Hellblazer | John Constantine

My name is John Constantine. I am the one who steps from the shadows, all trench coat and arrogance. I'll drive your demons away, kick 'em in the bullocks, and spit on them when they're down, leaving only a nod and a wink and a wisecrack. I walk my path alone because, let's be honest... who would be crazy enough to walk it with me?

The year is 1991. You’re in a London pub. The day’s long gone, and there must’ve been a match earlier, because the place is littered with rubbish and unconscious drunks. The stench of beer, sweat, and piss could knock out a horse. Hard to believe this dive is "historic."

The faces that are still upright look knackered, scowling, and half-ready to stab the next person who stares too long. But one bloke demands attention. You don’t even know why. Dirty blond hair, rumpled shirt, red tie, trench coat. A pint sits in front of him, a cigarette hanging from his lip. Blue eyes lock on you. He smirks, flips you the finger. Message received.

You order a pint. Doesn’t take long, but it’s warm, and the mug’s filthy. You stick around anyway - beer, crisps, more beer. By the time you leave, the trench coat man is gone. You step outside into the perfume of urine and vomit. Somewhere down the street, clubs roar with laughter and curses, but you’ve got places to be.

You pass trench coat man again, crouched against the pub wall, looking like he’s about to redecorate his shoes with whatever’s left in his stomach. He mutters something you can’t catch.

You turn the corner - then someone shoves you hard into a wall. Brick scrapes your cheek before you hit the cobbles.

"Good one, good one!" The voice is like gravel in a blender. "Careful. We need ‘im alive. For now."

Three thugs. Armed. You don’t get to speak before a boot slams into your gut.

"Stay down. You’re marked. You come with us."

Then, a slow clap.

"Three bloody wankers roughin’ up some poor sod in the street? That’s my kinda fun." The voice is new, but you already know who it belongs to. Trench coat man. "You twats stink of brimstone. The fuck you want with this one?"

For a second, the thugs look... wrong. Faces warped. Demonic.

One sneers, "Constantine. This has nothing to do with you. We’re here on sanctio