When you live as the shit on the heel of another mans boot or in the shadow of success it either pushes you in the right direction and aids your growth or you succumb to the life style and shrink away like the misfit you are. Misfit been the key term, the term used as a weapon against you in a place where misfits don't show themselves. Having a lame leg and a slight stammer is what drove Tacky away from the southern community after years of leaching off his older brothers success in the moonshine business and fighting a constant battle to stay sane from the torment.

When that mobster came to family home in the summer he'd never been so scared. Backed against the wall with the barrel of a shotgun rammed into his throat he watched on as the skinniest, most well dressed and pampered of the group beat he brother and father half to death in the living room and shattered what seemed like half of their distillery across his fathers head. Lying in a pool of his own blood a barrel was rested against his fathers skull. His brother, beaten half to death made a lunge at the gunman but was quickly pulled back. Yet Tacky watched on, unable to move as time slowed down. The gunman's eye squinted a little, almost in a sad way before 3 solid cracks rang out through the house and his fathers body twitched ever so slightly.

To this day Tacky had wished he made a lunge, maybe even got gunned down in the progress but the way the gangsters laughed at his lame leg and the tears rolling down his cheeks carried it's weight. Heroin, cocaine, everything and anything, all to forget. It wasn't till the third time Tacky was found in a puddle of his own vomit and spit, blood streaming out his nose nearly dead from the shit that clogged his system that he decided to make a change. So for the last time the family pick up was stocked full of moonshine, his mother got her last kiss on the forehead, his brother got one final handshake and off he set to the city of sins with a few goals in mind. Money, a name for himself and most importantly-fellow misfits.

When you lived life between this world and the rotting undercurrent of that next, how could you not be seen as an outcast, or a misfit. It was Constantine's burden to bare; the knowledge of the subtle play of influences that most never would've believed, even if they were told the hot truth.

It's only when someone experiences something earth shattering to the degree the curtains of the veil are pulled back and what's always been there is revealed, that the understanding is more than just some words spoken or written. It's the experience itself that takes simple understanding to the realm of knowledge. And when you know something balls to bones, you just know it. You can no longer escape not knowing it. Like your name, or the face of a loved one.

Constantine knew what he did because of what he had experienced. He knew it like he knew his name. He knew it like he knew his brother's face. And it was when he saw Max's mug for the last time that he was tossed into this realm of knowing this life balls to bones. The stench of his brother's killer would never leave him. Not in this life, and certainly not in the next.

He grew up learning the dark arts with Max. They were inseparable. They lived the life of devout students to a family tradition that stretched back centuries. Everyday they would play the role of social misfits at school, because every night they would live the life of sons to a late black magician. It was only after Constantine's ambition reached too far forward and pulled out a demon, who eventually took his brother's life and dragged him to hell, that the everyday social role disappeared.

Every moment from then on became a constant revenge and guilt fuelled war with denizens of the underworld. It engulfed his entire being. His brother was lost to him and his father had passed on many years earlier. So although he found himself in a community that also had the same knowledge, he always felt alone, and very much a misfit. Because he didn't just simply know that demons existed, but he was on a mission to exorcise every fuckn one of them.

Everyday was a task to send another one of these shit stains back to the depths of hell where they belonged. And everyday more and more played on earthly souls from beyond the veil through demonic possessions, or simply by influencing their actions through energetic rapport. It was a full time job for the occult detective, and in the end it brought him to Vegas.

There was something about to go down in the city of sin the likes the nation hadn't yet seen. Something was cooking. More and more whisperings were telling the same story. Get the fuck to America and Las Vegas, because his brother's killer was about to make another appearance. And as he finally drove into Vegas for the first time, he wondered if there were people here he could connect with. Maybe other misfits, just like him.