deathpixie | Something unprecedented.

I'm posting a story. *grins*

***

[Hellblazer] Time, Gentlemen.

By Rossi.

Disclaimer: Not mine, and never will be. No profit, only homage.

Rated: PG for language and vast amounts of alcohol consumption.

This is for the gang on Phil's Coochie, and especially for Johnny Devil, for introducing me to the song which fitted into half an idea and made a story.

The pub was like a thousand others scattered across London alone. A small dingy building, windows darkened against casual glances inside, yet with a door that was somehow welcoming. Paint peeling, sign half-obscured by decades or possibly even centuries of city dirt, the name relating to some long-dead monarch or amusing animal… John Constantine stumbled into it the same way he'd stumbled into its like across the country, led by his nose and a desire for a half-decent pint.

And maybe just a smidge of something else.

The buzz of conversation muted as he walked in - not unusual that, Constantine carried an air of about him, smacking of violence and bastardry and things better left not meddled with. He nodded briefly at those few who actually met his eyes, walked up to the bar and ordered a pint. The bloke behind the bar could have been an extra from a hundred different episodes of 'Eastenders', Stereotypical Pub Owner; if you cut him, he'd bleed stout. He nodded and drew the beer wordlessly, shaking his head when Constantine offered him a fiver.

"House policy," he said shortly. "First drink's free."

Constantine raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't argue. There was no such thing as a free lunch, but maybe there was such a thing as a free pint. And even if there wasn't, he figured he was more than able to deal with the price when it was demanded. The ale was very good, thick and yeasty, smacking of small country breweries where the locals looked at you oddly and declared you 'foreigner' if you came from further than a twenty mile radius. Letting his eyes drift around the room as he leaned against the bar, John realised the pub was far more occupied than he had first realised, or expected from somewhere so small. Every shadowy corner held a body or two… John frowned - something was off about all this.

"You're a bright spark and make no mistake." The voice came from by his elbow, and he whipped his head around to meet a pair of oddly-bright green eyes in an otherwise unremarkable face. "The name's Valentine," the man went on, apparently unconcerned at Constantine's suspiciousness. "Most don't catch on right away - takes 'em a couple of days to realise - but you're a bright spark. Knew there was something up nearly right away. Still won't help you, though."

"Is that some sort of threat, mate?" Constantine asked, his tone deceptively mild. Valentine shrugged. He was dressed somewhat archaically in a blue pinstripe suit of a cut made popular in the Fifties - on the bar in front of him was a fedora to match.

"No, no threats, son. Just a statement of fact. Look around you, tell me you don't notice anything… odd about our fellow drinkers."

Constantine got no sense of malice or ill-intent from the man - if anything, he radiated a kind of benevolent good cheer - and did as he was told, letting his eyes touch more closely on the people who packed the small pub. No-one had been reading the fashion pages lately, that was for sure… Then he realised the two young lads at the other end of the bar were in the dull khaki wool of World War II army uniforms, and he frowned. "They're all dead," he murmured, keeping his voice down. "Every last one of 'em."

"Bright lad. Got it in one. Tho' perhaps some of our more enlightened types would prefer to think of us as 'existentially challenged'." Valentine grinned as Constantine turned to look him up and down, and essayed a brief bow and tug at his forelock. "I may be dead, my lad, but that doesn't mean I don't still enjoy a good natter."

"You wouldn't be the first dead man I've chatted with, but I have to say, there's usually a bit of grave-digging first, at the very least," Constantine said a touch wryly, taking another sip of what was a truly excellent pint. If this was Hell, then the beer had gotten better since his last visit. "What's the story here then, sunshine?"

"You ever hear of a pitcher plant, lad?" Valentine asked. He couldn't have been more than ten years older than Constantine when alive, but the mage supposed the dead years added superiority in those stakes enough to warrant the use of the words 'son' and 'lad'. And it wasn't like he was going to give the man… ghost… whatever he was a name to hang on.

"One of those insect-eating plants in the jungles, ain't it?"

"Got it in one, son. Cunningly fashioned, those things. They attract insects by way of smell, and when the unfortunate fly or beetle or whatever lands on the plant, it tumbles into this pitcher-like growth full of water and enzymes and is dissolved and eaten by the plant. Can take years." Valentine finished his drink, save for an inch in the bottom, nodded at the bartender for another.

"So you're saying this pub's a variation of that? Feeding on the spirits of those who stumble in looking for a pint?" Constantine raised his eyebrow. Vampiric architecture. It was a whole new concept, but not entirely out of his league.

Valentine nodded. "I'm saying exactly that. Only it's not just any particular punter that gets taken in. The place'd be full to bursting in that case. No, our particular pitcher plant here specialises."

"Howso, exactly?"

"Mortality, my son. This pub likes to feed on those who are about to die."

Constantine blinked. His own mortality was no stranger to him - he'd been walking in Death's shadow for years, had even met the bint on occasion. Still, confirmation was always a little unsettling. "Not me, old son. Not unless the First Three have learned to set aside their differences and agree as to who gets what of my soul."

The dead man chuckled. "Oh, you're a bright spark and make no mistake." He looked Constantine up and down. "Bright spark indeed. That's good - I've been wanting for decent company since Alfred went and faded on me. Mind you, he'd been here for a couple of centuries, so I don't begrudge him the rest. Me, I'm just a youngster in comparison."

"For a dead man imprisoned in a pub that's sucking the soul out of you, you're awfully chipper," Constantine pointed out, finishing his pint and setting the empty glass down for another. "And I'm sorry to disappoint, but I won't be here long enough to entertain you. Things to see, people to happen to."

"But not bright enough, it seems. Haven't you been listening to me, lad? There's no leaving this place - once you're in and it's latched on, you're in for the long haul, until God calls Last Drinks." Valentine's look was a mixture of pity and amusement. "Still, there's worse ways to go."

"That may be so, but this place hadn't reckoned on me." Baring his teeth in a feral grin, Constantine tilted his head slightly at Valentine. "You ever hear of John Constantine?"

***

"You made a good show of it. Very impressive. All those lights and all, and the fancy words and the funny-smelling smoke… I haven't seen a show like that since I was a nipper, going to the pantomime with my Da." Valentine took a long drink of his pint, and gave Constantine a sympathetic look. "Drink up, there's plenty more where that came from."

Constantine regarded the man sourly. Some people would be discouraged from beating the man to a bloody pulp for the relentless cheer on the grounds he was honestly that kind of person, but not him. He'd quite enjoy it. But trying to free himself of the pitcher pub's sphere of influence had been draining - the fact he'd had to go for the flashy stuff was an indication of how desperate he'd been. No, he was missing something here… He took a contemplative sip of his pint; still as good as the first, and his wallet was still untouched. They traded in a different currency here.

"The problem is, son, is you're looking at this the wrong way. Sure, we're trapped here until our spirits have been sucked dry, but it doesn't mean it's the end of your life. Well, the living part, any way. I mean, look around you - we're in probably the one place either of us feels comfortable, a pub. We've got decent beer, free for the asking. We've got good company, two hundred years' worth, give or take, and if there's someone you don't like, well, there's always the knowledge that both of you will fade sooner or later and you don't have to see the bugger again." Valentine chuckled at some private joke. "Out there it's all noise and bustle and blur. In here? We've got peace and quiet. Sanctuary, even." He raised his glass at Constantine in a toast. "There's got to be worse ways of spending an afterlife."

Idly Constantine wondered if ghosts bled. Because breaking this one's nose right now would be so very satisfying… Then he focused on the man's words, realising what he was missing was sitting right in front of his nose, he just hadn't seen it. Satisfaction. Contentment. Happiness. This man was here because he wanted to be. Whatever his life had been like, it had driven him to seek refuge here, in this pub, and the peace he'd found was what was keeping him here. Same as the rest of them. His eyes flicked again to the two men - boys, really, since they were barely old enough to shave - in the antique uniforms. They were the most obvious, of course - who wouldn't want to spend eternity drinking in a pub instead of suffering the mud and blood and horror of the trenches? But the others… the place hadn't sought them out, they had sought it, and as long as they were happy to remain there, that was precisely what they would do. And as long as they stayed, so would he.

So, how did you convince someone happy to live in a pub that it was time to go home?

***

"Cheers." Constantine nodded as another ghost, this one in a Victoria-era frock coat and high collar, faded away into the not-so-thin air, merging with the cigarette haze. Another one down, only a half-dozen left to go. He'd lost track of how long it had taken him to get this far - days, it felt like, although it was hard to tell in the unchanging dimness of the pub. Long enough for his voice to be raw and ragged with use, his eyes gritty with tiredness. The first ones had been easy; he'd simply sought out those with doubts about the whole deal, and nudged those doubts into full-blown distrust. Religious sorts, mostly, or family men gone astray - all it had taken was a mention of the Promised Land, and off they'd gone.

Then things had gotten trickier. Constantine had a talent for finding out people's secrets, the nasty ones usually - he'd had to use that talent arse about, looking for what they most wanted, besides an afterlife of endless pints and the pub's excellent pickled eggs. Presented with a promise of that dream being fulfilled, the weaker ones had joined their brethren. The stronger ones had taken a combination of promises and threats, but in the end, they'd gone as well. But he had the feeling none would be so hard a nut to crack as Valentine would prove to be.

And bloody wonderful, here was the man now.

"You're an impressive man, Mr Constantine," Valentine said, tipping his hat to him as he sat down unasked at the table Constantine had appropriated. "Very impressive. Quite the gift of the gab. You ever consider going into sales?"

"Soul's already written off, no point mortgaging it again," Constantine pointed out with a touch of black humour. Valentine seemed unperturbed by the near-empty pub around them, the loss of so many of those spirits. It would have been disheartening for anyone else. "Still, all it takes is a few slick words and some promises you've got no way of keeping and Bob's your uncle. So much for your afterlife of kings."

"Takes all sorts," Valentine said mildly. "And my idea of happily ever after might not be everyone's cup of tea. Or pint of stout." He grinned briefly, amused at his own cleverness.

So fucking agreeable. "Let's cut to the chase," Constantine said abruptly. "I want out, and I can't have that unless you bugger off to your final rest and all the rest of that bollocks. And there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to convince you to do that, gift of the gab or not."

"It sounds like we have something of an impasse," Valentine agreed, still in that mild tone although there was a hint of triumph in his expression. The man was actually human after all, it seemed. He drained his pint to the last inch and the barman, responding to some long-established habit, placed another in front of him. For someone whose workload had been vastly reduced, the barman didn't look terribly happy. "Looks like you'll just have to accept the inevitable, won't it, son? Still, there's worse fates."

Constantine scowled, watching the man start on his new pint. "How about a wager?" he asked suddenly. "I win, you agree to leave, I lose, I stay here?"

Valentine looked at him, suspicious but intrigued. "What sort of wager were you proposing, lad?" he asked, sipping at his pint with a careful air of nonchalance.

"Well, obviously you're a man who likes a drink," Constantine pointed out. "And we're in the pub where you don't have to pay for anything, so how about you and I see who's the best drinker?"

"A boat race, you mean?" Valentine asked, expression turning sceptical. "Seems like a pretty trivial way to solve something so important, at least to you. Although like I said, staying here isn't so bad as all that."

"Maybe it isn't, which makes this the perfect way to settle things - nothing like being trolleyed to start an eternity in a pub, eh?" Constantine said with a wink. He'd finally found the right tenor to use with Valentine, the same jovial good humour the man himself used. "So, what do you say?"

There was a long moment, as if the pub itself was holding its breath. Then Valentine set down his glass, a last inch of beer in the bottom, and nodded.

"All right, son, you're on."

***

"The rules, gentlemen, are simple. Most drinks finished wins." The barman set the last of the twelve pints down on the bar in front of the two men, and continued. "If you falter, or vomit, you're immediately disqualified and the other person wins. Are we clear?"

Constantine nodded, glancing over at Valentine, who still had that same cocky grin. The remaining dead were clustered around them, watching with a sense of anticipation, although what it was they were anticipating - freedom or continued imprisonment - was uncertain. "Ready when you are, sunshine," he said with his trademark bastard's grin.

"No time like the present," Valentine agreed, although there was a hint of doubt in his expression for the first time since Constantine had walked in. Something in the man's manner was unsettling him. Shrugging it off, he reached forward for the first pint at the same time as Constantine did the same beside him.

"On your marks, gentlemen… And begin!"

***

The twelfth pint went down as easily as the first, and Constantine looked across at the competition as he set the glass down with a muffled thump on the beer mat. Valentine met his glance with the same easy grin he'd been sporting all evening, his own glass hitting the bar top at the same time. "Another?" he asked, as if they were simply sinking friendly pints one Sunday afternoon.

"No, I think we're done here, mate," came the surprising reply.

"You're giving up?" Valentine asked, surprised despite the assurance he'd been sporting. "Just like that? What about your freedom?"

"Oh, I'm not giving up," Constantine said with a shark's grin. "I'm finishing this."

"And what exactly gives you the idea you can do that?" Underneath Valentine's veneer of triumph those first cracks were widening, becoming full-blown doubt. He nodded at the empty glasses in front of him. "I've been matching you, beer for beer, and I ain't done by half yet."

"Well, those two fellows behind you might beg to differ," Constantine said with a shrug, reaching for the next pint.

"What two…" Sick realisation dawned on Valentine's face and he turned around, squinting against the brilliant white light that suddenly had filled the dim room. "Oh bollocks."

"That's pretty much it, yeah," Constantine said with another of those lazy grins, finishing off the pint pointedly and setting the glass down. "I noticed earlier, you never finished a drink, ever. Always left a bit in the bottom. And I wondered why that might be. Turns out it wasn't a hard secret to dredge up - standard thing, your contracts with the afterlife."

A delicate, yet immensely strong hand rested on Valentine's shoulder, and he looked up into the inhumanly beautiful face of an angel. "You finished your last drink," it told him in the impossibly remote tones of God's Host, voice devoid of anything remotely resembling emotion.

"And by the terms of the agreement made, it is time for you to come with us to your final rest," said the second, standing beside its brother.

Constantine screwed up his nose at the angels' words, muttering something under his breath about 'bloody wankers'. "You were fucked no matter what you did," he continued aloud. "If you'd remembered the contract and didn't finish the drinks, then I would've won by default. But you played to win, and that meant fulfilling your end of the bargain. Either way? It's last call for you, old son."

Valentine's mouth opened and closed several times, as if searching for the words that would get him out of this, and then, impossibly, he burst into laughter. "I said you were a bright spark when you came in, didn't I?" he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. He made a reaching gesture, and his hat appeared in his hand. "Well, I know when I've been had, and let it never be said Johnny Valentine didn't know when it was time to make an exit." He set the hat at a jaunty angle on his head, and rose from the bar stool, perhaps a little unsteadily. "Well played, old man," he told Constantine, giving him a small bow and a florid gesture before turning to the angels. "Well then, if you're going to be taking me, it's time we were going, wasn't it? Home, James."

"My name is Seraquel," one of the angels intoned humourlessly, taking Valentine's arm and spreading its wings, while on Valentine's other side its mate did the same. "I know not this James of whom you speak."

"A figure of speech, my lad, just a figure of speech. You really need a bit of a laugh - sure I can't interest you in a quick drink before we go?"

"The Lord's Host does not need of earthly things," the angel replied, and Valentine rolled his eyes.

"Barrel of laughs, this one's gunna be, make no mistake. Evening, gents." Valentine tipped his hat to the remaining shades, and as the angels beat their wings, drawing him upwards, began singing in a not unpleasant baritone:

"Good night, Irene. Good night, Irene. Good night Irene, good night, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams."

Still singing, man and angels disappeared through the low ceiling, leaving the pub feeling even darker and dingier. Constantine pushed away that last pint glass, and rose to his feet, fishing in the battered trenchcoat pockets for his cigarettes.

"Well," he said. "That's that, then."

"And what about us?" asked one of the spirits, looking confused. As well he might - with Valentine gone, the life seemed to have left the pub, as Constantine had thought it might. Shadows were gathering, growing thicker, and a damp chill was filling the air. He didn't answer right away, just looked at the barman, one eyebrow raised.

Slowly, as if moving in a dream, the barman reached up for the cord to the obligatory brass bell set above the bar, and clanged it once, twice. The sound cut through the thickening air, drilling into the core of everyone there, making the walls tremble slightly. Fine white dust drifted down from the ceiling. And then the bar man spoke, and never had the words been said with such finality:

"Time, gentlemen."

Have you ever seen dead men dancing so lightly,
Have you ever heard corpses who sing?
Mr Valentine's dead and the angels will take him,
But not 'til he's finished his drink.

"Mr Valentine's Dead" - Kenny Quain.