DC Hellblazer: I'm Constantine

##### C15. I'm Constantine

Note: Unedited

A pair of fiends cloaked in human disguises - demons living openly in the human world - are on the move.

They are driving a red convertible, skipping from one city to the next in a matter of seconds as they whisper jumpily. In a flash, they cross all the way from London to Washington.

"Sell it all," the driver hisses. "We don't have time to haggle. If we don't move fast, he'll burn it all to the ground."

"The boss won't like that," the passenger mutters. "You know how Mammon gets when we act on our own."

"Mammon?" the driver snorts. "Even he's shaking in his boots. Doesn't matter if he's a bloody demon lord. He's terrified of _him_—You-Know-Who. The Hellblazer."

"Bah, it's all exaggeration," the passenger scoffs. "No way a mortal man can do what they say he's been doing. You really think he could pull power from any demon like it's his personal spell battery? Even Lucifer himself? Sounds like barroom nonsense."

"Barroom nonsense?" the driver retorts. "Tell that to the casinos he's destroyed! Few days ago, he turned Neron's vault into a bloody crater—and not with fireballs, mate. Used Neron's own essence against him. Wiped him out with his own magic!"

"Neron?" the passenger shrieks. "Does he have a bloody death wish?"

"Cleaning house, he says," the driver explains. "He's keen on severing any connection demons have on the mortal plane. No matter the cost!"

"Like any hero, he's got a soft spot for humans. Plays to our advantage, doesn't it?" the passenger says, looking comfortable and relaxed.

"You're wrong," the driver's face darkens, his hands gripping the wheel tighter, voice low and dangerous. "He burns them. Burns them all!"

The passenger now looks distressed. It doesn't last. The distress turns into something sour, like even his own pride's been wounded.

"He's thick in the head if he thinks he can stop Mammon from dealing souls," the passenger forces a bitter laugh. "Worse. Wait till Lucifer gets word of this."

"Bloke isn't afraid of Lucifer, mate" the driver notes. "Word is, he's demanding the Devil's own wings right before he turns everything to ash."

"Wings?" the passenger's eyes widen.

"You heard me," the driver snaps impatiently. "He's not someone to take lightly."

The passenger ponders for a moment. Something's nagging at him.

"If even demon lords are afraid of him and what he's doing to their stock. Who's even buying at times like this?" the passenger inquires. "Who's bold enough to face the Hellblazer?"

"That's who we're off to meet," the driver answers discreetly as he takes a sharp corner. "He said he's in a hotel, not too far from the Hall of Justice."

"Hiding in plain sight," the passenger says with respect. "He must be something, this buyer."

They travel a while longer and park recklessly, hurrying inside the hotel to meet the buyer and close the deal ASAP. These are some of Mammon's highest-ranked "accountants", and they are taking the necessary precautions before Mammon ends up losing everything like it's been with other demons these past few days.

The Demons Three took the largest hit, losing Caesar's Clown and the Lucky Devil in a matter of minutes. All reduced to dust and smoke!

Azazel's Vault went down next, and the chaos only seemed to spread further, faster and faster.

This Hellblazer character, whatever his motive is, doesn't seem to be afraid of the Underworld. How could he, when he's got Hell's flames burning in his veins?

They knock on an apartment in the top-most floor of the building and a groggy male's voice ushers them to let themselves in. Inside, they are greeted with cigarette smoke that hazes their vision, but they can make out silhouettes of three figures sprawled on the bed, two of them definitely ladies.

Constantine's POV:

Bloody hell.

It's not the damned room service that comes in after that knock! It's two men in a suit and with the morning I'm having, I'm not particularly interested in what they're selling.

"We're here to see, uh," one of them starts, and the pain in my head spikes.

I could've sworn I barely drunk yesterday. Sure I put in some serious work with the ladies to get them this exhausted by morning, but that's no reason to wake up with a blaring headache. And the cigars aren't doing shit to calm my nerves. So that only leaves the encounter with Grundy as the major suspect for my morning predicament.

The suited blokes are ranting on and on about some deal. Something about power and influence. I've got no clue 'bout what their pitch is about since I can't hear half of what they're saying. I don't have the mental gear to process any of it anyway.

I could try sending them away, but god forbid they have the stubbornness of Jehovah's Witnesses. Best approach is to nod and act like I care and assure them that I'm buying into whatever they're selling. That is, until they find out I'm broke. After the night I've had, I'm bound to be anyway.

"What do you say?" they ask with a tone of finality that floods me with relief.

"Sure, sure," I say, not half-bothered by the fact that I might end up accidentally selling my soul. "It's a deal."

They bring forth papers I have to sign. The material, and the pen they give me feels off, like it's smouldering. But I could be hallucinating stuff, so I sign my name anyway, not wanting this process to take any longer than it already has.

*John Constantine, Hellblazer🔥*

I give them back and a stunning silence follows, then an argument erupts on their end just as I'm stretching to the landline to call for room service again. I don't ponder on what they are arguing about, but I hear just enough to know they are demons I've bargained with recently in my Hellblazer escapades.

"You didn't tell me you were selling it to the Hellblazer himself you traitorous bastard!" one of them raises his voice.

The other tries to calm him down, "Relax, mate. He's got us covered. Now not even Mammon himself can get to us."

"You're just as daft as he is," the first argues. "Mammon will rip your head o..oo-"

He stammers, then goes completely silent. Same case as the room. But what gets me is the atmosphere. It shifts to one of the familiar stench of Sulphur.

And then comes the sense of premonition that would've made me think twice about signing any papers even with a banging headache. A demonic presence, a powerful one, is in the room.

From the subtle, corrupted, rich fragrance of gold and money, I can tell it's name even without looking.

"Mammon," I utter, the jolting in my head not fading, but getting forgotten as the sense of danger heightens.

It's as if my vision clears in an instance, and I finally *see* the suited blokes. One's perfectly intact, but his suit has been bloodied. The other, his head's been ripped out, and sprouting from it is the mammoth head of Mammon. The surviving suit is begging for mercy from Mammon, claiming he didn't know about *the deal*, but that doesn't save him from Mammon's wrath. He's ripped to shreds in an instant.

"So, you are the Hellblazer everyone's been so worried about," Mammon's voice is as dreadful as Liam Nelson making a threat.

I stop calculating to think for a second. Why exactly would Mammon be paying me a visit?

Then it hits me, like a bloody hurricane. The words of the suits making their pitch runs through my mind like a film on a real, and I get what they were selling. No, proposing.

Power and influence - it all comes to one simple thing if you live in the underworld: the amount of souls you can gather. The more souls you own, the more powerful you can be in Hell. It's the factor that separates normal demons from demon lords, and it's what I've been after in recent times.

My composure regained proper, I stand up to face Mammon, "You reek of less money, gold and power, Mammon. Whatever happened to your wealth?"

"John Constantine," Mammon speaks my name like it's a curse. "Trickery, corn artistry, and desperation. Yet, I'd never foresee the day when you could turn one of my own against me."

"It's just business, mate," I reply boldly.

"Yes," Mammon agrees. "I can see you've been putting my business acumen into good practice."

"Toppling Hell's stock exchange by burning down bargained souls before they are good for reaping," Mammon continues. "Hades must be praising you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I play the dud.

"Of course you don't," Mammon smirks. "After all you're using my special skills to pave your way into the Underworld business."

"I must say, I'm impressed," Mammon says without a hint of slyness in his voice.

"Although," his tone shifts and his voice becomes gruff. "I don't appreciate you taking what is mine."

I blink, and miss what happens next.

One moment I'm standing face to face with Mammon about to throw a cheap line at his threat. And the next, I'm hanging upside down surrounded by walls that remind me of the inside of an active volcano, only worse.

The heat here is suffocating and I'm almost glad I left my coat. The chain holding me by my legs like a goat waiting to be butchered is even hotter. And the smell... I wish I didn't have a nose.

I don't need words to tell me that I'm in Hell, pulled down by Mammon himself. I should've foreseen this coming, given all previous encounters with him. But I was too arrogant, boasting in pride for besting Mammon when I should've been casting protective wards.

There's shiny gold gleaming beneath me, and a throne is across, where a behemoth is sitting - the size of a fat giant king.

"You've always been an incessant thorn in my foot, Constantine," Mammon speaks, his voice somehow making his layer vibrate. "But this time you've gone too far. And, there's no coming back from this Hell."