un: wooden dice.

[strewth]

[The voice is definitely English, a scouse accent mixing slightly with bits of Cockney, if one is the sort to recognize it.]

Lovely weather we're having in this sodding fishbowl. Nearly reminds me of home. Ah, hfff, something to lighten the spirit. I've got a story.

Have you lot heard of Ellethia? Couldn't tell you how it's spelled; I haven't the foggiest whether we're playing with Fake Latin or fake Greek. Gorgeous country, it is; proper Byronic. Maybe fake Greek, then.

It were haunted.

D'you remember a bloke prancing around during the communal head trip? Stroppy bastard he was, complaining to me about tea and infanticide. Reckon he had more sparkling conversation for you lot. Wore white. Ghosts in your Ellethia said he got a uniform from them. Or from there, at least.

Don't all rush to thank me. Weren't alone. Your girl Lila, she were dead helpful. Distracted the ghosts she did. I'm sure she'll love the credit, hehh.

And that'd make me John Constantine. [It rhymes with Clementine.] Ain't me first brush with ghosts, let's say. Magic, that rubbish, have you ever seen any? The real stuff, I mean.

Comments

[slippin]

[ A cracked laugh. Okay, it's a scoff. ] I think there's a word for that. [ Or like ten: stupid, saccharine. Psychosomatic. ] Look, if this is gonna end in you pushing your affirmational twelve-CD set on me, more power to you, but can we cut to the chase?

[strewth]

[Some childish, petty part of John wants to correct-- no, mate, it's all digital, now-- but where would that leave him, almost certainly an older man than the one he's speaking to?]

The fuckin' point of that, here, hehh, you'll have to tell me.

[Whatever. He's been accused of worse. Don't be such a stroppy bugger all the time. A wheezing sigh escapes the recording.]

Depends on what you're chasing. I made meself clear.

[slippin]

Are you trying to deem whether I'm worthy, because... [ Because. He clenches a hand, lets it go. ]

I appreciate what you did, helping me out. [ Sharp—as in wary—but sincere. ] You're not gonna regret it.

[strewth]

[The video feed clicks on, and Jimmy will be treated to John's face, squinting querulously through the magic of... whatever this is, trying to decide if the man's lost a marble, or if John hit a nerve. The reaction was like a door slamming in the wind, random and sudden, impossible not to notice.]

[In a rare moment of kindness (or maybe it's just laziness), he doesn't ask.]

I reckon you've no interest in magic, squire, so I'll not go on about it. As for regrets, hehh... [He sits back, stares at the ceiling.] Don't we all got bigger fish to fry?

[slippin]

[ Weird, and a little unnerving, having a rambling British scarecrow suddenly staring out of your watch. Jimmy almost drops it, then spends a good thirty seconds debating whether he should follow suit. In the end he does, face preemptively fixed in a smile. ] Hey. You don't look like you've seen a ghost. [ He gestures at Constantine, clarifies, expression softening: ] You look like you're doing all right. [ More or less.

He falls into restless silence. Obviously he's interested in magic, how could you not be interested in magic— ] I just, uh, could you give me the top five beginner's mistakes? I won't be making any pacts and would like to cultivate a reputation for being stingy with blood, so you can scratch that one off the list.

[strewth]

[The look John gives Jimmy in return is far past quizzical and deep into disbelief. Listen closely and you can hear him mutter,] Fuckin'- okay? Christ.

[He shakes his head, trying to catch this man's cultivated good humor. He hates being the stroppy one. He loves being asked to extemporize his knowledge, however.]

[So John counts on his fingers:]

One, if some cunt says they can teach you magic-- tell 'em to get fucked. Two, there's always a price, and it's always higher'n the prize. Three, it becomes true if you believe it, so be fucking careful. Four, we are not celestial bloody children of the light, with holy souls and sustainable corpses. Every spell was cast by a bellend. Five... [He thinks.] Everything by Crowley is bollocks.