[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Hollywood 1928[/b] “GODDAMMIT!” Fred Waltham yanked the paper from his typewriter and crumpled it up. He tossed it over his shoulder, where the ball of paper joined the dozens of other pieces. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. Waltham reached for the bottle of bootleg hooch beside the typewriter and took a long slug of it, not even bothering to pour a glass. Standing, Waltham walked towards the window of his hotel room and looked out. He had a clear view of the bright Hollywood lights from the fourth floor of the Chateau de Rivau. A pair of searchlights somewhere off in the distance announced the location of some new movie premiere. Further away he could see the giant “HOLLYWOODLAND” sign erected up in the hills, flashing off and on even in the middle of the night. “Fuck Hollywood,” Waltham said under his breath. “And fuck Pinnacle Pictures.” He walked among the discarded pieces of paper, grabbing the liquor bottle as he passed by the desk, and started for the bed. After taking another deep drink, he got down on his knees in front of the bed and did something he’d never don in is life: Frederick Waltham prayed. “Please… whoever or whatever is out there, please help me. Hear my prayer: I need… inspiration.” On cue, there was a gentle knock on the door. Waltham stood up and walked to the door before opening it gingerly. “Guten Abend,” said a cheerful voice with a thick Austrian accent. Standing in front of Waltham was a middle aged man wearing a dark three-piece suit, matching sunglasses that hid his eyes, and a straw boater hat with a dark red band around the crown. “Who the hell are you?” asked Waltham. “Why, I am the man you just requested,” the man said with a large smile. “Someone to help you with your problem. Ask and ye shall receive, isn't that the saying? May I come in?” Waltham stepped away from the door and started back into the room. He stopped when he noticed the man still stood at the doorway. “There are rules to this,” he laughed. “You have to invite me in.” “Come on in…,” said Waltham. The man smiled and walked into the room. He looked over at Waltham and rubbed his hands, raising his eyebrows above his glasses. “Now, what seems to be the problem?” “Look around,” he motioned towards the paper on the floor. “I’ve got until tomorrow night to turn out a screenplay for Pinnacle Pictures. Fucking Eddie Mueller, that Yiddish bastard, has been on my ass for weeks now. He wants some kind of swashbuckling, Douglas Fairbanks malarkey. And I’ve got… nothing. This has never happened to me before. I am drawing a complete and total blank.” “Inspiration can be provided,” the man said in a warm and comforting voice. And then he added, “For a price.” “A price?” asked Waltham. He scowled in his confusion. “I thought miracles were free?” “Miracle?” the man asked before it dawned on him. “Oh… you think I am?” He laughed softly and removed his sunglasses, showing Waltham a pair of burning red eyes with large, solid black pupils. “I am afraid I represent another firm.” Waltham started to back away from the man. With every step he took back the man inched forward, the same placid smile on his face. Waltham stopped when he found himself up against the hotel room’s wall. The man slipped the sunglasses back on his face. “I am something of a capitalist, Mr. Waltham," he said. "You read the papers, yes? Business is booming across the country. The stock market climbs ever higher with no signs of stopping. I am as much a representative of these times as much as I am a representative for any place of perdition. And in these times, perhaps more so than any other time, anything can be had for a price. Including what I sell, Mr. Waltham. I offer whatever you desire the most, the deepest wishes of your heart, at a fair price.” “What do you want, exactly?” “Why, your soul,” he said brightly. “In exchange for that you will receive inspiration for your current project, as well as a lifetime of ideas for movies. Movies that will grant you fame, fortune, and renowned. Frederick Waltham: Hollywood legend. Your name on the silver screen, in books, and on monuments. You will be remembered forever. I offer immortality, Mr. Waltham. For that reward, what does a meager little soul matter?” Waltham pushed past the man in the suit and went back to the window. He looked out at the lights of Hollywood. He’d come here six years ago with nothing but a suitcase and an English degree from Brown, intent on making it as a movie writer. And now, after years of rewrites and ghostwriting and polishing scripts, he was on the verge of losing it all. He could have all he ever wanted. For his soul. "What is a soul, really?" the man asked behind him, almost as if he could read his thoughts. "It's immaterial. An idea man created to make them seem a step above common animals. You trade that which is not there for something that is. Honestly, I think I should be charging you more." The man stepped closer to Waltham. "So, what shall it be?" “Deal,” he said softly. “Splendid,” the man said, clapping his hands together. “Please, follow me to your typewriter.” “We shall enter into a covenant, Mr. Waltham,” the man said as he rooted through his suit pockets for something. “This is different than a contract, you see. A simple contract can be voided by one party of the other. I do not live up to my end, it is cancelled. Same if you fail to live up to your end.” The man pulled out a large, silver knife with ornate, ancient words written on the side of the blade. Waltham had no idea what language it was, but he felt something old and powerful inside those words. “A covenant, meanwhile Mr. Waltham, can never be broken. Once entered to, it cannot be backed out of. The agreed upon terms must be fulfilled. May I please see your finger?” Waltham held out his right index finger and held it over his typewriter. The man placed the tip of the knife on the tip of his finger and slashed quickly, sending a spurt of blood flying. Waltham cried out as the blood spattered the typewriter’s keys. “A sacrifice,” said the man. “Simple, but powerful all the same. Your blood has now consecrated the deal, sealing our covenant. I will uphold my end of the bargain.” “Yes,” Waltham said softly. Even though his finger hurt like hell, his mind was focused elsewhere.What if, he realized, he told the story of a shanghaied lord who becomes the great pirate of the orient? “Yes!” “You see,” the man said with a wide smile. “It is already working. Let me take my leave.” Waltham was oblivious to the man’s comments. Instead, he sat down in front of his typewriter and began to work. He ignored the bleeding finger and the blood smeared on the keys as he typed. The man in the suit watched it all from the doorway. “Enjoy your life, Mr. Waltham,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.” --- [b]Laurel Canyon Now[/b] “And if you know your Hollywood lore, you know the rest of the story.” Jake Stowe took a deep drag off the cigarette in his holder. John Constantine had already finished his first cigarette was already on the second. “I know it doesn’t end well,” said John. “But they’re all like that, aren’t they?” “Inevitably,” said Stowe. “The only happy ending Waltham ever got was the ones he wrote.” “So, what does Frederick Waltham have to do with you?” asked John. “Just lonely and getting up in years. So you wanted someone to tell a story to and hold court one more time?” “Certainly not, sir,” Stowe said haughtily. “You already know my reputation as a connoisseur when it comes to the macabre nature of Hollywood. Along with stories, I collect items and artifacts.” “Really?” John asked with a glint in his eye. “Such as?” “I’ll show you.” John followed Stowe through the house and down into the garage. It was set up like a makeshift museum, objects on display behind display cases. Along with the items were more photographs, crime scene photos mixed with shots of naked men and women doing depraved things. “It’s odds and ends, really,” Stowe said as he watched John walk among the displays. “I have the knife that Lana Turner’s daughter used to kill her mom’s abusive boyfriend, mob enforcer Johnny Stompanato, the clothes Sharon Tate was wearing the night she was murdered by the Manson Family, an aborted fetus of Joan Crawford’s, the pill bottle that darling Marilyn Monroe’s last dose came from.” John stopped and examined a belt that was behind glass. He could feel waves of powerful psychic energy radiating off of it. Like everything in the museum, it had a bad story behind it. But this one was newer than the rest, the wound still fresh and raw. He looked over at Stowe who smiled wide and without humor. “That’s the belt Robin Williams hanged himself with. If you are as in tune with the psychic world as our mutual friend claimed, I’m sure you can feel something there.” “Again," John said, his annoyance rising. "What does this have to do with Frederick Waltham?" Stowe hobbled across the room towards John, speaking as he did so. “I know you know about the auctions that the mystical LA underground have, yes? Ones where you can buy items, but not with money.” “I’m aware.” "Since I am not qualified to go, I send a proxy to bid in my stead. They pay in their own way, and I reward them handsomely. I recently purchased the camera of Harvey Glatman, the Lonely Hearts Killer. Are you familiar with it?" John thought back to the auction from two weeks ago. The woman who traded away a year of suicidal depression for that camera. She had been working for Stowe and had been willing to forgo a year of happiness for that camera. "More familiar than I would like to be," he said. "Well, decades ago the typewriter of Frederick Waltham’s, the one with the blood on it from his deal with the devil, was up for auction and I lost it to another buyer. I've spent years searching for it. Finally, I have found it’s location.” Now in front of him, Stowe reached out with a wrinkled hand and patted John on the cheek. John nearly recoiled at the cold and clammy hand. “And you, Mr. Constantine, are going to steal it for me.”