Constantine's Journal
Thirty four years too old for this sh!t, I think to myself. My arm still stings as I pull it up onto the bar and let it rest. Scratches are the worst, they take forever to heal, they're a real b!tch. The shards of glass laden in it does not help. But still you got to pay the rent somehow, of course life is easier when your workplace is also your makeshift home. My name is James Johnathan Constantine, a lot of people call me "Jimmy", I prefer "Jim" or "John" or "Con", well pretty much anything other than "Jimmy". I'm a Demon Hunter. Of sorts. Basically I just keep the supernatural in check. Me and my team that is. The pub is cold and lonely, no one in apart from me and the barkeep, that makes it easier for when I swing a bloodied bag onto the table with a dull thud.
"Scotch on the rocks, please John" I call. John Waterstone, the bartender pulls up into view behind small spectacles and silver drapes hung like curtains across his face. His hand is stuffed in a pint glass with a dirty rag.
"Who is that, then?" he asks, suggesting towards the barely visible grotesque severed head in the bag.
"Defalgo" I reply.
"Aw, Jim." he knows not to call me Jimmy, "He was one of my best customers. He owed me eighty buck on his tab."
"Well, he owed a lot more than that on his rent. Let's just say." I retort. I slowly pull out my pack of Silk Cuts, the last battered cigarette. Damn you Defalgo! I think to myself.
"And the arm?" he asks.
"Forced out of a window, got caught by his claws." I state just as John whisks up a Scotch and plants it down in front of me. I take a long swig.
"Ahhh that really hits the spot." Placing the empty glass on the bar, I take a look around. I could not point out a single difference in this place since I first arrived here what seems a millennium ago. From the half hanging, half falling dartboard to the slightly charred cushions that rest by the mucky window in the left corner. It feels somewhat homely, and reminds me of Britain, and all the sh!tholes over there. This pub is almost as bad as Manchester. Then again John is a Manchurian, hailing from Britain himself.
"See you later John." I howl, after a couple more scotchs.
"See ya Jim." I hear just before slipping on my trench-coat and bracing myself for cold as I step out into the harsh conditions of night.
I haul the sack containing the demons head onto my back and make way for the warehouse. My arm is visibly better and I can feel small pieces of glass falling free of my sleeve. The team is called the Secret Factor, I don't know why, I didn't have any say in the matter, It was something stupid Ted came up with. But its been that way for the ten years I've worked with them and I'm sure it will stay that way for at least another ten to come. As long as I get to taste all things occult, and can kick some supernatural arse, I'm happy. We consist of me (Constantine), Ted Greaves (Furycat), Jubilee Greaves (Epiphanee), Layla Bertinelli (Nightfly) and Roy Madrox (Centurion). All together we make some sort of dysfunctional family.
(Disclaimer: The characters John Constantine, Wildcat, Epiphany Greaves, Huntress, Roy Harper all belong to DC. The characters Jimmy Hudson, Nick Fury, Jubilee, Layla Miller and Madrox all belong to Marvel. The story is mine. Enjoy.)
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