[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Compton 2015[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drprt4Dft7Y]2015 Music[/url] “Shit was tight.” “Shit was shit,” K2 said dismissively to Rey. They were standing in the shadows outside Kenny’s NightKlub, passing a blunt between the two of them. A few people mingled in the parking lot, talking while an idling car thumped the latest Drake song. Lil Rey took a hit off the blunt and swayed in time with the music. He was K2’s cousin and DJ. He chose not because he was good, or even because he was cheap. Lil Rey was his cousin and he worked for free. And free was all K2 could afford at this moment. “There was a few people nodding their heads,” said Rey. “You had some of them feeling that shit.” “Nigga, they put on recorded music after my third fucking song,” K2 said after a deep drag off the blunt. He coughed up a puff of smoke and tried to catch his breath. “That’s three more than you been singing in front of.” Rey tried to reach for the blunt, only for K2 to pull away from his cousin and take another drag off of it. “C’mon, man. I paid for that shit. Let me smoke it.” “How the fuck am I gonna get signed if I don’t get a chance to pack clubs?” “Nigga, you sixteen,” Rey said as K2 finally passed him the blunt. “You need to slow your roll. You gonna have a chance.” “Sixteen, going on motherfucking sixty,” said K2. “Living in Compton, if I make it to twenty-five it’ll be a goddamn miracle. Same with you, nigga.” "You is a dramatic bitch," said Rey. “Hell of a show,” a voice said from behind the two teens. They turned and saw a man in a red suit, two muscle bound men flanked on either side of him. Like the man in the suit, they wore exclusively red. Both K2 and Rey tensed up at the sight of Lance Rawlings. They’d never met him, but of course they knew who the fuck he was. Everyone in Compton new who Lance was and what set he claimed. Scary stories about him were a dime a dozen in this part of LA, just like they were with his predecessor. But if Suge was Don Vito, then Lance was Michael Corleone. The next evolution in the gang shot caller turned businessman. And as fucking scary as Suge was, the stories they told about Lance made that big motherfucker sound like the washed up ex-jock he really was. “Thanks,” said K2. “Wish everyone in that club agreed with you.” “Niggas out here don’t know a good thing,” said Lance. “They like produced things. Sleek. That ain't you. You good, but you raw as hell, boy.” A soft smile came on Lance’s face as he looked between K2 and his cousin. “Look at y’all. Out here hustling with your big dreams. Shit takes me back.” The two muscle heads flanking Lance laughed and slapped hands with each other. K2 noticed the guns in their waistbands. They were front and center and tucked near their belt buckles. No subtlety at all. But when you rolled with Lance you didn’t need to be subtle. “When a man likes me makes it out I like to remember where I came from,” said Lance. “Trifling ass niggas think that means I’ll give any motherfucker some ends. Nah, what that means is I look for talented people and try to give them a chance. Same thing happened to me years ago. A successful, powerful man saw potential in me and gave me a chance. Much like I'm doing with you.” K2 looked at Rey and smiled. This was the chance he had been waiting for. For all the bad shit he heard, he knew that Lance took care of his people. Rey’s expression was less than thrilled. Obviously, he took stock into a bunch of bullshit that was probably spread by some jealous ass bitches. K2 shook his head before turning back to Lance. The older man had an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “So y’all little niggas want to put some work in?" --- [b]East L.A. Now[/b] “You tripping!” the spirit of K2 said as soon as Charlie Rembrandt shuffled into Constantine’s apartment. The deceased rapper ignored Rembrandt’s bloody face and limp. All he could focus on was how he had been wronged. “Leaving me behind like that was some bullshit. This is entrapment or some shit.” “Shut your goddamn mouth,” snapped Rembrandt. “Take your head out of your ass long enough to look at my face, okay? Your boy Lance jumped us on the way back here. They got Constantine.” K2 blinked in surprised. “What they want with that old motherfucker?” Charlie flopped down on to Constantine’s couch with a loud sigh. He started to check himself out. There was a cut above his eyebrow that was the cause of all the blood on his face. As far as he could tell, nothing was broken. He was just sore as hell. In the past John had talked about having uncanny levels of good luck. Maybe some of that luck was rubbing off on him? “He’s got more power than you,” said Charlie. “In Lance’s eyes, you’re small fish.” “Well… good,” K2 said with a laugh that sounded fake to Rembrandt. “Let Lance take that dusty old bitch anyway. That means I get to stop from being sucked into his goddamn ruby.” “For now.” Charlie stood up and limped into the bathroom. He washed his face in the brown water that came out of the sink before he started to look around for anything like bandages or alcohol. No surprise to him, but all he could find was toilet paper and a bottle of vodka in the medicine cabinet. He put a splash of vodka on his cut and grunted in pain before applying a wade of TP to his forehead cut. “What do you mean for now?” K2 asked as he walked through the wall into the small bathroom. “The type of shit your boss is into? It’s only a matter of time before he comes after you next.” Charlie didn’t even bother to look away from the mirror as he spoke. “He consumes and consumes. Like gluttony. He’ll never be full. Once he gets hungry again, he’s going to come after you.” “Then I’ll be gone, like a goddamn ghost.” “You are a ghost,” Rembrandt said with a laugh. This time he made eye contact with K2 through the mirror. “But you don’t think that medallion of his can’t find you? Your best chance to avoid dangling around Lance Rawling’s neck just got himself taken prisoner.” “Fuck,” K2 cried. “You playing me straight? You ain’t just bullshitting about that punk rock lame ass nigga?” “No,” said Rembrandt. “That’s why we’re heading to Lance’s mansion. But something tells me John is already three steps ahead.” --- [b]Brentwood[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lV6Sl_u1s3M]MUSIC[/URL] “Turn it off,” John said for the third straight time. “Turn it the fuck off right now.” He was tied to a chair in Lance Rawling’s opulent mansion. His expensive, six figure sound system blasted out the punk music of Mucus Membrane. Music that featured the vocals of a young and hungry John Constantine. When John heard "Venus of the Hardsell", he was always taken back to his past as a cocky, youthful cunt that thought he'd never die. He was still a cocky cunt that thought he'd never die. He was just less youtful. “Painful memories, John?” Lance asked with raised eyebrows. “Yes,” said John. “Memories of how shite my singing was. Now, turn it off.” “Afraid not.” Lance had stripped down to a pair of red boxers. He medallion still hung heavily around his neck. The mansion’s living room was covered in candles. The expensive hardwood flooring had symbols and sigils drawn on their surfaces. They were crude, but John recognized them well enough. Voodoo markings designed to bring forth souls. “The music is part of the sacrifice,” Lance said with a smirk. ”As much power as you have as a mage, John, I want it all. That includes the legends that come with you. While not on par with Big and Pac or Kurt Cobain, the Newcastle Incident has its own little slice of macabre music history to claim. What’s the official story again? A crazed fan killed all those people.” “Something like that,” said John. “Look, if you’re gonna hold bloody court all day, could at least give us a cig?” “A deranged fan decapitated sixteen people?” asked Lance. “It was the eighties. PCP is a hell of a drug.” “I bet,” Lance said with a twinkle in his eyes. “But play coy if you must, I’ll learn the truth soon enough.” “Tell you what,” John said with a grin. “I’ll tell you the story about Lance Rawlings instead. Skinny little boy from Compton, oh I’m sorry, I meant Bompton. Gotta get it right less you think I'm rolling with the blue buggers. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea about where I stand in your little color war.” Lance rushed forward and slapped John so hard the chair toppled sideways. Constantine spat blood and laughed wildly. “You fucking ponce,” he said between cackles. “You think you’re a gangster? Just a poof in a bloody suit. Even got your pretty costume jewelry.” “Shut up!” Lance shouted. He kicked John sharply in the ribs before walking backwards towards the symbols on the floor. “It’s time for you to die, motherfucker.” “Well, where’s your men?” John asked, trying his best to look around even though he was on the floor sideways. “You’re a hands-off type. Gotta call the real gangsters in when it’s time to kill.” “Fuck you. I’ve killed motherfuckers. I put in the work.” “Bullshit,” John laughed from the floor. “Just an accountant playing like a hardass.” “You know who would disagree with you?” “Who’s that, squire?” “My old boss, Orlando Miller. This Crip bitch-asss motherfucker from around the way named Antonio, a Russian cat named Vlad, this bitch Nina that I knocked up, a fucking cholo named Apache, even K2’s little homie Rey. Motherfucker wouldn’t buy into the program so he had to go. Each and every one of them killed by hand and absorbed into my ruby. Just like you about to be.” “Beautiful,” John said with a wide grin that showed off his bloody mouth. “Fucking beautiful.” The stone in the medallion began to glow. Lance looked down at it confused before looking back at Constantine. “What the fuck?” “You’re a talented mage, I’ll give you that,” said John. “Powerful, but you aren’t well-versed. Time for a lesson, Lance. The circle you’re standing in is more than a trap for my soul. The spell it produces is a two-way street. Things can come in, but also things can come out.” Lance looked around in horror as spectral shapes formed a circle around him. The faces staring at him were the dead. Every single person he had just mentioned stared at him with lean, gaunt faces that had been ravaged by hunger. The ghost of Nina had a protruding belly that squirmed with the ghost of Lance’s child. The Russian Vlad has a large slit across his throat where Lance had slicked him almost ten years ago. Lil Rey looked at him through glasses cracked and caked in blood. Antonio’s body was covered in bullet holes from the night all those years ago Lance had taken his life. “See names, even street names have power, Squire,” John said from the floor. “And invoking the names of the dead is like a fucking invitation to join the party.” "Sup?" Orlando said to Lance with a nod. Blood and brain matter leaked out the neat, round hole in his forehead. "Lancelot, you done come up in the world. But you always was a trifling ass little bitch." Lance let out a scream as the ghosts encircled him tighter and pounced.