[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [i]We're a hateful people. I don't mean the English. Though you could be forgiven for thinking that with things like recent English political history, and the entire history of the British Empire. No, I mean the human race as a whole. We are filled with hatred. Always have been. People say that we live in the most hateful time, but I think it's that cut and dry. We stopped killing each other over the question if sermons should be delivered in French or Latin, so that's some progress. We're less hateful as a whole, but those that still hate find that their hatred is stronger than ever. It gets broadcast across the world through things like TV and the internet and it finds its roots in the minds and hearts of those looking for something. Those that are alienated find a common cause in their hatred. The hatred gives them a purpose. It gives them a target. And to a certain type of creature, that hatred is fuel. The feed on it and they get into your head. They take you already existing prejudices and fears and amplify them until you're so frenzied with hate that you can no longer think straight. All that you live for is that hatred and serving the thing inside your head. Now imagine something like that in the head of someone with a badge and gun and think of the damage they can do.[/i] --- [b]Lynwood, CA[/b] LASD Sergeant Michaels strutted down the sidewalk. To his left was a line of young men standing with their hands against the wall of the building adjacent to the sidewalk. Each and every one of them was heavily tattooed and wearing the golden yellow that represented allegiance to PBS13. They were on the street corner near an open air drug market, just one of the many in Lynwood that Michaels' crew was responsible for raiding. Michaels twirled a telescopic metal baton in his right hand as he walked back and forth. He was a big man, towering over the little gangbangers by at least a good six inches. Like the gangsters, his head was shaved close to the scalp. Also like them, Michaels was heavily tattooed. Though his tattoos were hidden by his clothing. They weren’t the type of ink you flaunted in polite society, especially if you were a cop. He could feel a dark hatred in his stomach as he looked at the kids all leaning against the wall. Each and every one of them knew that what the sheriff's were doing would be a slap on the wrist. They'd be out before long and right back to dealing. These little sons of bitches, Michaels thought, all probably smuggled over here in their whore mothers as anchor babies and popped out the second they crossed the border. A small pile of drugs, money, and weapons sat on the sidewalk. Deputies Seward and Akerman stood off to the side and watched from beside their squad car with amused looks on their faces. Further down the block was Lieutenant Milford's unmarked car. He watched the show without bothering to get out. Michaels looked towards the direction of the car and could feel a connection with his boss. Even with his face in silhouette, Michaels knew Milford was watching and smiling at the sight of these little Mexican greaseballs up against the wall, a real big dick white man like Michaels bossing them around. "We rolled through last night but it seemed like you didn't get the message,” said Michaels. “So, let me be clear." He walked down the line, hitting each of the boys in the back of their knees with the stick. One by one, they all went down to the ground in pain. Several times, a loud and sickening pop accompanied the hard blows. Michaels spoke as he struck. "You. Are. Fucking. Done. Here." Michaels twirled the nightstick in his long, slender fingers as he looked down at the hurting men. "Tell your bosses that Lynwood is off limits. [i]Fuera de los límites, ese.[/i] So says the Lynwood Vikings. Every fucking corner he has in spic Lynwood and nigger South Central gets raided and indicted every night until you stop dealing." Michaels laughed and bent down over the pile of contraband. He pocketed the cash and drugs before standing to look at the injured kids. "Look at all these weapons," he said to the deputies. "Seems like enough probable cause to run these fuckers in." --- [b]Malibu[/b] Martin Hidalgo’s upper lip curled as soon as he smelled the man. He reeked of liquor and stale cigarettes. The smell matched the picture before him. The pale, blonde Englishman wore rumpled clothes and a trench coat stained with what looked like vomit, blood, and bodily fluids Hidalgo did not even want to think about. This hungover pile of shit was supposed to be their savior? This was the man who had saved Hidalgo’s business, this man his soldiers called [i]el mago[/i]? Hidalgo sat across the patio table from him and watched the man as he sipped coffee. They had a breathtaking view of the ocean, but Hidalgo couldn't take his eyes off the man. He had what looked like two weeks worth of blonde-gray stubble and heavy lidded, bloodshot eyes. “What day is it?” he croaked out. “The fifteenth of August.” “Fuck,” John Constantine said under his breath. “... I lost a whole fucking month.” “My friends in East LA told me that you have been on what they call a bender.” “Sure,” said Constantine. He started to reach for his cigarettes, couldn’t find them, and finally gave up. “Wallowing in misery over my fucked up life. And it was going brilliantly until you’re fucking bodyguards pulled me out of it. You got a cigarette?” “This is a smoke-free house, I’m afraid.” “Well, fuck you.” The edges of Hidalgo’s mouth twitched. If he were any other man, he would either be dead or severely beaten at the least. But this was different. He needed this man’s help. He could beat him later if he needed to… or not. He was not a superstitious man, but the things he’d heard about [i]el mago[/i] was enough to make him at least weigh the options of violent reprisal before committing to it. “Do you know who I am? What I am to this city? I am a man who you do not say disrespectful things to.” “You’re also the man who got his ass kicked by Henry Grigoryan,” said Constantine. “Is this what this is about? Want to thank me for doing away with his pet mage?” “No,” said Hidalgo after a sip of coffee. “While you have my thanks, you did not do it for me. It was a side effect that your disposal of Grigoryan’s people has led to my resurgence.” “Nature abhors a vacuum.” “Correct. My people have filed that vacuum, but now we find a fly in our ointment.” Constantine sighed and rubbed his temple. “Why do you big time gangsters love talking in riddles like this? You got a problem, that's why I'm here, so just come out and say it.” “Senor Constantine,” Hidalgo said slowly. “My patience is wearing thin. I respect what you are capable of. It is the only reason why I haven’t ordered your tongue ripped out of your head and jammed up your ass.” “I just need a cigarette," he finally said. "I'm a bastard without my smokes. So the sooner we finish whatever it is you want, I can leave and get a pack I’ll be in a better mood and I’ll be out of your fucking hair.” “Police in Lynwood are making trouble for my men and business. Sheriff's deputies. We already pay the LAPD a substantial amount, as do we pay sheriff's narcotics and gang taskforce. But these are rogue patrolmen who have no interest in money. They just want to hurt my people. I need someone to take care of them.” “Then get a hitman,” said Constantine. “I’m not a gun for hire.” “That’s too straight forward,” said Hidalgo. “And too hard. There are three of them, my men said. I have no one who is talented and discreet enough to take out three cops. You on the other hand? You seem to have a talent for creating collateral damage wherever you go. Grigoryan was arrested by LAPD while Lance Rawlings is dead. Not by your hand, but your actions, I have become the top crime lord in LA without lifting a finger. That’s what I want, [i]el mago[/i]. Work your magic.” “If I say no?” “If you say no, then that will be the third time you disrespect me,” Hidalgo said softly, taking a pregnant pause to sip his coffee. “After that, I stop being polite. I go after your friend who has that little bookstore in Silver Lake, or the cop who is always scowling, or even the pretty lady who runs that new age store in Venice Beach. And that’s just in LA. You have friends in London, no? A sister and niece in Liverpool? Your reputation makes my men afraid of you, but I doubt they would not show the same hesitancy against your loved ones.” Constantine closed his eyes and sighed. Hidalgo watched him very carefully as he sat there with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, his eyes had a touch of madness in them. He smiled, sending goosebumps down Hidalgo’s arms. “You’re the boss,” he said with a wide grin. “Consider your police problems over with, squire.”