Whisperland: Part One Indulgence
Hellblazer #1 January, Year One	by Michael Franzoni

He always came at midnight. It was something about the hour that intrigued him, the indulgence in sin at the end of one day and the beginning of the next. And then, with dawn, his soul would be newly cleansed, wiped of each night's sin.

Anticipation rushed through his bloodstream, heating his skin and raising the urgency in his breath as he walked down the corridor. The shadows draped his naked skin, illuminated only by passing shafts of moonlight from the thinly veiled windows. He knew the layout of the house by heart. Every piece of furniture and its location, whether night or day, was etched into his mind. And the darkness made his journey more complete, more feral. It was as if he were stalking cornered prey, moving in for the kill.

The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it inward and closed the door behind him. He could see her silhouette through the shadows, her short stature curled into a ball on top of the bed he had given her. She was sweet perfection, unused, unfettered by the world, and now, she was his, every inch of her. To have. To break. To love. He smiled as he leaned into her, whispering, "Touch me."

She reached tentatively toward him, her small hands quivering as they inched forward through the darkness. Breath whistled between her clenched lips, and she hesitated, pulled back. There was a slight tremble in her voice as she begged, "Please, don't make me do this."

"Now," he insisted, grabbing her roughly by the wrist. He felt the tendons in her arm tighten as she wrapped her hand into a fist, and he pressed down against the pressure point, forcing her fingers to open once more. He felt her holding back, but his strength was overpowering, pulling her arm forward until her open palm brushed against his erection. And then he could feel her quivers mixing with his heat, and he slid his hand away from her wrist, bringing it to bear with her fingers and forcing them to close around him. "Stroke me. Slowly."

He loosened his grip slowly as her hand slid along the length of his shaft, and he delighted in her resignation. It was a victory of his power, of his sexuality, and it solidified his manhood, his place as master of this house. His hands dropped to his side, and her movements continued, twisting along his length, her soft touch teasingly delivering all the right sensations. Closing his eyes, he savored the sensation, the warmth of her touch against this skin, the impending rise of orgasm. Growling, he slapped her hand away and said, "No more."

Sniffling, she curled herself into a ball on the bed. Her sobs came like a rushing flood, and through them, she inquired, "But I thought that was what you wanted."

"It is. And it is what you want as well," he responded, moving away from the side of the bed and pacing to the door. It was a truth that she needed to learn, that he needed to bestow upon her. "I am the one in control, and when you have learned that lesson, I will grant you my prize. Until then, you shall know only humility, the truth that you couldn't satisfy me, couldn't make me feel enough to bring me off. Not yet. You are young, and there is much to learn of the ways of my world. And so you will, in time."

He stepped away from the bed and exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him and listening to her soft wailing. It was the sting of denial that she was feeling, the degradation of her body for his pleasures, and she would agonize over that until he allowed her the honor of fulfilling his desires. Such was his love for the girl, that he was willing to go to such lengths to turn her to him.

Creeping silently down the hall, he stopped at the end and stepped inside another room. A soft whimper greeted him as he entered. Each of them were so similar, but each different in their own right. Smiling in the shadows, he descended upon her and said, "Yes, my dear, tonight is your night. Show me how much you love me."

Cavern's Keep was a small town, resting on the edge of Washington state, at the Canadian Border. Most of the industry had dried in recent years, thanks to the over-milling of the regions forests, and swath of fires that cut through the countryside each summer. The population was dwindling, but those that stayed clung to the jobs provided by the town's benefactors and the tourist trade.

It was three-thirty in the morning, nearing the beginning of the high season, and the place was empty. She had already wiped the counters four times, cleaning them over-and-over. She had thawed three trays of muffins that in anticipation of the morning rush, muffins that she would pass-off as fresh-baked. Silverware had been polished and rolled on the inside of napkins. Another hour, and the walls would be packed with customers, mostly commuters, wanting their plate of eggs-and-bacon on their way to the daily grind. For now, however, the tables and counter seats were empty, all except for one.

He was sitting alone in the corner, a trenchcoat thrown over the back of the bench like a discarded towel. The lines in his face were hardened edges, each speaking loudly of strife that most men kept hidden. Approaching the man, she hefted the pot of coffee, snapped her gum, and asked, "Refill, honey?" The man sat there without answering, a cigarette pursed between his lips as he regarded her indignantly. Her free hand shot out, snatching the cigarette and snuffing it into the surface of the table. "No smoking in the restaurant. Now, you want a refill or not?"

"Do that again and you'll be in the shit, love," he responded, reaching into his coat and extracting another cancer stick. He smiled as he lit the cigarette, blowing the first puff of fresh smoke into her face. He held up his cup with a soft wrist, letting it swing loosely from his fingers before she took it from his hand. "If that's the same sludge as before, then I'm beginning to think you're trying to run me through. I had better when I was in the peter. I'm waitin for a plane out of this shithole, not me death."

"Take it or leave. The door's over there, and I've got better things to do with my time."

"Obviously ain't the line of other blokes waiting for a bit of lip," he replied, gesturing toward the empty restaurant with a tilt of his head. He watched as the anger flooded across her face, then continued, "Why not take a bit off and give me some company? S'a long hour before you have to worry about anyone else, and I get tired of talking meself."

Sliding into the booth across from him, she sat down and reached forward, once more snatching the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. This time, she twisted the filter to her lips and breated deeply. "I haven't had one of these in ages, but God, how I've needed one."

"So tell me, how long she been missing?" he asked, lighting a cigarette for himself and smiling at her sudden change of heart.

She looked at him with an expression of surprise and a start, and the cigarette tumbled down into her lap. She scampered slightly, brushing the burning stick from her lap, and inhaling sharply. Looking back at him, she asked, "How in God's name did you know? There's no way. You don't even know me. Who the Hell are you?"

"Name's Constantine, and let's see...Doris," he replied, snapping his fingers to the nametag that clung loosely to the top of her apron. "You got bags under your eyes like you ain't seen kip for days, and I know it ain't from pissing your life away in this ratbag. The capital ain't good enough to keep ya here if you didn't have obligations. My guess is a tacker back home, some little monster that's gone missing now. Reckon the guess is right by the picture in your casher."

"My what?" She asked, still shocked by his words.

"Your back pocket. The young bird with the blond hair. Who is she?"

She was on the verge of tears, a facade she had not let slip in the company of strangers. Biting back her sobs, she said, "My daughter. She's all I have in this world, ever since her father left me stranded. She's been missing for four weeks now, and the police won't help me. They're trying to tell me she's run away, but I know that's just not true. I mean, we didn't have the best life, but my baby was happy. She wasn't going to run."

He reached forward, cracking her a wry smile and then slamming his hand down upon the table. The tremor spilled his coffee cup on its side, sloshing the black liquid on the table. She made a motion to get up, to clean the liquid, but he motioned her to sit back down. Smiling again, with a wink, he blew a waft of smoke over the spilled liquid and its motion stopped, freezing it in place along the surface of the table. "Load of shite that is, your daughter taking-off on the lamb. Most the time, 'specially here in the States, the Keystones can't be bothered to pull a stick from their arse. But this," he said, pointing to the spill of coffee, "tells me differently."

"What is this?"

"Same principle as tea leaves, really. You study where it goes, where it stops, just watch for the signs. Doesn't matter what ya use, long as you know how to use it."

She fidgeted in her seat, the tears still hanging at the corners of her eyes. Leaning forward, Doris looked down upon the coffee spill, watching as the spill took the shape of a small plus sign with one end extended, and asked, "What do you see then? All I see is a mess."

"S'the same thing I see, love. 'Cept your mess isn't as easily cleaned as this puddle of sludge. No, your little girl has lost her way, but she has help in that. Any boys in her life? Maybe her father?"

"She never knew her father. That bastard skipped town before he even found out I was pregant. I think he knew I wanted a commitment," she replied. "And there were never any boyfriends. I don't think she was old enough, in her mind anyway, to notice boys. And certainly not in the way that she'd run away with one."

A second puff of smoke, and the coffee once again began to move, sliding across the table in an erratic cascade, and falling into her lap. She screams out loud, fearing that the coffee is hot, but instead, finds it to be ice cold. She backpedals from the seat, sliding into the aisle and ripping the apron from around him. From the doorway, he said, "I'll give this a look into. Now be a good bit and pick up the tab."

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," he began as he always did, tracing the sign of the cross along his chest. He sat upon his knees, bowing his head. "It has been two days since my last confession."

"Your humbleness to our Lord shall be noted, my son. Please continue," the pastor replied, his silhouette appearing at the grated window to the center booth.

"First, I should say that I have never been to your parish before. I find it burdensome to place my sins upon the shoulders of the same men time and again. It is better to speak of my troubles to others, to seek differing opinions. My sins are not those of the normal variety, and I fear grave consequences await. And what we say, that stays within the strictest of confidences?"

"Are you trying to better yourself, my child?"

"My attempts meet with futility. I repent, I am forgiven, and still I return to my hellish path, each and every time. It is as if the Devil himself eats at my soul."

The priest stood silent for a few brief seconds, pondering this response. Then, he said, "Sometimes it is not enough to seek penance for your sins, but to remove yourself from the sinful environment. One can not be tempted lest the temptation remains before him."

"But temptation is not so easily given-up. I would sooner need to sequester myself from society in order to deny myself the pleasures of the flesh. And I owe my sin to those who brought us original sin, for without them, I would have never known the suppleness of the soft touch."

"What is your sin, my child? I can not help you repent if you refuse to admit."

A small laugh came from the confessional booth, as the man pondered the twisting path he had been leading the priest. He loved the game, committing the sin then seeking penance from the servants of the Lord. It was defiance of the best kind, tranquil and satisfying unlike most pleasures that this would could afford him. Stifling his laughter, he replied, "I have taken unto the pleasures of many, the caress of young flesh. I relish in the sensuality of a partner who has not yet been tainted by the world, and it makes me cry in both revelry and disgust at the same time."

"I see..."

"Do you, father? Do you understand how joyous it feels to hold an awakened body in your hands, to touch and feel it? To know that yours is the first to partake of that body's many gifts? To share in its first moments of sensuality? To know that you are perverting the human flesh before that body even knows what perversity is? It is an awe-inspiring feeling, a rush that I can't describe. It is freedom incarnate, and my indulgence therein condemns me."

"How often?"

"My past sins have been washed father, they matter little. The Lord, through his earthly hands, has granted me communion from those travesties. Will you not do me the same justice? Or would you turn your back on the doors opened by the Messiah?"

"I do not know if I can offer the Lord's forgiveness, my son. You refuse to repent, to change your ways. Even Peter, standing at the gates, will look upon this and know the truth."

"Yes or no, father?"

The priest slipped once more into silence, and the man smiled, knowing that he had brought a moral dilemna upon this sanctuary. Clearing his throat, the priest began in hushed tones, "Dip your hands in the basin at the door, look up to the cross above the doorway, and thank the Lord for his forgiveness. And then, I am never to hear of these transgressions again. Do we have an understanding?"

A wicked smile creased the man's face, and he replied, "Yes, Father, I think we understand one another." He signed the cross once more against his body and then shuffled to his feet, exiting the confessional booth and whistling as he walked to the front door. Pausing next to the basin, he dipped his fingers in the holy water, and then annointed his forehead. "Thank you, Lord. See you soon."

As he passed through the front doors, he slipped to the side, letting a man in a trenchcoat pass by him. Tipping his hat, he said, "Hit the confessional if you have time. It's well worth the time. Evidently, forgiveness is free today."

"...forgiveness is free today," the man said, but Constantine gave him little notice.

There was something odd about the man, something that rang of filth and disease, but then, there was little in America that he had known to be free of it. He brushed passed the man, squinting as the light changed from bright to dark. Cursing softly, he stopped at the basin and looked down briefly, then kept going. "Bugger this."

His sight was dead-on, his goal set. He stepped at a brisk pace, intent upon getting his job done as soon as humanly possible. America was wearing on him, and he wanted out. Things just kept popping up. Wrapping his hand around the door handle, he pulled open the center booth on the confessional, bypassing the lines of parishioners. Stepping inside, he pulled the door closed behind him and stood toe-to-toe with the priest, who said, "You can't come in here!"

"Forgive me, Father, I'm a bastard, and I ain't got time to yank meself with the rest of your bastard flock. I'm on a timeline, here, and I'd rather be doing this three sheets to the wind," Constantine replied, placing both hands on the priest's shoulders and urging him into a sitting position. "I'm looking for a piece of shit that likes to nosh on the little squealers. What do you know?"

"I can't speak of the confessions of others. As a Christian, you must know that your discussions are of private privilege, between only yourself, myself, and the Lord above."

"I got me own gods and devils, none of which are entirely happy with me, so I ain't too worried about pissing on their graves right now. I been to six churches today, and this town ain't that fucking big." Constantine noted, flicking the switch on his lighter and watching the flame dance and twist into the shape of a Pentagram. "How long ago?"

Fear erupted into the priest's eyes, and Constantine knew that he had the man. Stammering, the man fought to find his words, then whispered, "He left not too long ago, but his sins were forgiven."

"Not by me, they ain't," Constantine replied. The flames doused themselves without a seconds notice, and Constantine turned back through the door, casting a look over his shoulder, and saying, "Oh, tell God that he and I need to have a chat about His inappropriate nabbing of me mates all the time. Surely, there's some other fuckers who deserve a good turn of death. Tell him I'm a bit pissed about that, will ya?"

There were a series of shocked whispers as John strolled back through the church, lifting his his hand and extending the finger to the Virgin Mary that floated above the door.

Next Issue: Constantine delves further into the child's disappearance, but learns that there is more than meets the eye. Is there something more hideous residing in the town of Cavern's Keep, and just how deep with John need to immerse himself to find out?

Okay, I guess I should issue a disclaimer that I've taken on this series mostly as a challenge. I'd been reading a couple issues of the comic, nothing to big at the time, but enough to generate a bit of interest. I knew that Constantine was a right bastard that didn't give a care about himself or the next guy, just as long as he wasn't getting shit-on in the process.

Chris was surprised when I first expressed some interest in this, mostly because most people wouldn't hit this challenge if they wanted to, and probably because of my other work in genres that tended to be a bit more...umm...reader friendly. I have to admit, breaking my mind of social constraints was a bit challenging, but I took that challenge anyway.

Now, the big challenge was the damned dialogue. Firstly, most of y'all will notice, I'm not British. Never have been. Never will be. However, I do hope that the series is hitting Constantine's speech patterns a little bit better than y'all would expect of me. If not, let me know...I want to improve as this series goes on, and not try to wreck the character in the progress.

I'm anxious for feedback, good and bad. If you want to see more of something, let me know. I'm definitely open for depraved ideas. For now, you'll see Constantine wrapping up his tour-of-duty in America. But he's returning to Britain soon, so I need the feedback before I have everyone speaking like a stereotype :)

Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear from y'all soon, Michael Franzoni footsteps_of_the_ghost@yahoo.com

Story © 2003 Michael Franzoni and may not be reproduced without permission.