A life of crime they said. Easy as piss they said. Go fuck yourself she said. I can't imagine anything worse than deciding to do the right thing, return some broads purse and then after all that non flaffing about get told to sit on my own pole. The fuck. Maybe they were right. Maybe it really was simply easier to go the path of least resistance..

I saw it coming a mile away. It's handy when you know what to look for. The darting eyes. The overcoat with collars flipped up to conceal the un-kept six month old five o'clock shadow and cap pulled down as far as it could been, without looking like the social shit stain that was true for the most part. Only partly, because we all need a little nudge in life, even if it's by the hand of the devil, or his workers. And these nudges sometimes brought opportunities otherwise not had. God working in mysterious ways and that.

I kept watch as he pretended to be disinterested, all the while loitering outside the coffee shop, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. His nerves obviously on edge, fidgeting about like a junky needing a fix. Why others couldn't see it was beyond me. But like most, they were probably going through the motions. Robotic. Dulled senses. Not really knowing. And it truly did pay to know.

The street was busy. But, they just kept walking on, oblivious to someone with such ill intent it wasn't possible to not be influenced from someone, or something else. I mean, humans only have so much freedom to choose. And once that will is in motion, once there is that self made energetic connection and nothing to stop it, all you can do is watch. Sometimes though, just sometimes, someone did more than just watch. This was one of those sometimes.

As the old lady strolled along, it was kind of obvious. Slow physically, and a little not quite all there. A blunt pencil in a box of crayons. She was the perfect target, and on top of that you could see the energy shift in him. He was being impressed upon, and for the trained eye it was just as clear as what would happen next.

With a quick and abrupt lunge, shit stain grabbed at her handbag, ripped it off her shoulder and made a dash for it. It was glorious. Not to me, but to that demonic impression fucking about beyond the veil. I bet it was laughing all the way to the bank. Until, well until I stepped in. You see I can't stand these demons that get kicks from using others as instruments for their own foul play.

And that's probably why, cause they were foul in everyway possible. Always wanting what they didn't get when living in the flesh. Still stuck in addictions, sinful power plays, like a broken record. The bible wasn't half wrong about the devil. He's as real as you and I. And to some degree, much much more. Maybe my trip to hell was what set me off. Or the fact I'm fucked forty ways from Sunday if, and when I, kick the bucket. And fighting these fucks is my only resort to regain favour.

If you've put down as many of these beasts as I have, imagine going to the very playground of the vile bottom feeders themselves. It would be like going to prison where every inmate had it in for you before you even got there, and worse yet, they could do whatever the fuck they wanted with you. So now you see why I had to do what I did and intervene, again, and will do it over and over till I hopefully right my wrongs. It's not like I was doing anything else anyways. Or so I keep telling myself.

I positioned myself where I knew he'd be, where I'd seen him running in the earlier vision. It helped when you had that kind of information at hand. Some call it vision, or tapping in, or feeling about, or riding the waves, or listening in. Whatever method, it didn't really matter so long as you got a heads up to what was going down so you could potentially disrupt events along the chain somewhere.

And as he passed by, that's exactly what I did. I outstretched my arm and clotheslined the poor son of a bitch. I admit, I did put a little into it too. I hoped that fuck from beyond the veil would feel me through his new buddy. And as I took down his playtoy I could smell him, and he knew it. They couldn't do more than influence others that were open to it, well this one couldn't anyways.

Some were able to walk in the flesh, and some did. Others like this foul remnant of a creature though couldn't do anything about me being there, and they fuckn hated it. Which made my black heart sing. It made me feel powerful, yet power always came with a cost, and he'd be back soon enough trying to collect through some other puppet.

As the thief regained his senses and realised what had happened, I had already retrieved the handbag and made my exit. I pulled away into the shadows so he could fuck right off. You never knew what these opiate junkies would do for a fix. They weren't always there in the making rational decisions department, so it was best to just let them psyche themselves out and then make tracks after.

Now, with handbag in my possession and having thwarted one of these catastrophes you'd think I'd be all smiles. And I was, ear to fuckn ear. Not outwardly, but for me it was the best you'd get. As I returned the stolen item, the old bag fuckn ripped it from me like I was the culprit. I tried to explain it to her, but she was having none of it. She knew I didn't steal it, but she didn't give a damn. Old bitch cussed me out like I'd pissed on her husband's grave. How's that for a thank you. A big fuckn fuck yourself more like it. So much for helping the elderly.

As I left the scene, as to not continue be a target for more verbal abuse, it dawned on me. Even though I had stopped not just a robbery and returned what was taken, but also a death from happening a few minuets later as the bag thief would've eventually run into a cop, struggle for his gun and shoot the police officer in cold blood. But, no-one gave a damn.

Sweet mouth old hag for starters, the cop that would never know his life had been saved by breaking the chain of cause and effect, and not even the thief himself from spending his remainder years of life in the big house. No-one gave a shit. So when a junky friend had told me days earlier to turn to a life of crime instead of saving souls in the manner I'd become accustomed, it now didn't sound half crazy.

It sounded even less nutty as I flicked through that old snots purse on the way home. I had some redeeming to do, remember, and stealing the purse from her handbag before giving it back was small time, in comparison. Yes, I believed it. I needed the cash anyways. Better me than any of them, and right now it felt very much justified.

And maybe this life of crime was where I'd find my redemption after all. Constantine might just take the path of least resistance. I'll sleep on it at least, and see what the whispers bring tomorrow.

It wasn't always fun and games. Sometimes, I had to pull out me own chair and let my ass hit the ground to remind me. Of what? Maybe that I'm still human. Maybe that I'm still fallible. And maybe simply that although I play with death, I'm still alive, and life wasn't always about John Constantine.

I believe sometimes that kind of self ass kicking is needed. The ego grows and grows and if not reigned in it can burn down cities. Even countries. Hitler can attest to that, and so can the smarmy devil with mono stash on his shoulder.

As I sit across from this nervous wreck, he also has a 'friend' playing him like a fiddle. A secret and invisible helper. Yet like all egotistical chums, it was helping itself more than this meat suit just meters from me. Riding the desire, the burning itch, the wave of addiction. And no more helpful and friendly than a rash after raw dogging a Vegas show girl.

He reeked. His attachment to winning at any cost was so pungent it came across as some kind of slimey sticky energetic web of desperation. You could see it in the old man's eyes. And I could feel his fear from across the table. Several generations deep worth of rejection to losing, and fear of what his wife would say and do if he lost his weekly wage again. 

I felt sorry for him, as much as a black hearted asshole could. I felt for him because of the nagging in his ear. Or maybe more accurately put, the stream of negative thoughts pressing against his subcobscious mind. He would've never stood a chance at this point, as he was now well passed the threshold of knowing he still had one. 

As he showed his hand, two pair, aces and sixes with a ten kicker, the rot from within stood out even more. His eyes bulged in desperation as he gawked at me, waiting, hoping, nervously anticipating a winning hand. He hoped it was his, and in a round about way, it eventually would be.

But as I showed my triple three's his heart sank into the pit of his stomach and then some. It rolled down past his socks and burned a hole through the floor of the club and the defiled foundation of sin city. It landed in the underworld with the demon that was saturating his aura. It had him, his soul and a definite grip of his shrivelled up balls.

Once a man, now a mess of a puppet in the same position all were after they conscioualy gave their soul over to them, one way or another. Bent over, ready to cop the trident sweet. Because at some point when playing russian roulette with dark matter, you always lost, everything, and this was that point.

He'd gone from starting his night with feelings of criminally insane confidence, to straight dread. The ghostly look on his face began to overshadow him, as the parasite from beyond the veil did the same, engulfing him in it's own stinkin' rot.

The stench of death seeped out of him, and for me at least, it was evident what the next step in this fucked up equation would be. The universe was a set of sums all on its own. Astrology would tell you that, but more so magick showed me it. Dark or light, high or low, it all had a formula and that cause and effect stuff your school teachers told you, well life spoke about it all the time.

Events proceeded other events and so on. And to truly see the links you really did need to follow the path in reverse. So when I got privy of what was to come through an earlier vision, now was the moment life stood up and shouted aloud 'see John, this is how I work, so listen up and stop daydreaming, asshole'.

Fuckn life, always stickin it to a bloke. If it were summed up in terms of mans personality it would be 'cocky as shit'. It was always right though, and the nudge just further reminded me it was time to act.

As I gathered the large pile of notes on the table, I thought I better get to my proper work. I'd just conned a poor schlub out of his winnings, but I wasn't about to let this fuckwit give his soul over for good to the filth wearing him like a glove.

Today wasn't going to end as they both now were so adamant it would. I was gonna make sure of that, and as self loathing Geppetto and his Pinocchio left the poker table, I downed the last of me glass of Jameson.

This shit wasn't easy, card sharking a deal like that, and the Irish delight reminded me hard work sometimes paid better in whisky. So I took the bottle with the winnings and pulled out me chair. I didn't fall though, not this time. My ass and vanity didn't end up hitting the ground of humility just yet.

Cause now wasn't about me, or my self-conceit coming full circle. It was about another and weeding that putrid thorn out once and for good. I began to follow the elderly bewildered man, a few steps behind, as he pushed and shoved a path through Vegas' Arizona Club.

I couldn't help but feel for the guy as I pressed the Winchester double barrel shotgun into the back of his head. I mean me, John fuckn Constantine, feeling compassion. That alone was something to write home about. Like a war hero writing to the love of his life to tell of the way the bullshit propoganda slave train had changed me, good or bad.

The war was real. The illusion most people were fed was also real. But the writing the love of my life wasn't, in the slightest. I loved nothing. No-one. Not even my ugly mug in the mirror. I don't even know why I still lived and breathed to be frank. And being Frank for a change might've been a good thing, but not tonight, and not this shit stain carrying the name, as the bad was finally catching up with him.

Cause Frank Regal's neck had the hard press of the sawn off dug into it. I felt for him, but not for his very current and undeniably real situation. He was a shop owner by trade. Nothing special. Nothing to have me about to blow his fuckn dome apart.

What his real gig was, unbeknownst to his wife of ten years, was he aided in the illegal trafficking of underage women into the States to be used in the sex trade as unknowing whores. Sickening, ain't it. Filthy. Downright fuckn pathetic. Someone not even worth pissing on.

Frank was using others for his own selfish agenda, yet in such a way that made me skin crawl when I first caught wind of it. Women, -no- girls, teenagers being used and abused like something less than human. And as soon as me mate Anthony filled me in, I knew it. It smelt of something more.

Most are under the illusion humans are responsible for all the bad in this world. Taught the ever hopeful shite that we are our own worst enemies, and we can find solace and redemption if we only live righteously and in the name of some bearded cloud surfer, or any other of the God's we should turn to.

What they don't know though, is until one has done the hard yards, put in the effort to intentially follow a more dignified life, their prior choices have already opened them up to attachments from some unholy shit. Frank was currently there. And it was my job to cut that cord.

I pressed the cold steel further into his neck, with a driving jab, sending him all the way forward and onto his hands and knees from his previously kneeled position. He sobbed and pleaded, like anyone would given the situation, I guess.

I wouldn't know personally, but it was from an attachment to life coupled with an understanding they had fucked it up and that fuck up was what had this cold son of a bitch about to shoot their brain matter all over the brisk outdoors. Sounds about right, aint it.

He knew why I was here, as I'd dragged his sorry ass outside moments earlier and made him kneel while I silently stood behind him with the altered shotgun fixed to blow a hole in his throat, and hopefully send his head rolling onto the dusty Vegas ground.

I did love a bit of drama, and secretely hoped it would give the desired effect. As he now had himself literally in a prayer position as if groveling at the feet of some God, I felt five minutes of suspense was finally enough. I could see it was, and smell it too, as a small trail of urine livened up the ground beneath him.

"It's too late for you Frank. You done fucked up. Now it's time to meet that maker you chose to obey. The devil himself will have fun with you, and use you in worse ways then you have used society. You chose your fate, and I'm here to make sure you reap what you have sown. For God only walks with the righteous, and his grace is lost on you. He looks after all his children, yet you used them and sold them to the devil. Now, you will rest with the damned and all that walk in the same footsteps."

Fuck knows what I was saying, but in these your ass is toast moments something biblical always added a bit of a long drive to the point, making sure it really went the yards and found its way home. I did have proper shit, but now wasn't the time.

I walked forward and loomed over him from the side, re-applying the presence of the gun to basically the same area as before. He sobbed harder and actually began praying to God. The nerve of the man, to now call upon someone he shunned for so long. I don't even call on him and I'm supposedly doing his work.

Such is the desperation of consciously dead men though. Never truly alive due to the choices that killed their souls to the point it was no longer even flickering about, not even a dim hope, nor a miniscule spark of truth left.

They were dead to themselves long before they realized it, as the hand of the reaper had firmly imbedded itself into the mind, blotting out the shine of the spirit. Just look into ones eyes and see if they are here, in the now, or off somewhere else. But that's only a small piece of it, and when that turning the back on the heart is fully manifested the eyes show nothing but hellish presence.

It's only when something shocks the system, a cataclystic event of some sort to break the mental chains, that the soul has a fighting chance. Some never get there and live in the shit of their choices, shadows of what was and could've been, forever lost to the world of light.

But some return, by different means and methods. Some have some courage left, some little hints of redemptio, of self realization. Some part of them is still fighting the good fight, regardless of the overpowering fear and ignorance that had taken them for so long.

Frank may just be one of these men, and sometimes a swift kick in the conscience is all that is needed. It opens a gap in the mental fuckery that is playing on them. It kicks the demon in the teeth and pimp slaps it back to the rot it should've never fuckn left.

So when I finally spoke, and let him know his time had come to own up to his responsibilities and the foul choices he had made, I hoped his prayerful response would be enough. That little outpouring of soul that would attract to it a likeness energy in return.

As I slipped away into the night I took with me that bit of hope, along with his wallet. I'll return in a week and see if he's made that transition from darkness to something resembling a turn to a better path.

It wasn't always about slaying or exorcising the fucksticks beyond the veil. Sometimes, it was about trusting in my somewhat unorthadox methods and most importantly the human spirit.

Yes, John fuckn Constantine has a heart in there somewhere. But don't get too comfy with the thought, cause as long as there are shitstains there will still be the asshole in me and if this grocer gives me another reason to I'll send this fucker down there myself. 

Demon posession or not, cause that's just what I do, and compassion or asshole I'll rid this place of as many as I can before I kick the bucket. Remember that, cause you may just be next on my agenda.

Cause I'm John fuckn Constantine and if you live your life like this guy, consider yourself already fucked.