[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [i]I don’t like going to Hollywood if I can help it. Not for the reason most people avoid it like the plague. On any given day it’s dirty, crime-ridden and filled with street hustlers looking to squeeze you out of every last cent. Place like that would be home to me if it were anywhere else. But Hollywood has a lot of spiritual baggage. More so than any other place of its age. It’s not shocking, really. The people love to wax poetic about the magic of the movies, and almost all of it bollocks that people in the film industry love to spout off to play up their importance. But there’s truth there. In today’s world, the latest big budget blockbuster schlock-fest is an event. People in the States and around the world pack the cinemas by the droves and watch. Millions and millions of eyes on the screen, millions of minds all with the same ideas planted in them. That’s powerful, primordial stuff. On top of that power is the macabre history that people love to obsess over. I’m talking Fatty Arbuckle crushing Virginia Rappe to death while they fucked, smoldering pretty boy James Dean with his love of fast cars and even faster men, George Reeves -- the original Doc Savage -- and his downward spiral and eventual questionable suicide. Doesn't matter if it's true or not, all that matters is it gets spread. Rumors and urban legends given power with each and every repeating, each and every time a new person discovers the old stories and believes it. No, I don’t like going to Hollywood if I can help it. But since when do any of us ever get a fucking choice in this life?[/i] --- [b]Hollywood 2:21 PM[/b] He sat in the semi-darkness of the club, playing to a room of empty chairs. His long, graceful fingers danced around the keys of the piano. He played the mournful melody with his eyes closed as he sang. “Now I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord but you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing ‘Hallelujah.’” The voice that came out of his mouth was beautiful, quite literally angelic. Just like his looks. His perfect blonde hair and crystal blue eyes were part of a face that turned heads wherever he went. The only mar to the beauty was the scar. A great gash that ran from his left eyebrow to his right jaw. It was a battle scar, delivered by a fiery sword wielded by his own brother. “I did my best; it wasn’t much. I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch. I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you. And even though it all went wrong, I’ll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...” John Constantine walked around the edges of the club, unlit cigarette in hand. As the man finished up his song he approached. His blue eyes sparkled even in the dark. Eyes that had seen billions of years of war and suffering, eyes that carried behind them cursed knowledge and a desire for freedom that had been his undoing once upon a time. “Know any Sex Pistols?” asked John. “I’ll work on it,” Lucifer Morningstar said, standing. “Thank you for coming.” “Well, the king of Hell summons you,” said John. “You come toot sweet.” “[i]Former[/i] ruler of Hell.” “Mmm,” John said as he lit his cigarette. “Could never reckon why you gave it all up. I may not be one of those public school ponces, but I know my Milton. ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven’ and all that.” “A few million years of being a scapegoat for man’s weakness and God’s inequity will turn anyone off the idea of being the devil. Man kills and rapes because he wants to, not because I make him. They were made to be violent and petty, made in His image, but yet they look to me instead of their creator.” “We love to blame,” said John, holding his smoldering cigarette up. “Bobby Joe smokes three pack a day and when he gets lung cancer, he blames the bloody cigarette company. Don’t take it personal, Lucy, just our way.” A look of annoyance flashed on Lucifer's face at the use of the nickname. He walked passed John and headed for the club’s bar. John followed in his wake, taking a seat on a stool while Lucifer went behind the bar to the liquor shelf. “Lux caters to plenty of Hollywood people. Powerful people,” said Lucifer. “One of my regulars came to me recently with a problem. It bores me, but it’s right up your alley, Constantine. You've always enjoyed getting down in the gutters.” “Need help getting pesky stains off that casting couch?” John asked with a grin. “Something a bit trickier.” He took his time, taking a bottle of scotch from the top shelf and pouring himself a glass. John had to resist the urge to laugh. The towheaded cunt was every bit the showman. “Tell me,” he said before taking a long swig of his drink. “Are you familiar with Jake Stowe?” --- [b]Laurel Canyon 8:21 PM[/b] “Come in, come in,” Jake Stowe said with a withered hand. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Constantine.” Jake Stowe appeared to be ancient. Stoop-shouldered with a wrinkled face, a neat black mustache, and massive eyeglasses. Despite his age, his hair was still jet black. Though John could see black spots around the hairline and upper lip, places where he’d spilled the dye during the coloring process. Even at his home he was immaculately dressed in a black suit with white pinstripes, a blood red cravat tied around his neck. The one hand that wasn’t free clung to a dark, wooden cane with a golden top. “Follow me,” Stowe said. He hobbled through the house while John followed. The walls of the hallways of the home were filled with framed movie posters. They were cheap things with half-naked women splayed across them in sensational poses, and ridiculous titles like “Dykes From Hell”, “I Was A Japanese Love Slave”, “Werewolves In Love”, "Nazi Vampires From Space", and “The Devil is My Step-Daddy.” Each and every one of the posters, no matter how trashy, had the words “A Jacob Stowe Picture” written somewhere on them. Stowe led John to a sitting room. Just like the hallways, the walls of the room had posters and black and white photographs on every inch of them. Comfortable couches and chairs faced the fireplace. Above the fireplace, hung above the mantel, was a poster unlike the others. In stark black and white, it showed a beautiful man with a horrendous scar across his face. He stared straight ahead at the camera, his gaze piercing and his hands clasped together in mock prayer. Underneath him were the words “LUCIFER” in a simple font, while the words “A Jacob Stowe Picture” were written above his head in an arc. “Not long after he fled the Pit, our mutual friend dabbled in acting," Stowe said as he plopped down on one of the couches. “I ran out of cash halfway through the film, and people were too spooked by the title of the film to put up any more money. This was the sixties, and any movie -- even the usual tasteful art house pictures I put out -- with the devil as the main character was going to be a hard sell. I still have the reels from it. It’s become a bit of a Hollywood urban legend.” “That’s what you’re known for, right?” asked John. “The keeper of Hollywood legends and dirt. A gossip monger. The man with the longest memory.” “Yes,” Stowe said with a touch of pride in his voice. “The scandal sheets today have such a fleeting nature. What they think of as controversy today is nothing compared to the dirt I’ve uncovered. Have you ever read my books, Mr. Constantine?” “Can’t say that I have,” John said, glancing out the window. To anyone else, the view would be a breathtaking scene of L.A. lit up at night. But all John could see was the toxic green smog of the city and spirits floating in the sky, too far off to be anything other than hazy objects. “But I know the stories pretty well, maybe better than most.” “Are you familiar with the story of Frederick Waltham, then?” “Can’t say that I am,” John said, turning away from the window. “Mind if I smoke?” “Help yourself,” said Stowe. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic cigarette holder. “While you’re at it, may I have one?” After everything was settled and both men had their smokes, Stowe took a long drag from his holder and blew smoke out of his nostrils. Like Lucifer, John noticed the old man liked the pregnant pauses and the dragging out of things. “Oh, that’s good. I really shouldn’t at my age, but I don’t have long left in this world so I might as well indulge.” "Gotta die of something," said John. “So, who is Frederick Waltham?” “The reason you’re here,” said Stowe. “His story is not one for the faint of heart, but one I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating. A brilliant screenwriter, a multi-Oscar winner, and an avowed Satanist, Waltham cheated, Mr. Constantine. All that talent, money, and prestige was not hard-earned. It was bought. For the low, low price of his soul.”