Loves Of Hell
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“I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up,” said the demon. “It’s getting harder and harder to maintain my disguise.”
The man in black nodded, his face expressionless as he stared at the demon with a blank gaze. The two stood on an empty street corner, surrounded by nothing but darkness. It was a late night, or early morning depending upon one’s perspective, and the streets were deserted save for them.
A few other demons had been spotted around town over the last several days—some of which they’d encountered themselves. But none of those encounters had gone well; most ended with the demon being killed before it could reveal its true nature.
And now that the demon knew who the man in black really was, there wasn’t any reason left to pretend anymore.
“You’re doing fine,” replied the man calmly. He turned away from the demon and looked out into the distance, watching as a pair of figures walked down the sidewalk toward him. They were both dressed in dark clothing, their faces hidden behind masks so that only their eyes showed through.
One was male, while the other appeared female. Both wore long coats, though neither seemed particularly cold despite the chill air. As they drew closer, the man in black saw that one of them carried something wrapped in cloth under her arm.
She stopped when she reached the end of the block, then slowly approached until she came within ten feet of where the man in black stood. Her companion did likewise, stopping just short of the man in black. When they finally met each other’s gazes, the woman spoke first.
“We need your help,” she said. “There are things we want you to do for us.”
“And what would these be?” asked the man in black.
“First off, we want you to kill someone for us,” answered the woman.
The man in black shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t work for free.”
“Then we’ll have to find another way,” replied the woman.
“What is it that you want me to do exactly? You’ve already tried killing me once, and now you’re asking me to murder someone else. What makes you think I won’t turn on you again if given the chance?”
“Because we know who you really are,” said the woman.
The man in black frowned, confused by her words. “Who am I?”
“Your name is John Constantine,” replied the woman. “But you’re more than that. We know about your past. About the things, you’ve done. And we also know that you’re still alive because of our efforts. So why should we trust you now?
Why shouldn’t we simply kill you here and now and get it all over with?”
The man in black considered the question carefully. There was no point in lying to the demon now. If she wanted to kill him, there was little he could do to stop her. But perhaps there was some value in letting her believe that he might change his mind, even if it meant giving himself away. After a moment, he sighed.
“Fine,” he said. “If you want me to do this thing, I will. But I’ll need something in return.”
“Name it,” said the woman.
“I want to meet the person you’re planning to kill. I want to talk to them. Just once. To see what they look like, hear their voice. That sort of thing.”
“That’s reasonable enough,” agreed the woman. “So let’s go back to my place. Then we can discuss terms.”
She started walking, and the man followed her without saying anything further. Once they arrived at the address she gave him, the woman led him inside. The apartment was small, cluttered with piles of books, papers, and assorted junk.
Most of the furniture consisted of old chairs, tables, and couches. Several candles burned throughout the room, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The woman sat down on a chair near the door, motioning for the man to sit next to her.
He complied, sitting down beside her and leaning forward slightly. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers intertwined together.
“Now tell me,” said the woman. “Why should we trust you?”
“Because I’m telling the truth,” replied the man. “I don’t care what you do with me afterward. Kill me if you want. But I swear to you that I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that you succeed. Whatever you ask of me, I will give you my word that I will carry out your wishes.”
The woman smiled. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s begin by finding out who you plan to kill. Who do you want dead?”
“Myself,” said the man.
The woman laughed aloud. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” replied the man. “It’s time for me to die. It’s been too long since I last took a life. I feel it’s high time I got myself killed.”
“And how do you propose to accomplish such a feat?” asked the woman.
“Simple,” replied the man. “All I have to do is walk up to the edge of a cliff or a tall building, jump off, and fall to my death. Simple as that.”
The woman nodded. “You’re right. That would be simple enough. But unfortunately, it wouldn’t be very satisfying. Not nearly so much fun as watching you take a life yourself. Would you prefer that instead?”
The man shrugged. “Whatever you say. As long as you promise not to try to kill me first.”
The woman smiled. “Fair enough. Now then, who do you wish to kill?”
The man thought for a moment before answering. “I’d like to kill the Prime Minister of England.”
The woman looked surprised. “Really? Why?”
“He’s responsible for everything that has happened to me,” explained the man. “Everything. From the day I was born until the present. Everything that’s wrong with my life is his fault. Every bad thing that ever happens to me, every mistake I’ve made, it’s all because of him. I hate him. With a passion. And I want to kill him.”
“How did he come to possess such power over you?” asked the woman.
“I don’t know,” answered the man. “Perhaps it’s because he knows about my past. Perhaps he just wants to use me for his own purposes. Either way, I don’t care. All I know is that he needs to die.”
“Do you have any idea where he lives?” asked the woman.
The man shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not yet anyway. But I intend to find out soon.”
The woman nodded. “Good,” she said. “Then let’s get started. We’ll start by looking into your background. What are your parents’ names?”
“They died when I was young,” said the man. “Both of them were murdered. My father was shot in front of my eyes. He tried to protect me from the gunman. But it didn’t matter. They both died. I never knew my mother. She left me alone when I was still an infant.
I grew up on the streets, living hand-to-mouth. I learned to survive. I had no choice. No one else cared whether I lived or died. So I learned to fight for myself. I became a street thug. A thief. Anything I could do to stay alive.
Eventually, I met some people who taught me how to steal cars. I worked for them for several years. Until I finally decided to strike out on my own. I went into business for myself. I bought a car lot, and I began selling stolen vehicles.”
“What kind of cars did you sell?” asked the woman.
“Anything that came along,” replied the man. “Cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, boats, airplanes, helicopters, jet skis, snowmobiles, ATVs, dirt bikes, go-carts, golf carts, motor scooters, bicycles, mopeds, electric wheelchairs, Segways, unicycles—you name it, I sold it. If there was money to be made, I found a buyer for it.”
“Did you ever work for anyone else?” asked the woman.
“Once or twice,” replied the man. “But I always ended up stealing from whoever hired me. Then they fired me. Or worse, they turned me into the police. Which usually meant jail time. I spent most of my adult life behind bars.
But I managed to keep my freedom. Somehow. For the most part. I stole enough to live comfortably. Enough to buy food and clothes and shelter. I even managed to save a little bit of cash. Just enough to pay for my freedom. The rest I used to buy more cars. To sell again.
Over and over. Again and again. Until I ran out of money. And then I had to steal once more. Only this time I couldn’t afford to steal anything good. So I resorted to stealing junkers. Old clunkers. Cheap, unreliable wrecks. I kept doing that until I finally got caught. By the police.”
“Where were you arrested?” asked the woman.
“In Los Angeles,” replied the man. “At a chop shop called ‘Moonshine Motors.’ It was run by a guy named John Smith. He was a real piece of work. A vicious killer. He killed people for sport. He enjoyed torturing them. Making them suffer. He liked to watch their pain. He also liked to make them beg for mercy before he killed them.”
“Why did you steal from him?” asked the woman.
The man shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to figure out what he wanted,” he replied. “He needed money. Lots of it. So I figured I might as well help him out. After all, I already knew how to steal cars. I’d been doing it for years. So why not give him a helping hand?
Besides, I owed him. I stole his car once. When I was younger. Before I learned how to drive. I took it without asking. Without permission. I drove it down the freeway at high speed. Then I crashed it into a tree. Right in front of him. I ruined his car.
And I almost killed him. So now I thought maybe I should return the favor. Give him back what he gave me. In exchange for my freedom.”
“And how much did you steal from him?” asked the woman.
“Enough to buy my freedom,” replied the man. “Just like I promised. That’s all I ever stole from him. Nothing else. Not even a single dollar. I never cheated on him. Never lied to him. I never betrayed him. I just stole whatever he told me to steal.
And I paid him with my freedom. I’m sure he would have preferred to kill me. Instead of letting me go free. But I guess he felt sorry for me. Maybe because I was so young. Or maybe because I looked so pathetic. Either way, he let me walk away. Free and clear. With nothing but the clothes on my back.”
“How long ago did you steal from him?” asked the woman.
“About ten years ago,” replied the man. “I didn’t know it at first. But later I realized that I’d stolen something far more valuable than any car. Something worth more than gold. More precious than silver. Even more priceless than diamonds.
Because it was mine. All mine. My very own. No one could take it away from me. Ever. And no matter how many times I returned to steal it, I still owned it. As if I’d never left. Like I belonged there.
Like I’d always lived there. I was home. Wherever I went. Whenever I walked through those doors. I was safe. At last. Safe and sound. Home sweet home. Finally. After all these years. I was finally where I belonged. Back home. In my old neighborhood.
Back to my roots. Back to my family. Back to my friends. Back to my past. Back to my future. Everything I had lost. Was suddenly right here in front of me. Waiting for me to claim it. Once and for all. Forever. So I claimed it. And I held onto it forever. Till death do us part. Till we meet again. In heaven. On the other side.”
“What happened after you stole your freedom?” asked the woman.
“After I stole my freedom?” repeated the man. “Well, I started working for myself. From then on I made my own rules. I decided who I worked for. Who I stole from. How much I stole. What I stole. And when I stole it. I kept everything I earned.
Every penny. I never shared anything with anyone. Especially not the police. They don’t deserve to be rewarded. For doing their job. The only reward they get is a bullet in the head. And I’ve got plenty of bullets. Plenty of guns. Enough to shoot every cop in this city.
If I want to. But I won’t. I’ll leave them alone. Just like I did before. Because I owe them nothing. I’m better off without them. Better off without the cops. Because I can do whatever I please. Whatever I feel like doing. I’m free. I’m independent. I’m self-sufficient. Self-reliant. Independent. Unburdened. Free. I’m free!”
The End