IN THE DEAD DARKNESS OF NIGHT & a diligent dynamo - hum of a epileptic and crying city is the only sound. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. IN THIS PRELUDE , we are caught in a anxious whirlwind of perverted, wicked debauchery, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘭𝘭 nightmare of a death steeped in the TAIL OF A DREAM AS IT VANISHED INTO A YEAR ZERO BLACKNESS. a rotten timber hiding underneath beige Martens in a aging tell is groaning in protest, or shame. A SMALL SINGLE HIDES IN A CORNER. like a naughty child; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, mildewed quilt — — in the baby blue air of bad nights, the soporific purr and hungry buzz of constant, growling faucet rain is a catcall in a familiar place. and in this 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐔𝐁 of 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 exists a lottery digit of lust, greed and a desperation like dirty COFFEE GROUND. 𝙰 𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙾𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙿𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚆𝙾𝙾𝙻 𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚂 , & WAITED, in the cursed patch of piss and 𝘐𝘕𝘍𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘉𝘖𝘖𝘡𝘌, waiting for a cold steel savaging a fat vein. 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖; been performing a grandeur of NIRVANA high stakes since 𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄.
𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓:
𝐈𝐍𝐓. THE DOWNTOWNER MOTEL, 𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒, 3:43AM.
JOHN CONSTANTINE IS SMOTHERED BY THE INTENSE SMELL OF
METALLIC , & COPPER LIKE SOMEONE HAD JUST WASHED A SACK OF
QUARTERS. BOSTON BRAND, A DEADMAN, HAS ALLOWED A SOUND CLOSE
TO SYMPATHY HOP FROM HIS STITCHED GULLET. THERE IS A JOKE SOMEWHERE THAT THE ONLY LIVING BEING IN THIS ROOM DOES NOT FEEL A THING.
BRAND: Awh, Christ. We’re late, John. Real frickin’ late.
CONSTANTINE: Mm -- Wouldn’t be so sure, mate - in a world where I’m talkin’ to a bleedin’ dead man, it isn’t far ‘nuff off to say a few nicks to the wrist isn’t gonna’ put this bloke out of commission, yeah?
BRAND: You can’t be serious, man. Have a li’l respect for the poor fella.
❝ 𝐀𝐖𝐇, 𝐂'𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍 … you know better than anybody: THERE AIN’T NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD. ❞
𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙸 𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚆.
❝ oh christ. WHAT A BLOODY MESS, SHADE. ❞
@madvest : in a glorious technicolor.
FADE IN: INT. BARNUM & BAILEY CIRCUS, BOSTON, MA. JULY 6TH, 1911
The Late Midday Air is heavy with fearful excitement, so overbearing you’d piss yourself in a leg-twitching spastic anticipation. “COME ONE, COME ALL TO BARNUM AND BAILEY’S WORLD TRAVELING
CIRCUS! STARE IN AWE AT THE HUMAN TORSO! TREMBLE BEFORE THE SAVAGED DOG-BOY! AND BE AMAZED BY A FAMILY’S THREE OF WHITE NEGROES! COME ON DOWN!”
IT’S THE SAME THING EVERY SINGLE TIME: the audience awaits with bated breath, timid hands clutching the still-exposed gap between their crooked jaws, busy with half-assed chewing and the soft murmurs of fearful anticipation. give thousand strangers occupy the audience, 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙵𝙵𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚄𝙴 𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙲𝚃. the announcer steps up to the podium faced with the piercing gaze of ten thousand hungry eyes, 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 , slick with the taste of freshly counted dollar bills, and shouts to the heavens in a raspy falsetto of drunken one-notes. two STARK WHITE palms seize the horizontal bar and pull 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑. he flies straight up, suspended high above the masses and clung to a rope like some human metaphor for the BLACK MAN’S ROLE in this DISTORTED AMERICAN DREAM. this is a ritualistic lynching, a legacy come crashing down, and then BANG! 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇, my slit wrists smiling up at me, flashing sinewy teeth and a 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. i pull back the fetid, BLOOD - STAINED SKIN from around the wounds and 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 , playing with the soft gelatin of my muscles & pressing down on my veins like keys on a broken down piano. my fingers are looking for a tune but 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 and the soft glug, glug, glug of the shower drain struggling to swallow the winevat bath water strewn with blood. LAS VEGAS IS CRYING A WEEPY CRY AND I’M DEAD. she’s a sad drunk, penniless and filthy and begging for more. HER EYES ARE FATTENED DOLLAR SIGNS LEAKING $100 BILLS ONTO AN ALREADY DROWNING STAIN OF A CITY. the LATE NIGHT GAMBLERS and lonely street walkers are swimming in her intoxicated bile. LAS VEGAS IS CRYING AND SHE DROVE ME TO DO IT. slot machines whisper filth into the ears of fat men, and somewhere in an ally washington’s hands are down somebody’s pants doing anything for a quick fix and the chance to be spent on anything. 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀, land of the stupid and home of the dead.
BRAND: Nice goin,’ John. You wanted to stop and get a couple’a smokes and now this poor bastard went and did ‘imself in.
two psychopomp figures gravitate to my blood play like awestruck children at a CLOSED DOWN JUNKYARD. and somewhere along the way, i find the strenght to speak.
