“What a bloody knacker.” John mumbled to himself. Could the cigarette he was lighting calm his nerves? All the nerves ghosts of his present and past would day in, day out, would drive further into his shell? A warmth filled him as he dragged deeply from the cigarette, the glow burning brighter as his spirits raised. “Can I get five minutes?” More screams. More complaints from each of them. “No? Ta, ya bastards.” Truthfully, he couldn’t care less of the complaints of passerby spirits. They’d bitch and moan, and then they’d go on with their afterlife. But, there were few who’d regularly tug at the collar of his trench coat, constantly whispering in his ear for help. Who in the bloody afterlife would come to him for help? John Constantine, the wicked warlock who’d leave death and destruction in his wake? ‘Ah. Fuck ‘em.’ John thought to himself before, nearly praying they’d go away, but they wouldn’t. And it seemed the only thing to do was to bloody help them with their problems. 

      Why did their problems matter anyway? They were dead, there was nothing they could fix. John believed they should just move on. But, again, they always came to him, screaming bloody murder. “Right, you lot. If I bloody help ya, will you get on and stop screaming in me ear?” When they agreed, John drove deep into investigation after meditation on the spirits of those who’d consistently pester him.  John discovered there was a bakery, a bakery specializing in more than just savory sweets. Their specialty was human organs, and it was driving the afterlife mad. Problems in the afterlife meant problems for John, because he was, unfortunately, the world’s most renowned occult detective. John treated it as an easy case though. The bakery was just around the corner from him. It’d be like a nice little stroll through the park with a cigarette, in and out.

      First thing was first, attempt to trap the culprit within their own place of operation. Keeping forces of evil inside. And all John needed? A bit of running water. With a freshly lit cigarette, he took his path, making a walk to the bakery and looking for any external sources of running water that could keep them trapped inside.

      “Shouldn’t the accent give it away?” John was only beginning. He wanted to keep her guessing, quite the game a warlock like himself enjoyed to play. John leaned back into his chair, endlessly smiling. It was different. He was wrapped around her finger and vice versa. John began to drink, letting the silence emphasize his question. Although on the surface he seemed to be joking, he really wasn’t. He was being cautious about where the night was going to turn, and he wouldn’t be bothered whichever way it did.

      There were two things John had in mind. Getting pissed and pretending the world wasn’t crashing down on his shoulders. Although, the woman seemed to give him some sort of escapism. John began to wonder if he should cave and dish out his past. Not like she hadn’t already pulled him out of the shell and comfort of his trench coat, which seemed to give him more confidence than he would let on. “Liverpool.”

      “You got a light, luv? Bloody demon knicked it off me back in the forest.” John’s eyes wandered around the cabin, seemingly beautiful and unharmed, despite all the dangers that surrounded it. Beautiful. Heh. A rare word in John’s vocabulary.

      “You don’t drink much then, do you luv?” John lit a cigarette. With complaints from the bartender, he rolled his eyes and took a deep drag. Every night if he could gather enough money, he’d come in for a pint or two. “I’m everyone’s ‘favorite’ round here.”

      A smug grin. John had a faint hint of what she might be playing at. The way she seemed determined to make him leave turned him on. John pressed his chest into her fingers, lips moving to rest right on the edge of her ear. “I promise you, luv. It’ll take a while to get rid of this bastard. Won’t stop you from trying though.”