Byrd Man

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

I'll start my endgame for this season when I'm good and ready to!

Also, kind of waiting on some stuff. So... yeah.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Spoilers for next season, man.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

What is the Witcher about? Never played the games. I know it's very popular and seems like it's fantasy and you can fuck people. That's all I've gotten from the zeitgeist.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

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.

---

Lynwood, CA

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. Fuera de los límites, ese. 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."

---

Malibu

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 el mago? 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 el mago 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, el mago. 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.”

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Been staring at a blank Word document all day trying to get something going. This point, I'm just gonna wing it.

@AndyC

When in doubt, whip it out. My philosophy to writing and life in general.

That philosophy is also why I am no longer allowed at IHOP.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

I'm working on something. Been busy at work. The storage game ain't no joke.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Eh, Michael Connelly... real people. Six of one, half dozen of the other.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

John Constantine Canon NPCs:

John Constantine (duh)
Lucifer
Papa Midnite
Jack Hawksmoor
Chas Chandler
Clarice Sackville & The Tate Club
Map
Pearl Jones

Every other character I've mentioned have been "original" characters.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Interlude Pt. 3

Hollywood
1977

The sounds of laughter drew Peal Jones away from the study window. She heard a gaggle of footsteps approaching from the hallway. More laughter and giggles as the door to the study was opened. Six people, three men and three women, filtered into the room and started to look around. They were young and had long hair. Even the men had hair down to their shoulders and wore colorful shirts and pants. What year was it? How had America changed so rapidly in just the short time she’d been in the study?

“I found it,” one of the women said. Pearl noticed she had a thick book in her hands that was open to a particular page. She looked down at it and began to read.

“‘It was in the study that poor Preggars Pearl turned her gun on Eddie Mueller. The maniacal mother to be demanded cash for her and her soon to be birthed babe. Thirty thousand dollars for Eddie Mueller’s life.’”

Everyone laughed and giggled. Pearl stared to shake her head and yell.

“That’s not true! That’s not what happened! The son of a bitch raped me!”

“Shut up,” the woman with the book said to her friends, oblivious to Pearl's shouts. “There’s more--”

“Who writes this shit?” One of the other women asked.

“You never met Jake Stowe?” one of the men asked her. “My dearr, you just haven’t lived until you've met that slimeball.”

“There’s more here, so let me finish. ‘Tight-fisted Eddie wouldn’t come off the scratch, so Pugnacious Pearl popped shots aplenty and expired Eddie’s existence. After stepping over the body of the blown away butler in the foyer, Pensive Pearl took a happy hike up the hill to the Hollywoodland sign. From atop the sign's first O, Perilous Pearl whispered sweet nothings to her unborn child and blew her brains out. Her body fell right at the foot of the Hollywoodland sign and spattered blood across it. Thus ended the story of Promiscuous Pearl: a failed film star and a repugnant roundheel that tried to extort a man with power. When she couldn’t get what she wanted, Passionate Pearl took up the gun and killed four people, herself and her baby two of them, all in the name of greed and desperation. Hollywood, ain’t it a bitch?”

The small group broke out into fits of laughter at the story. Pearl had retreated to the far corner of the study during the telling and looked out the window while they laughed. She couldn’t believe that she was in this horrible little book, her story not even anywhere close to being accurate. It cast her as some sort of cheap whore who only wanted money. She tried to do the right thing, tried to go to the cops. Killing Mueller had been done in a fit of rage, but it was never about money.

The men and women took turns reenacting the murder of Eddie Mueller. One of the girls had stuck a throw pillow under her shirt to look pregnant. Pearl began to cry as they continued to relieve the worst moment of her live over and over, their laughter ringing in Pearl’s ears.

“STOP!”

The laughter and partying stopped at an instant. Their eyes darted across the room in search of the cause of the voice they heard.

“What the fuck was that?”

“C’mon, Brent, let’s get out of here.”

They hurried out of the study as quick as possible. Pearl sat in the corner and wiped tears from her eyes. Was that what she was remembered for? Being a crazy, gold digging tramp? Eddie Mueller was just a footnote in her story, a victim of Preggers Pearl. Hadn’t she been a victim when he held her down in this fucking room? But that was her legacy now, wasn't it? A homicidal harpy. Pearl laughed through the tears. She could come up with a turn of phrase just as good as Jake Stowe, whoever he was.

---

2018

Pearl tried to block out the moaning, but she couldn’t. She was curled up in her corner of the study, fingers stuck in her ears. Try as she might, the thumps and crying from the next room persisted. A low, ruthless chuckle came through the walls. The man who owned the house was bad. He had not had the mansion long, but in that time he had caused his fair share of damage. Pearl never thought she would think this, but Mark Preston was worse than Eddie Mueller. Pearl heard all the horrible things being done to young women in search of work in the pictures. She had screamed and tried to intervene. She tried to channel all her rage into being heard like she had that night all those years ago.

But it was useless. She was powerless to stop him. Whatever it was that kept her soul from going to hell, it bound her to this room. She could hear all the horrible things Preston did, but he never did them in the study. Preston came into the room to conduct business from time to time, but every time she tried to scare him it had been pointless. He couldn’t hear or see her no matter how hard she tried.

She heard the sound of shouting from the room next door. Heavy footsteps followed. The door to the study burst open and a woman wearing a tattered negligee came rushing through the door. Mark Preston came right behind her, shirtless and with a leather riding crop in his hands. He beamed at the woman as she tried to hide behind his desk.

“Very good,” he said, shifting the crop from one hand to the other. “You can play terrified. But… can you play sad?”

Those words echoed through Pearl’s head. She was suddenly back in 1931, with the fat little hairless man’s hands around her neck and his hot breath against her ear as he defiled and debased her. Her rage began to build as she remembered his smooth, soft little hands roaming over every inch of her body while she cried and begged him to stop.

“NO YOU DON’T!”

Preston’s eyes went wide in surprise. He started to look around confused as books flew off the shelf and rained down on top of him. Pearl took a deep breath and stood. She wasn’t sure this would work, but the crazy idea in her head had to be attempted. She jumped towards the woman cowering behind the desk and suddenly… she was her. She was inside her and in control.

“Get your jollies by torturing poor, helpless girls, buster?”

The voice she spoke with was the woman’s, but the words carried her voice as an echo. She was now on her feet and quickly covering the distance between her and a bewildered Preston.

“You think this is what it means to be a man?” She asked with her hand raised.

She slapped Preston hard, the woman’s nails raking across the his face and drawing blood. He snapped back to reality and his confusion quickly turned to rage. The riding crop whistled through the air, but Pearl caught it with the palm of her bare hand. Preston tried to jerk it away, but Pearl kept a firm grip on it.

“What the fuck are you?”

“Your best friend, Pearl,” she said with twisted grin. “Think of me as you guardian angel, pal. And I’ve been watching you, Marky. And I don’t like what I've seen.”

She jerked the crop easily from his hand and tossed it away. Pearl stepped out of the girl’s body. She collapsed to the floor unconscious, but Pearl’s spirit stayed upright. And Preston could see it. He screamed in fright at the sight of her.

“One question, Marky?” She asked over the sounds of Preston’s terror. “Can you play terrified?”

---

Now

Rembrandt leaned back in his chair and sighed. The silence between the two of them lingered until he finally spoke.

“Did he do it by his own hand, or did you jump into his body and make him hang himself?”

“Does it matter?” asked Pearl. “What bit of difference does it make?”

“I want to know.”

Another long silence from Pearl. She continued to gaze out the window and the reporters gathered behind the police barricade.

“The world had just figured out what kind of man Preston was,” Rembrandt said after a nod towards the window. “The DA’s office was preparing to file charges on him. The system would have gotten justice for his victim’s.”

“I saved a young girl from being raped. Besides, maybe I didn’t care about your justice,” Pearl said as she turned away from the window. “Maybe I care about my justice.”

“What you did wasn’t justice,” said Charlie. “And neither was what you did in the 30’s, Pearl.”

“I took out two men who hurt countless women.”

“And you killed yourself, an innocent bystander, and your own unborn child.”

“We’re all guilty of something detective,” she said with just a hint of emotion in her voice. “As far as the kid goes… it was a mercy killing.”

Charlie stood from the chair and gave the study one last look. Pearl had stepped away from the window and smiled at Rembrandt as she held her wrists out.

“Arrest me, detective. Take me to ghost jail.”

“You’re stuck in this room forever,” Rembrandt said as he started for the door. “That’s justice enough.”

“That’s not justice, detective!” she cried.

“No,” Charlie said as he opened the door. He gave Pearl one last look. “But it is your kind of justice.”

He closed the door and quietly walked down the hall, ignoring Pearl’s screams and cries every step of the way.

END