"I've always wanted to check out Papa Midnight's bar," Charlie muttered, hinting at his interest to Constantine.
The devil-may-care Constantine barely paid attention. A habitual troublemaker, he'd been in and out of jail, utterly fearless of worldly norms.
"If you were a medium, you'd get in," Constantine said, a nearly spent cigarette dangling from his fingers as he strode into the basement-like bar.
To the doorman flashing a card's back, he casually said, "Two frogs on a stool," and passed through.
Charlie mimicked him, repeating the phrase, only to be shoved back by the towering, corpse-like guard. The card flipped, revealing a skirted rat—almost comical.
While Charlie tangled with the doorman, Constantine met the voodoo-renowned sorcerer, Papa Midnight. Known simply as Midnight to most, gangsters added "Papa" out of respect.
Midnight carried a persistent stench, like a rotting corpse, yet dressed like a corporate success. He and Fisk might've hit it off.
"Midnight, still think balance is everything?" Constantine smirked, flicking his cigarette butt aside.
"John, I warned you about littering," Midnight said, a sickly green flame igniting in his hand.
"Don't get so serious. Just here to tell you Hell's getting rowdy. They've found some loophole in the barrier, slipping through one by one," Constantine said, ignoring the flame. He lit a fresh cigarette, leaning his head toward the fire.
"That's not my concern. I uphold balance, stay neutral," Midnight replied, his flame vanishing before lighting Constantine's cigarette.
"Just asking if you've seen anything…" Constantine began, but a familiar figure interrupted.
"Constantine, I've missed you!" A man dressed like a lawyer or CEO sauntered in, his steps like a tango. His swagger almost rivaled Constantine's.
"Balza? Long time," Constantine said, eyeing the intruder, one hand slipping into his trench coat pocket.
Bang!
"On my turf, you follow my rules!" Midnight slammed the table, halting a potential clash and asserting his dominance.
"Midnight, old pal, why would I embarrass you?" Constantine pulled a matchbox from his pocket, struck a flame, and lit his cigarette.
Balza's pitch-black eyes flickered with a faint, barely noticeable red glint. He toyed with a coin between his fingers. "You know I'd never deceive a friend."
Constantine sidled up to Balza, facing Midnight with a wink. "Being your friend never ends well," Midnight said coldly, clearly annoyed.
"No way! Right, Balza, old buddy?" Constantine slung an arm over Balza's shoulder, playing chummy.
"If you'd stop trying to pickpocket my shroud," Balza sneered.
"This is a holy relic from a church priest, protects you from demons. How could you refuse my kindness?" Constantine feigned shock, slipping the shroud back into his coat.
"You need it more, Constantine. Every demon in Hell sends their regards—some can't wait," Balza said, his handsome face briefly morphing into withered, dead skin. Born of fire and commanding insect swarms, he needed no shroud against demons—only against Heaven and the Church.
"Constantine, time to go," Midnight said, a dark green mist visibly rising from him, his patience worn thin.
"You called me John before, now it's Constantine? Out with the old, in with the new," Constantine quipped, backing toward the door. He grabbed Charlie, waiting outside, and pulled him to the car.
"You know how it is, Charlie," Constantine said, his grin fading. He took a final drag, then lit another cigarette.
"Back to the office, fine. But you gotta teach me some exorcism tricks. Two's better than one," Charlie grumbled.
Constantine stayed silent. As Midnight said, his friends rarely met good ends.
…
"We're taking over this case!" Rumlow announced in the heavy crimes unit office, flashing an FBI badge. S.H.I.E.L.D. always used jurisdictional credentials.
"Thank God you're here!" The frazzled officer shoved a pile of files at Rumlow. "Sign the confidentiality agreement, quick—I've been on overtime forever!"
He snatched the form from an agent behind Rumlow, signed it swiftly, and added, "You guys handle it. I'm off. Turn off the lights when you leave!" He vanished around the corner before anyone could react.
"Is this how you all work?" Rumlow muttered, craving a stiff drink.
"Usually not," an agent behind him said. "But this guy's an exception. Wherever he's assigned, weird stuff happens. I've dealt with him seven or eight times."
That didn't count cases other agents handled.
"Maybe he should transfer to S.H.I.E.L.D.," Rumlow sighed, unsure where to start with his complaints.
(Chapter End)