire glowed like a leaf in a fire pit, and then in the same second, it was gone. Pivoting to the right, John rolled then snapped his flaming hand upward at the female vampire who had been flying in his direction. His head ducked under the airborne corpse as it flew overhead. As it screamed its dying breath, it scattered him with hot glowing ash. The binding on his hand extinguished. Getting up with a sigh of relief he turned, to survey what else the night had in store when he was promptly punched straight in the jaw. He heard his teeth clack together loudly, the graveling of a molar’s point as the fist managed to chip a tooth he’d been ignoring. The cavity had only been a mild annoyance he’d sedated with bourbon, but she’d managed to awaken the raw nerve in one foul swoop making the heavy ache in his lungs ebb into the background for the moment as this new abomination of pain took the limelight. Landing against the structure was bad. Thank god for Kevlar, he numbly thought as his side hit hard enough to splinter the support beam.
“Next time…” he groaned fishing for a cigarette in his pocket, after his limbs decided to begin working again, “I’ll skip the foreplay..."
The undead creature snarled in John’s direction cursing and spitting coagulated blood at his feet. “You really expect us to open the doors for you Constantine? Your ass is gonna burn.” it sneered, teeth awash with foamy pink. “See you around… comrade.” With that the half-demon who had been the vampire's ringleader ran off, cradling its charred arm to its chest.
John groaned and stood up. The thing wouldn’t get far; he’d make sure of that. The hell-born creature had been baiting him. He hated that shit. Why of all the crusaders did they feel the need to fuck with him? He guessed that maybe it begged the rational that evil was acceptable, perhaps just a little easier to swallow, or maybe it was that ‘influence’ crap he was supposed to stay away from. Either way it still ticked him off. Steady hands lit the tip of his cigarette with a sickening ease. Tobacco burned to ash crisply, nostrils flared blue-smoke.
"Looking forward to it..." he muttered to himself, spitting blood and lung butter onto the rubble.
John Constantine has been to hell and back. Born with a gift he didn’t want, the ability to clearly recognize the half-breed angels and demons that walk the earth in human skin, Constantine was driven to take his own life to escape the tormenting clarity of his vision. But he failed. Resuscitated against his will, he found himself cast back into the land of the living. Now, marked as an attempted suicide with a temporary lease on life, he patrols the earthly border between heaven and hell, hoping in vain to earn his way to salvation by sending the devil’s foot soldiers back to the depths. But Constantine is no saint. Disillusioned by the world around him and at odds with the one beyond, he’s a hard-drinking, hard-living bitter hero who scorns the very idea of heroism. Constantine will fight to save your soul but he doesn’t want your admiration or your thanks – and certainly not your sympathy.
All he wants is a reprieve. But as it stands at the moment, it doesn’t seem that the cards are being dealt in his favor, in fact he suspected the deck was stacked. Constantine lounged against the building an unlit cigarette dangling from between his lips. He leaned down and cupped his hands around the tip of the cigarette as he lit it with the brass Zippo. The sudden spark of fire lit up his handsome, yet severe features. Leaning back, he rested his head on the hard brick of the building his eyelids closed and hiding hollow blue eyes. A wry sort of half smile pulled at the man's lips as he brought the lit cigarette to his mouth and inhaled the smoke into his near-dead lungs. Idly he lowered his arm back to his side as the ash gathered at the tip of his cigarette and fell soundlessly to the ground.
The scream from the fenced in grass was enough to shatter glass, he wasn’t sure if it was on this plane or the other, he so often walked the fine line. What he did know was that it signified the band playing his tune; Just the piper cajoling the rats back where they belonged.
“No rest for the wicked.”
He muttered to the empty sidewalk. Flicking the half burned smoke into the gutter he crossed the traffic littered street. His coat flew outward like a cape as he entered via the east gate. He ignored the long dead of this section; oddly it was the new graves that stirred his intentions. He noted the vampires wondering who would have hired them to protect the grave he’d planned to pillage. A Phrase worked over and over in his mind; was he running on faith or running on empty? - Likely the later. The first vampire was new to the game, green, naïve. The second was different, seasoned yet wild.
“Fuck off!” he muttered to the bloodsucker who stepped into his path to the mausoleum.
He blinked slowly. It was hard to know if he was half-asleep or just bored, but it didn't stop him from shoving the first undead creature aside and taking it out. His fist was wrapped in a cloth, doused with something from his pocket. The lighter flicked open and for a moment the vampire glowed like a leaf in a fire pit, and then in the same second, it was gone. Pivoting to the right, John rolled then snapped his flaming hand upward at the female vampire who had been flying in his direction. His head ducked under the airborne corpse as it flew overhead. As it screamed its dying breath, it scattered him with hot glowing ash. The binding on his hand extinguished. Getting up with a sigh of relief he turned, to survey what else the night had in store when he was promptly punched straight in the jaw. He heard his teeth clack together loudly, the graveling of a molar’s point as the fist managed to chip a tooth he’d been ignoring. The cavity had only been a mild annoyance he’d sedated with bourbon, but she’d managed to awaken the raw nerve in one foul swoop making the heavy ache in his lungs ebb into the background for the moment as this new abomination of pain took the limelight. Landing against the structure was bad. Thank god for Kevlar, he numbly thought as his side hit hard enough to splinter the support beam.
“Next time…” he groaned fishing for a cigarette in his pocket, after his limbs decided to begin working again, “I’ll skip the foreplay..."
The undead creature snarled in John’s direction cursing and spitting coagulated blood at his feet. “You really expect us to open the doors for you Constantine? Your ass is gonna burn.” it sneered, teeth awash with foamy pink. “See you around… comrade.” With that the half-demon who had been the vampire's ringleader ran off, cradling its charred arm to its chest.
John groaned and stood up. The thing wouldn’t get far; he’d make sure of that. The hell-born creature had been baiting him. He hated that shit. Why of all the crusaders did they feel the need to fuck with him? He guessed that maybe it begged the rational that evil was acceptable, perhaps just a little easier to swallow, or maybe it was that ‘influence’ crap he was supposed to stay away from. Either way it still ticked him off. Steady hands lit the tip of his cigarette with a sickening ease. Tobacco burned to ash crisply, nostrils flared blue-smoke.
"Looking forward to it..." he muttered to himself, spitting blood and lung butter onto the rubble.
