2013.10.03 - So What's The Punchline?

South Gotham-- the edge of Coventry, and it's right where the line is between 'wreck' and 'old man bar': a little hole in the wall appropriately named The Hole in the Wall. It's populated, generally, by old men who've lived there since they were born, toothless women smoking Mistys and drinking gin, Skrulls, and dudes called Schlomo and Toothpick.

Yes: the air's hazy with smoke. The guy sitting across from Ringo Starr is probably also a skrull-- after all, Pete Wisdom should've been dead by at least a decade ago. After the fire at the school and the government agents and everything, Romany's sullen little punker of a kid brother, if he didn't kick it then and there, certainly fell off the radar. And even in Britain, the odds of a pyro of that magnitude making it through whatever the darker side of the Ministry of Defence are pretty slim.

Besides, he's wearing a suit. Granted, it's rumpled as shit, but still, a suit.

"And John's not talking to the rest of you lot again? Yeah mate, well, look: if you pull that sort of bollocks on a bloke, you're lucky if he talks to you again ever. He's probably schtupping--" He sucks down the last of his horrible cheap cigarette and stubs it out in the tray, then triumphantly shows his hand. Royal Flush. "--that banshee again. The one what he says reminds him of Skrull Yoko. Or whatever the fuck her name was. The resistance girl."

"Bugger," Ringo says, looking at Pete's hand woefully. He folds without even showing what he had, and sadly pushes the little stack of papers across the table to Pete. "And fuck you for being right. Listen, I've got to--"

"--don't give a shit. Go on," says Pete the Obvious Skrull cheerfully, dragging the slips of IOU the rest of the way, "I'm just fine. Listen, call me if there's a real emergency. And tell Paul he fucking owes me twenty quid still."

Ringo finishes getting up and gives Pete a two-fingered salute, more or less amiably, heading out the door.

Ringo heads out the door, and it's held open.

By /him/.

"Hey," the blighter dimming the doorway says by way of a greeting to the drummer, "You tell that twat Lennon that I don't care what alien race he's pokin' -- he still owes me twenty pounds, oi?" he rolls his eyes as he finishes his entry, "All you need is love my lily Liverpool ARSE."

If you couldn't tell who it was before, the lighting of a Silk Cut cinches it. Then his eyes light on /him/. He walks over to where he sits, joins him either across or side by side, and motions not just for a glass, but the glass and a bottle. We're civilized here, even if it's filled with Skrulls and enough entrants for Gotham's Next Top Baba Yaga to make one's stomach turn. The greeting's just what you'd expect it would be between two guys like these two:

"You aren't dead yet?"

All you need is love, indeed.

"Lennon died in '81, you complete bastard," Skrull Ringo says sourly to the blonde man as he pushes past and through the door.

He probably just lost his yacht, give the man a break.

Pete, on the other hand, glances up and blinks, then goes back to counting his winnings and their relative net value after taxes. "'Again'," he corrects John, preoccupied. "'Right now', possibly. You of all people should know it's a bloody revolving door. If you're looking for my sister, she left in January. Last time I saw her, she smiled. She's not well. Might shiv you."

Constantine calls for a second glass. The one Pete has doesn't look clean enough. Or dirty enough. Whatever cuts the taste of what they pass for passable scotch in this place. "Christ, last person I'm looking for is your sister, mate. If she's not well, the LEAST she'll do is shiv me. The most she'll do is turn me into a bloody lawn chair, and I hate when that happens." he sizes the man up, "You're looking good for a corpse." he says casually. When the glasses and the bottle arrives, he pours them each half a tumbler full. "Drink up, Pete, there are sober children in China."

"You're probably safe, I think she's dating a newt," Pete says with distressing cheer, finally folding up the notes and stuffing them in his pocket. He slides the tumbler over the rest of the way and lifts it. "Here's to sober children in China, the price of tea there, my mad sister, not being dead, and Taffy jokes."

It's /horrible/ Scotch. He drinks it very quickly.

The glass thunks down, and Wisdom slouches in his chair, eminently comfortable. "Serious. What the fuck are you doing in Gotham? *I* don't even want to be in Gotham, but I'm not allowed back home."

Constantine takes a long drag off his cigarette. Takes a swallow of scotch, and yes, it's so horrible even he has to wince. "I didn't wake up here, but I walked out of the Oblivion and was here. So I figured something's going on that I'm needed here. Imagine my fucking surprise when I come back from the Desolate Planes in a pool of ash and soot and fuckin' magma and try to have a proper drink and walk out and I'm in bloody goddam Gotham."

"Haven't been in that place since the last time I were stranded there. Door wouldn't open. You'd think with the amount of shit I've got to put up with from faeries it'd have a heart," the black-haired younger Englishman says mournfully, pouring himself another tumbler of acid malt reflux and picking it up to stare at it. "Kinnell were you doing in a pool of magma? Didn't think you even liked sunlight. Bit of heat, there."

Constantine finishes the scotch, pours another. "Well that's just it, it was the only way I could get back here. Don't ever travel by reconstitution, my lad." he says, matter of factly, pointing two fingers that clutch a cigarette between them, "s'helluva to travel, and I look liked I got shit out of a volcano." He shudders.

Finally, there is smirking. Finally! Once the jokes stop, it's smirking time. "Funny you should mention volcanos," Pete says with a cough that's half laugh, setting down his glass and taking out a cigarette. "Don't know if you heard about the one that blew up in Siberia, 'round January. *That*-- /that/, I shouldn't've lived through that. But I did. Swear it's all luck, mate, knock on wood. I've not got any magic, me, I die and I'm not about to bloody come back like the rest of you tossers. But I'm going to Hell tomorrow. The fuck is wrong with me?"

Constantine starts out saying, "Yeh, but you lead one of those charmed--" he goes silent a moment, then eyes narrow, "What the fuck are you talkin' about you're going to Hell tomorrow? What are you playin' at there, mate?" -- John goes all business. Takes a swallow of scotch and a drag of his smoke while he waits for Pete's answer.

"Charmed life my entire arse," Wisdom says with mildly incredulous disgust. He fucks around with lighting his cigarette, looking disgruntled, and then he makes an even worse face, waving his hand around even as he waves out the match. "I'm SHIELD, all right? And my partner, he met this bird, and she's got a bit of a problem needs dealt with, and it involves Mephisto, so since I did so bloody well with the whole Latveria business--" That's very clear sarcasm right there. "--apparently I'm going with them to sort it. At least the heat won't get to me. If it's even hot in that part of Hell, I don't even know."

Constantine sighs and rolls his eyes, "Jesus Christ, Pete, you're going to go down and fuck with Mephisto." he sighs, "That guy fuckin' hates me. Don't mention my name, whatever you do. I crossed him once and he's promised me he's gonna get me back for it one day, and that's never good even in the best of times." he takes another drink. Then he abruptly pulls the offensive cigarette out of Pete's fingers and offers him one of his. "Fuck, those smell even worse than a dead witch's taint."

Hellblazer, malcontent that he is, seems even more sour than Pete is about the other man's upcoming travel. Then he groans slightly. He reaches into his trenchcoat and pulls out what looks like a test tube capped with wax. He pushes it over to Pete. "Look. You get into anything you can't handle, toss that down and stomp on it. I'll give ya a hand." he pauses, "It's not THAT hot down there. Not where you'll be, I trust."

"Like Silk Cut's any better than the bottom of a petrol can," retorts Pete, nevertheless taking one of them. Replacement, see. Because John's gone and stolen his cigarette, like he's a purple dragon or something. "What are you doing sniffing at dead witch taint, anyway, that's fucking rank. Deserve what you get, there." He lights up the new cigarette, then picks up the awful Scotch-- and winks at a passing Skrull who gives him the finger.

Deserves what he gets, there, undoubtedly.

Sitting up to reach for the stoppered phial, Wisdom lifts an eyebrow at John. "A hand, is it? Like-- like Tennant's hand in the jar? Because let me tell you what, if I'm in hell and I fucking stomp on this and a hand squishes out, I'll be cross."

Constantine sighs, "No, ya fuckin' wanker. I'm gonna show up to get your worthless ass out of hell..you and whoever's with ya. As for dead witch's taint, well your sister comes to mind, mate. I mean, she's not dead but she didn't bathe like the living that's for bloody sure." he takes a draw from his own smoke, and has a drink, "And watch what you say about my fuckin' Cuts, man. They're a top shelf smoke, unlike that undulated fluff you're sucking down."

"Watch what *I* say? That's my sister, you sheep-worrier. Shut your gob before I shut it for you," Pete says with no particular heat, pocketing the tube and sitting back again. Even if he doesn't intend to use it, makes a great party favor. Throw down, stomp on, summon Constantine to where-ever you are? Could throw down in some mighty interesting places. He takes a drag off the cigarette, then taps the ash in his foul Scotch, /then/ picks up the glass and swirls it. "Ta much, anyroad. I expect it'll be as all right as these things can be, though: I have no idea what I'm getting myself into, and that usually means I'll live but be sorry about it for a while."

Constantine leans in, being serious again. "Alright, Pete. Listen to me on this. Mephisto is a world class twat. I mean /world./ /class./ - you're gonna run into him. It's an impossibility not to. The first thing he's gonna do is buddy up, be a pal. He's gonna offer ya shit. Shit you want. Shit ya need. Shit ya wished for on lonely nights layin' in your bed at three in the morning when ya aren't wankin' one out to Wonder Woman. Listen to me here, my son. Do. Not. Do. It. You'll want to. Jesus knows you'll want to. But it's a sucker's game, that shit. You tell him to take his friendly deals and shove it up his shithole." he pauses, smokes. It's a worried motion. This has him vexed, clearly. It's like he's offering advice when there's literally no time to do so. "Then he'll get all three years old and stompy, and make threats and make you believe you're gonna lose whatever it is you hold near and dear to ya. Don't go for that play either, he's being a fuck so call him out on it. You do those two things, and he's gonna know you're an up and up player and he'll deal off the top of the deck to ya."

He sits back, "And for the love of god, do /NOT/ mention my name in his presence. Any native presence down there. They're on the hunt for me, if they associate you with e then you're gonna find yourselves right proper fucked. I'll make sure I keep the makings on me for a quick transport out, and a little artillary if we get held up. When I say I have no friends in hell, I fuckin' well mean it, son. So you use that tube only when you absolutely have to. Anyone asks you what that is, or what's in it, you tell 'em it's the fuckin' cavalry - right hand of God type shit, and it's fulla sunshine and rainbows, do I make mysel clear, Peter Paul Wisdom?" - he's using the whole name so he knows he's not fucking around.

"Look, mate, it's all right, I *do* know the rules," Pete says, enjoying the bizarre sensation of irritation mixed with a weird kind of affection WRT /Constantine/. "Not like this is my first go-round with deal-makers. Don't name names, don't eat anything, don't pull anything from anything, don't marry anything, don't give anyone you meet anything can be used as ammunition. And don't believe what you bloody /see/. Or hear. Realm of lies, annat." And then he tosses back the ash-cut Scotch, only pulls a brief face before setting it back down, and takes the phial back out of his inside jacket pocket. "I'm not going with lightweights, and I'm not lying to them," he tells John seriously, offering the thing back. "I wouldn't throw you under the bus, but I'm not fucking meself over either. And if you can't trust my judgement, then I'd better not have this."

Constantine nods, "Well yeh, I figured you'd tell them. Just don't tell them AFTER you've headed out. I don't know anyone you're going with, so that might make things a little easier. People are plenty pissed off with me here. Doesn't mean they won't accept a hand." he takes a drink and regards Pete a moment, motioning to the ashed in glass. "That help it, any?"

"Does," allows Pete, re-pocketing the phial. For an agent of SHIELD, he was awfully forthright about that business there. Maybe it's just that it's magic and he knows from obligations and costs. "And all right. And no I'm not bloody calling you into hell unless there's no other option, don't worry."