[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Compton 1988[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Cl1zPCEMCA]1988 Music[/url] The house party was in full effect. Gangbangers, slingers, hood rats, and all manner of Compton’s finest danced along to the song of the summer. Everyone at the party was either full members of Mob Piru, or affiliated with them in some way. Red shirts, pants, and baseball caps as far as they eye could see. They were all blowing off steam after a hard day on the corners. Almost all the money they made that day had gone in to the booze and drugs and girls for this party. They spent anything they made as soon as they could, they ate and drank and lived like there was no tomorrow because for nearly their entire life there was no tomorrow. Growing up in Compton, every new day for them had been a challenge. Some of them never knew where their next meal would come from, where he would sleep that night, and how they would make it to the next day. To people not from Compton it was impulsive, but to them it was just instinct. They sold crack and robbed liquor stores because they could, and who the fuck could actually stop them? Nobody. That was what LAPD didn't realize. They came in with their riot gear and armored vehicles in search of drugs, their jackboots looking to stomp their spirit out. But it couldn’t be killed. The rowdy ass house party was testament to that spirit. The cops could roll through with their dead-eye stares, but they always stood tall. Regardless of how bad it had been the night before, they were always back out on the corners the next night in search of another payday. Each and every one of them a kingpin on the rise in their own minds. While the party continued on towards its crescendo, the real kingpin held court in the backroom of the house. Orlando Miller, head of Mob Piru, pointed a gun directly at his drug connect. The motherfucker had the balls to walk into the party without an escort or backup, demanding to see Orlando. One of the kids who dealt for him brought the guy into the backroom. “You no longer trust me?” the man asked with a smirk. He spoke with a French Patuá accent. “You think I am an informant?” “Fuck no,” said Orlando, gripping the gun tighter. “I know enough about you to know you won't snitch. What I want to know IS why my last shipment was short a few keys.” “You get what you pay for, no?” The man flashed a row of gold teeth when he smiled. “I expect theft, Orlando. I account for you and your people to take a small cut. This is how business is done in our line work. But you take too much, [i]enfant stupide.[/i]” “So, you just come in here without no back up and expect to walk out of here?” “Yes,” said the man. His eyes began to glow purple. “Your man is going to see to it that it happens.” “What man?” Orlando asked. Orlando’s answer came in the form of a bullet. The shot to the back of the head dropped him to the floor. With the music booming from the other side of the house, it hadn’t been heard by the army of gangbangers less than one hundred feet away. The little boy with the big gun looked down at Orlando’s twitching body before looking up at the man, a purple glow fading from his eyes. He was scared. He'd heard words in his head, telling him to pull out his gat and do what needed to be done... and he sure as hell had done that. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said softly. “Of course you did,” said the man. “All I did was allow you to express your innermost desire. What is your name, boy?” “Lucas… everyone calls me Lance.” “Why is that?” “That knight from history or some shit. Sir Lancelot. They say I run up on Crips like I’m that motherfucker.” The man laughed deeply and ruffled the boy’s head. He reached into the pockets of his purple jacket before he pulled out a gold necklace. A matching medallion with a ruby red pendant dangled around the chain. “You are fearless and hungry. I can sense this. This necklace, I give to you as a gift, [i]garçon[/i]. Your boss was a weak man, no? Stupid and greedy. Do not become like him. Use this necklace to become something better.” The boy took the necklace from the man and put it over his head. He could feel an instant connection from the thing. It seemed to speak to him, soft whispers that only he could hear. And the necklace was saying one thing: It was hungry. “Thank you, sir,” said Lance. “Please,” the man said with a large smile. “Call me Papa.” --- [b]Brentwood Now[/b] Charlie Rembrandt approached the glass door at a crouch, his gun out and at the ready. He’d been in his car when he heard the shots. Several in quick succession, sounded like multiple shooters to him. He called it in with dispatch. The nature of this thing made him hesitant to get the LAPD at large involved, how in the hell would he explain this to his bosses? But gunfire popping off in Brentwood would draw police attention regardless. “Yo,” K2 said, his head sticking through the wall. “You gotta come see this shit.” Charlie slid open the glass door and walked through into the mansion, following K2. He found a dead body sprawled on the hardwood floor of a hallway. The body of a bulky man dressed in red stared straight up, his face a mask of blood and bruises. The angle of his neck let Charlie know he was dead, and he had probably died a few seconds after his neck was twisted that way. “That’s Country,” said K2. “One of the niggas Lance has on payroll. Muscle and anything that needs to be roughed up, Country is who Lance go to. Country does the hurting, Pooh Bear does the killing.” Rembrandt kept moving forward, stopping as he heard more gunfire and a scream. He came out of the hallway and into a living room illuminated only by candlelight. K2 followed in his wake as they came upon the body of Lance Rawlings. Like Country, his body was beaten and broken with limbs twisted in unnatural ways. A look of horror was frozen on his face for all eternity. The necklace that had granted him so much power in life pulsated slowly, like a heart on the verge of failure. “Little help,” said a voice on the other side of the room. John Constantine was sideways on the floor, tied to a chair. Charlie rushed over and untied him before helping him on to his feet. “What the fuck happened here?” K2 asked. "Who got him?" “The past caught up to Lance,” said John. “And here comes the past right now.” He pointed down the hallway. They turned and saw Lonnie Sledge running at full speed towards the living room as a mob of ghosts chased after him. “We can smell him on you,” they chanted in union. “Lonnie! Lonnie! Lonnie!” “Leave me alone!” Charlie aimed his weapon at the spirits. John put a hand on his wrist. “Bullets won't do any good with that lot. Anyway, we’re safe, mate. The invocation was aimed at Rawlings and his men.” Sledge slipped on the floor and the ghosts pounced, dragging him to the ground. They mobbed the prone man and started to punch, beat, kick, and bite every inch of his body. “That’s the downside of being a familiar,” said John. “For better or worse, you’re linked.” "We gotta do something to call them off," said Charlie. "It's too late," John said. He nodded towards the mob. The spirits had shuffled away from Sledge’s dying body and stared at John, Charlie, and K2 with the same faraway look they had earlier before the killing had started. “Rey,” K2 said in surprise. “What are you doing here? Bunch of Crips got you.” “Your boy,” Rey said with a finger pointing towards Lance’s body. “He lied to you, K. He did me in himself. I apparently was too much of a risk to the K2 money train. I told you he was bad fucking news, nigga.” “Fuck,” K2 sighed. “I’m… sorry, man.” “Don’t worry,” Rey said with a humorless smile. “I got that motherfucker back.” “Where’s the other one?” Charlie asked. “The other guy Lance had as a bodyguard?” “Pooh Bear?” the ghost of the Crip, Antonio asked. “That nigga jumped into the pool, thinking we couldn’t get him. But we could get him... He’s floating now.” The ghosts all shared a laugh. “Shouldn’t have done that,” said John. “Now that you’ve been called forth, Lance and his cronies was your only sure-fire way to move on. He was the one to bring you forth and he would be the only one to call you back. But now that he's roasting in hell, you lot are stuck here.” “The fuck you mean?” asked K2. “Doomed to walk the earth,” said John. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stub of chalk. “Never touching anything, or tasting anything, or only having less than one percent of the population actually see you. It's like a bad fucking fantasy story. I do have a backup if you're interested.” Bending down, John drew a sigil on the floor. He looked up from it at the ghosts. Police sirens could be heard off in the distance. “This circle here is a backdoor,” he said to the spirits. “All you need to do is step on to it and it will take you wherever you’re headed now that your life is over. Heaven, hell, whatever you believe in. Who’s first?” “Me,” said K2. He stepped up and stood on the sigil. His eyes fell on Rey and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, cuz. But I’ll see you on the other side.” The sigil glowed as K2’s feet left the ground. He hovered in the air, looking straight up at the ceiling with a look of rapture on his face. The smile faded and he began to look around. “Wait… why do I smell smoke?” The sigil opened up, a gnarled and rotten arm reached through and grabbing the rapper around the ankle. He screamed as the arm pulled him down. He tried to fight back, his hands desperately reaching for purchase on the wood. With a final yell, he disappeared through the sigil in a flash of fire. “Like I said,” John said to the spirits. “It takes you wherever you were already headed. I can't change what kind of life you lot lived. Seems that K2 is a little more than the play-acting gangster he pretended to be.” “You need to go,” Charlie said. “Patrol will be here in a minute, uniforms and brass to follow. This is going to be a major shitshow and I can explain most of this, but I sure as hell can’t explain you.” “Wait,” Rey said. “What the fuck about us?” “You got the sigil,” said John. “Best I could do.” Without another word, he started for the door. Charlie looked at the spirits and raised his eyebrow. “So, who’s next?” --- [center][h3]EPILOGUE[/h3][/center] [b]East Los Angeles 4:21 AM[/b] John knew that he was not alone the second he stepped foot into his apartment. He dropped his keys and pack of cigarettes and began to make motions with his hands. A shield of energy formed in his left hand as a fireball ignited in the palm of his right. He felt familiarity in the darkness. A presence that he had encountered before. That didn't make it an enemy, but there was little chance it was a friend. “Don’t bother.” Dispelling the invocations, John stepped forward into the apartment. He knew the voice’s words were right. He could feel the power and knew exactly who was sitting in the dark waiting for him. To fight here, in L.A. of all places, would be pointless. The power behind the city was enough to crush John. In this scenario, he was the ant and the voice was like the kid with the magnifying glass. “Long time no see,” the man said from the metal folding chair that was John’s only real piece of furniture. “You know how hard you are to find?” “Dead men often are,” said John. He reached down and picked his cigarettes up. The man watching him was dressed in a white t-shirt with black pants and a black jacket. His feet were bare, the soles of his feet blackened by a long, long life of walking without shoes. “You wanted to be found, at least eventually,” he said with a laugh. “Bollocks,” said John. “The magic I threw down to convince London I was dead was some serious shite, squire. The only reason you bested it is because... well, even I have trouble tricking deities." Jack Hawksmoor, god of the cities flashed a smile at Constantine. “And you ran to Los Angeles of all places. One of my favorite children. If you live in a city -- even if it's Pigshit, Nebraska -- I can find you if I want to.” John grunted as he lit up a cigarette. “So what do I owe the… pleasure to, Jack?” Hawksmoor sighed and stood from the chair. In the dim lighting, John could see that Hawksmoor's usual dark head of hair was now white, his face aged and weathered. That wasn't suppose to happen to gods. “London’s calling. I need your help to save it... and me.”