[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Hollywood 1948[/b] “And the Academy Award for Best Picture goes to…” Director Billy Wilder carefully opened the envelope while the crowd beneath him looked on in anticipation. The large microphone in front of Wilder was broadcasting the event out across the country, a testament to the power of pictures that even their industry award show was eagerly consumed by the masses. “It’s a clean sweep,” Wilder announced with a large smile. “[i]The War at Home[/i], a Pinnacle Pictures production, Frederick Waltham producing!” Fred Waltham jumped from his seat and ran towards the stage. This would be his third trip up to the stage. He’d already won the Oscars for best director and best original story earlier in the night. His melodrama on soldiers returning home from the war also received best leading actor for Randall Houghton’s performance as a shell-shocked Marine trying to adjust to life back home, and best leading actress for Shelley Claudette as the Marine’s wife. The first time since 1934 that a picture swept all five of the major Oscar categories. “Thank you,” said Waltham after Wilder had handed him the Oscar. "Thank you so much. Let's get everyone else up here." He looked out at the applauding audience while he waited for the other representatives of [i]The War at Home[/i] to make their way to the stage to join him. Waltham laughed and pointed at people he knew in the audience. That was pretty much everyone in attendance. He’d risen through the ranks, first as a dynamite screenwriter during the transition from silent films to talkies, to a director in the 30’s and early 40’s. Now he was above even that, what people in the biz called an auteur. He wrote, directed, and produced his own films. Complete creative control over every aspect of the process. Already a major player in Hollywood, he now had five academy awards to show for his creative efforts. Waltham felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he spotted a face he recognized in the crowd. Standing, clapping harder than anyone else, was a cheerful middle-aged man with dark sunglasses on and a straw boater. He stopped clapping and waved at Waltham, flashing a set of razor-sharp teeth in his head. “Here,” Waltham said as soon as Claudette got on stage, handing her the award. “You give the speech for us.” “But Freddy, darling, it’s your award.” She furrowed her brow when she saw his face. “Are you okay? You look white as a sheet.” “Just give the fucking speech,” he hissed. Taken aback for a moment, Claudette’s mask slipped back on and she was all smiles as she approached the microphone. The rest of the members of the film were on stage now, allowing Waltham to slip into the back and scan the crowd. The man in the suit wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He took a deep breath and nodded to himself. He hadn’t thought about that night in the hotel in a long time. He’d put it out of his mind days after it happened. But he had shown up here as a reminder, looking no different than he had twenty years ago. Waving and reminding Fred that he could enjoy this night, but he would be back soon enough. “And thank you to our dear director, producer, well… just everything, Freddy Waltham.” Waltham raised his hand, giving his best smile as Claudette and the rest of the people on stage looked at him and applauded. “The man with the magic touch,” said Claudette. “The most talented and hardest working man in show business. Without you, Freddy, I don’t know where I’d be… and I shudder to think of where the movie business would be without you as well.” More generous applause from the audience as Waltham nodded his thanks to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and turned his head. On the far right, behind the stage near the stage door, was the man again. He stood watching, a playful smile on his face. When he saw he had Waltham’s attention, he smile grew wider until the sharpened teeth could be seen. He simply tipped his boater at Waltham and turned to leave, exiting out the stage door as Claudette finished her speech and thunderous applause filled the theater. --- [b]Venice Beach Now[/b] “Welcome to Mistress Devine’s Spiritual Sanctum.” John Constantine had a laugh at the scene around him. The small shop on the boardwalk was crammed with holistic, spiritualistic mumbo jumbo of the first order. Racks of cleansing crystals, healthy coffee, and all-natural supplements were next to so-called healing potions and blessed incense. The woman in the flowery dress behind the counter hadn’t bothered to look up when she rattled off her greeting, but she did as soon as she caught scent of the cigarette smoke. “John Constantine,” she said with a sigh. “What do you want?” “Well, hullo to you too, Jenny.” A smirk emerged on his face as he glanced around the store. “Or should I say, Mistress Devine?” “It pays the bills,” said Jenny. “And in Venice Beach, Mistress Devine's Spiritual Sanctum is like the third most normal thing you can find. There’s a legit sex-cult a few stores down. Or at least, they were there. I think the cops raided them. NXIST. You hear about that?” “Maybe,” said John. “But I do have to say this is a pretty solid con you got going.” “We live in the age of anti-vaxxers and flat-earthers, John. People rebel when they’re told something is an undeniable fact. They no longer want to be told what’s the truth, they want to discover it for themselves.... regardless of how full of shit that truth is. And I offer them a means to discover thier truth.” “For a price.” “Everything has a price,” she said seriously. “You know this better than most.” “You're right on that count," he said, looking around the shop. "You think we could go somewhere else and talk privately?” “Sure,” Jenny said with a raised eyebrow. “But don’t get any ideas.” “Wouldn’t dream of it, love,” he said with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” --- “I’m gonna come, you piece of shit! Don’t stop! Don’t you fucking stop! I'm coming! I'm coming! You ready to come, you British son of a bitch? Yeah? Let me suck it. Mmmmppmmmpp yeah, you almost ready? Mmmmpppmmppp. Yeah, right there. Fucking finish on my face. Yeah, right there. Oh, yeah...” A few minutes later, John pulled his pants back up and buckled his belt while Jenny slipped the flowery dress back over her naked body. John's face was flushed and sweaty, while Jenny's was flushed and sweaty and... plastered. "I forgot how much you love that dirty talk," John said with a content sigh. “Have you seen my panties?” she asked. “No idea,” John said as he tucked the soiled underwear into the pocket of his trench coat. “You threw them off in a fit of passion, crying you’d never need them again.” “Well.. I’ve gotta clean up.” “Right,” John said, pulling a cigarette out of his pack. “Care for one?” “No,” she said as she went into the bathroom. “Just keep telling me about this score.” “Well, this Stowe wants me to nick this object from a wealthy businessman. It’s supposed to be a cursed typewriter some wanker sold his soul to the devil over. Bought at one of the auctions the Good People have.” “Tricky,” Jenny said from the bathroom. “The Good People protect the stuff they auction off, or so I've heard. There’s always been rumors that there’s protection spells on the items they sell. Don’t you have a friend who does the auctions?” “Epiphany, and she used to be a friend,” said John. “Another bridge burned?” “Another day, another woman hating my guts, love. Anyway, she once told me the rumors aren’t true. But she never confirmed nor deny. Best to let people think they’re protected. It took Stowe a long time to track the guy down, but he is sure this is our guy.” “Why are you doing this?” Jenny came out the bathroom, her dress in order and her hair to where it had been pre-copulation. Her face was now cleaned up from the mess it had been earlier. “You’re a conman, sure. An asshole, no doubt. A major prick, of course--" "Is there a compliment in there somewhere?" "--but this Stowe guy sounds like someone you wouldn’t work for. As sleazy as you can be, you generally tell people you don’t like to fuck off.” “True,” said John. “But I’m doing it as a favor for someone else. Someone I owe dearly.” “Wow. John Constantine never owes anyone anything.” “This one in particular was huge. Saved my immortal soul huge.” “Care to share?” John thought back on the searing pain. Lucifer’s long fingers, turned into talon-like claws as he ripped the cancerous growths and tar filth from his lungs. The way John had doubled over and coughed up blood and tarry mucus as the Lightbringer had stepped over him like you would a homeless man splayed out on the sidewalk. “Love, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “You’ve yet to ask me what you want,” said Jenny. “Other than a quick fuck. Which you already got.” “I’m going to need a little help in this grift. Like any good magician, I need an assistant, and Stowe is willing to pay very well. The cunt has more money than he has anything else. It’d keep you stocked up in holistic incense shit for the next year if you help me do this job.” Jenny rubbed her fingers together and thought about it. John knew she was going to say yes the second she opened her mouth at the sight of him, even more so when she bent over and let him take her from behind. If she was smart she would have said no when she saw him and kept saying no until he left. But she’d been intrigued by his sudden presence and that got his foot wedged into the door before it could be slammed in his face. John could tell by the look in her eyes that as much as the Spiritual Sanctum paid the bills, it didn’t have the same high as running a con. “What kind of scam were you thinking about pulling?” she asked. “Not sure yet,” John said with a smile. “But how about you close the shop and we go scope out our mark?”