2013.07.11 - Instanbul, not Constantinople

Constantine mans one of the many booths situated around the back wall of the Oblivion, the ones that are shadowy that all the gothy kids use to occupy in chat rooms as if these things were EVERYWHERE... you know the one I'm talking about. That's where Constantine is. A glass with no ice and a half empty bottle of bourbon sitting next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Apparently he's been here a while.

His head wobbles just a bit, but his eyes are still mostly clear even if his coordination isn't what one would consider spot on. His palm slaps down on the pack of silk cuts and fumbles one out and into his mouth with the kind of blundering dexterity of someone half their share into the whiskey cabinet.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Keith walks up to the booth, lookig rather worse for wear than whe he last met with Constantine. He's not wearing his hero outfit, but rather a denim jacket, jeans and a T-shirt... and his face... well, let's say the swelling is subsiding at last.

"Actually, do you sleep here?"

"What?"

The question is asked in that almost slur, not quite drunken, but close enough that it's clear this is not the first bottle he's consumed tonight. One eye squints a bit when the kat fellow comes walking up, probably trying the pair or triples to come together into one image. "Oh, it's you... And you're wearing denim..." His hands flick up in a mock exasperated shrug, "Color me surprised... no I do not sleep here.. I pass out here sometimes, but that isn't exactly sleeping is it?"

"Let me guess, you don't drink?"

"No. I wish I did." The cat looks at the sauced-up Brit, smirking. "Are you conscious enough to conduct business, John, or do you need a few gallons of coffee?"

"Slot off with that talk..." Constantine slurs, patting the top of his coat and finally dipping a hand into a lower pocket where he found his matchbox. His eyes strain open, focusing and blink a few times before he seems confident enough to finally drop it into the pocket where he retrieved it and come out with an old golden zippo instead. Snapping it open and holding the flame up to the end of his cigarette with his bloodshot eyes on Keith throughout the entire first drag. "What business is it?"

Keith O'Neil crosses his arms. "What kind of things -can- you do, John Constantine?" he says, looking at him. "Do you have any other trades aside from dealing with the dead?"

"Are you just looking for shite or do you have something in mind?" John lazily lets the hand holding his cigarette flop down on the table, thumbing ashes right near his knuckle on the marble surface. Smoke rolls like clouds from his hanging open mouth.

"Yes, I am looking for something. Or anything." He invites himself onto the other seat in the booth and looks at Constantine with a hard expression. "Let's say someone has a mistake one wishes to correct. What sort of magic... wold be required to increase someone's natural abilities? Sort of bump a second rater higher, for a limited amount of time?"

Constantine's brow knits up at Keith's question, "You mean, can I finish your sex change? Listen..." Leaning forward, even if it does take him two times to finally do so and get his arms crossed over the table. The cigarette slips between his lips and bobs with every word he speaks, "Magic isn't exactly fucking science, mate.. You want something specific you've to be specific.."

"It isn't my power, mate." John says, pushing off the edge of the table with his cigarette straightening for a long drag, "Question seems to be is it too much for 'you'... and you answered it, yes." His hand comes up to pause that gut instinct rebuke people always seems to want to throw at him when they think he's being smarmy. "I can sense magic all over you, kid. It's all chaotic, howevah.. you know what I always found interesting about chaos? How many 'rules' it has..." Blowing smoke out through his mouth and sucking it back up through his nostrils.

Two fingers point down at the kids claws. "Do those hurt?"

"Not enough. And definitely not when you can't get close enough to use them without getting shot or tazed." The claws slide back all the way into his fingers and he crosses his arms again. "Yeah, I've bee made pretty aware of the fact that my flavor of magic is as useful as a fish unycicle."

"You just sort of hear whatevah you want don't you?" Constantine asks with his head shaking, waving one hand through the cloud of smoke recently escaped his parted lips. "You got to learn to break the rules. That's what magic is, kid." Flicking the end of his cigarette with one dirty nailed pinky so that ashes fall down onto the surface of the table. "Half of it is confidence and you haven't got any.." Pointing two fingers clutching his cigarette right at Keith, "You're a pussy and I am not making a cat joke... you want your powers to be dangerous? Stop being a wanker pussy and USE them..."

Keith snarls. "The heck are you talking about? And what do -you- know about my powers?" The cat takes a moment to collect himself and smooth dow his hackles with a hand. "I'm curious to know, really."

Constantine just stares at the cat, then rolls his cigarette up into his lips, holding his palm out so that Keith can see there's nothing there. He even goes so far as to roll up his sleeves, turning his palm over so both sides of his arm can be seen. Once he's sure, if only by a confused expression, that Keith doesn't see anything he waves his left hand three times and makes a single rose roll up into his fingers, holding it out to the kid.

Then points a finger pistol right at him with his right hand... the one he wasn't watching. "And I didn't use a fuckin' lick of chaos magic..." The 'gun' points down at Keith's claws, "And those are a lot more dangerous than this?" 'snapping' his thumb down like the hammer of a gun.

"Yeah, misdirection, cute. Care to tell me how you do that in a room full of rioting inmates, two thankless assholes you have to protect, and the Joker and his honeybun ready to kill you? I'd love to see how you'd do that with a minute to react." There's a slight growl to his voice, but it's controlled... more or less.

"See, that's the difference between you and me, mate... I don't go to places with rioting inmates, thankless assholes, or the joker and his honeybun ready to kill me." Constantine tosses the flower down on the table infront of Keith so that those fingers can be put to better use turning the burnt cigarette around to light another.

"But there's all kinds of blokes out in the streets who have 'no' powers at all, aye?" Sucking in a few quick drags and stabbing the old cigarette down in the mound of butts. "How old are you? Like sixteen, seventeen maybe?"

Keith O'Neil narrows his eyes quite visibly.

"Twenty."

Part of it is embarrassment, and part of it is anger. Was he assuming he was younger because of how iexperienced he was? Or was this another one of Constantine's insults?

"You know, someone tells me I look three years younger than I do and I take it as a compliment..." Constantine shakes his head and takes another drag of his cigarette, "How long you been doing this?" Waving his fingers around at the table like it is the representation of the concrete jungle. "You're askin' me for a quick fix to your problems... wanting me to cast some hoodoo spell on you to make you more powerful, but do you even know what your powers /are/? You think I woke up one morning and had all the answers?"

Assuming he still does, John clearly believe that he does... or that can be inferred anyways.

"Yeah, well, there's a difference between seventeen and twenty; and sixty-seven and seventy." quips Keith.

Hey, it was his only way to get a little back. "I'm not asking for a quick fix, I need some help because the clown's going to come after me. And yes, I know what my powers are. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can feel them. They're like water going through a canal- they only go where there's a groove, and I know where my grooves are. However it was that I was made, I was made into a very specific shape. And why, I don't know."

"Hold on now... you're scared of the Joker?" Constantine's brow curls inward almost in disbelief, "Fucking shoot that wanker in the face with a handcannon, kid... Jesus Christ, you don't have to be David Blain to figure this out." Still, this doesn't seem to be at all what the kid is after and while it might be the booze talking, John is feeling a little helpful.

"You rely on those powers pretty heavily don't you? Why don't you start trying to improve your other talents... ya know, the other parts of your 'shape'? You're a fuckin' purple cat, mate... use more realistic illusions or something, aye? They don't have to hurt to be effective, if your goal is to get close enough to rind someone with those fucking death claws..."

"I tried that once and it got me electrocuted. Have you ever seen purple fur when current goes through it? I looked like a fucking koosh kin." Keith draws his claws and looks at them. "It's a classic hand-to-hand issue. If I get close enough to hit them, so can they hit me. You may laugh at the Joker, but I shredded his goddamn wrist with these, and he still electrocuted me. It's like the man has heard of reacting to pain, but thinks it happens to other people. He's a maniac, he's..." Agaist his will, his voice betrays the fear, "He's nothing like I've ever encountered. He's one gaping maw into the abyss-- heck, Thor's son told me that eve Hel wouldn't want to cross the guy!"

"That's because all those norse gods are wankers." Constantine doesn't even flinch at insulting the Odinite, flapping a hand dismissive of the whole lot of them. That same hand grabs his cigarette and flicks off some ashes, "Oh, aye... I read all the stories about the Joker. He's just another psychopath and believe me, Gotham's got plenty of them... But I bet he can't handle a taste of his own medicine..." Shrugging one shoulder and watching the amber of his cigarette slowly turn..

After a second he reaches for the bourbon and pours himself another glass and quickly drains it. The whole while his eyes are on Keith. Once he's sucked it down and taken in a cooling breath, he reaches into his jacket... then switches pockets, then another... and finally comes out with what he was looking for in the fourth. A stone, about the size of someone's fist. Nothing fancy, just a white stone, but there's arcane markings all along it hand painted in black ink.

The occultists holds it up in three fingers and extends it out to Keith. "It's a worry stone. Keep it on you and it will bolster your courage. Put your fears into it and they will nolonger trouble you. Let the stone worry for you, understand?"

A worry stone, really? Is what Keith thinks. But he takes it and looks at it. There -were- markings on it... and it wasn't the first time someone had given him a stone with unusual properties. He still had Amanda's call-stone in his pocket. "...what do I owe you for this?" he asks, looking at Constantine with a critical eye.

When Keith grabs hold of it, the stone glows a faint green around his fingers as if lite from the inside by some strange light. Once it has, Constantine lets it go and leans back in his booth sucking down another drag. "Nothing. You already owe me plenty."

The cat looks at the stone, and slowly puts it in his breast pocket. "I ... thank you." It clearly takes Keith by surprise. Yes, he had come to Constantine for help, but hadn't actually expected anything without paying with at least his eyes. "It hasn't been the easiest of weeks... there's a dark elf assassinn after a friend, on top of it, and I'm supposed to keep him safe. No pressure, eh?" He smiles a little.

Constantine raises a brow, waving his hand in the air stopping that talk as soon as he sees where it's going, "Wait, hold on a tick... seriously. You already owe me.. That is my point, mate. I told you I was keeping your tab open." His eyes scrunch up, "You do remember me sayin' that right?" Spittling a bit of tobacco and coughing just a little into his fist. "And don't go thinkin' we're mates.."

He's still John Constantine. He'd never let someone know he 'helped' them.

His hand goes out to grab hold of the bottle of bourbon to pour himself another glass. "When you've a lord of the hells waitin' on you to die so he can come collect your soul personally, we'll trade war stories about whose havin' the worse week."

And he's still an asshole.

"Charming as always," Keith says, sliding out of the booth, "If I see him, I'll tell him to come here like everybody else."

Ok, maybe that was a mean jab and Keith, not a naturally nasty person, is almost immediately sorry for saying it. "... you know where to contact me if you hear anything about that six-armed woman, right."

"Oh, yeah. Probably hidin' in a closet from the Joker." Constantine retorts when Keith says he'd know where to contact the kid. His glass comes up in a salute, the contents quickly drained in one quick backwards snap of his neck. John slumps down in his seat and pats his pockets looking for his cigarettes which are sitting right on the table infront of him.

Yellow-green eyes narrow. There is a blink and a tiny anvil, the size of a small paperweight, appears at John's chest level and drops towards his groin. It was just a small one, and far more likely to shock and startle than to harm. Even good kitties had their limits.

John is too drunk and apathetic to do anything about the anvil that smacks him in the jiblets... so instead he just groans quietly and slumps over in the booth holding his marbles... Which turns out to be a good thing.

From somewhere, someone fires an arrow that would have taken him right in the throat and ended his life... he also finds a hundred dollar bill.

And a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory.

Actually, he just passes out and dreams those things, drolling into the leather seat that has now become his bed, mumbling groggily with a still burning cigarette butt pressed against his cheek, "Oh, you know how I li-" This could get very disturbing quickly.

Keith just... stares. "Goddamnit." And he walks towards the door. Curse his nature, even after giving him what he asked for, Keith felt sorry for having done that.

Not that he was ever going to apologize. Constantine would just make fun of him.