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83% in!
Character: John Constantine
Series: Hellblazer (comicverse)
Age: 56 - but looks about thirty.
Job: Camp Misanthrope
Canon: John Constantine, the Laughing Magician - a name known in magical circles from America to Zimbabwe. The chain-smoking, foulmouthed English magus has made a bit of a name for himself, between tricking the Devil (three times - not exactly an unimpressive feat), curing cancer, and saving the world innumerable times. He's a master of ritual magic - although he tends not to rely on it, and he's more what you might call a psychic conman. And it's not without its price - his escapades tend to gain him more enemies than friends, and the friends he has have a tendency of ending up dead. Especially since he began owing the Devil his soul in 1991, his main aim has been to stay alive as long as possible. Mind, you wouldn't necessarily think so, to look at him - he's too addicted to the occult to stop using magic, too much of a humanist to stop stepping in and saving people, and he still drinks like a fish, smokes like a factory chimney, and gets in fights with the wrong sorts of people.
John seems, at first glance, like your classic cynical bastard. And at second glance. And-- okay, he's your classic cynical bastard. And fucking impolite with it. He hates elitists, he hates rich people, he hates people who don't help other people... he probably hates you, unless you just bought him a drink. Despite all this, he can be charming when he wants to be, and he wisecracks more or less constantly. He doesn't have many friends, but he cares deeply about those he does, and, despite appearances, he cares a good deal about humanity as a whole. He's not against a bit of crime where necessary, and he regularly walks over people to be where he needs to be, but whoever said being a good guy meant you had to be nice?
Sample Entry:
Ha fucking ha.
Only bloody job offer I've had in years, and I'd still turn it down if I hadn't... somehow got here anyway. And speaking of, how the hell did I get here? And where is here? Camp Fuck You Die, I suppose - and congratulations on the cheery, welcoming name, by the way, Elizabeth - but that's not exactly specific.
Oh, sod it. I'm still hoping this is a bad trip off something, and they're busy shitting their pants over my comatose body. Jesus, I wish I could believe that...
But even if this is real, and you're up there thinking this is funny, I'm telling you-- Shit! There's a fucking duck eating my shoe. Get the fuck out of it, you feathery little bugger! Go on, piss off, before I-- ow! Oh, you son of a bitch, you were aiming for the balls, weren't you? Give me a cleaver and a place to stand and I might not move the earth, but I'll have duc a l'orange tonight...
...Yeah, you fucking better run. Flap. Swim. Whatever. I'm going to beat a very brave retreat before you call over the whole nest. Oh, yes, I see that look in your beady little eye, you bastard. Fuck you, and fuck the countryside. Hell, Hyde Park's too big a field for me. I'm a city boy, always have been. And what now? Now I'm stuck in a damn summer camp looking after a load of kids. And, I mean, seriously, they couldn't call in anyone who lives in the same country? Or who can look a scarecrow in the eye without trauma flashbacks? I'm telling you, all the worst shit happens in the country. Just look at the news. The country drives people nuts.
Apparently me quicker than others, since I'm seeing robot cows and tentacle monsters. This is not bloody okay. There's a psychedelic pigeon talking in my head, I'm soaking wet 'cos I just fell into a pond full of killer ducks, and you know what's worst? What's unforgivably worse? My fucking fags are wet.
Is this some sort of misanthropy test? Because if so, I think I pass. I hate the world. I hate the camp. I sure as fuck hate you right now.
83% in!
Character: John Constantine
Series: Hellblazer (comicverse)
Age: 56 - but looks about thirty.
Job: Camp Misanthrope
Canon: John Constantine, the Laughing Magician - a name known in magical circles from America to Zimbabwe. The chain-smoking, foulmouthed English magus has made a bit of a name for himself, between tricking the Devil (three times - not exactly an unimpressive feat), curing cancer, and saving the world innumerable times. He's a master of ritual magic - although he tends not to rely on it, and he's more what you might call a psychic conman. And it's not without its price - his escapades tend to gain him more enemies than friends, and the friends he has have a tendency of ending up dead. Especially since he began owing the Devil his soul in 1991, his main aim has been to stay alive as long as possible. Mind, you wouldn't necessarily think so, to look at him - he's too addicted to the occult to stop using magic, too much of a humanist to stop stepping in and saving people, and he still drinks like a fish, smokes like a factory chimney, and gets in fights with the wrong sorts of people.
John seems, at first glance, like your classic cynical bastard. And at second glance. And-- okay, he's your classic cynical bastard. And fucking impolite with it. He hates elitists, he hates rich people, he hates people who don't help other people... he probably hates you, unless you just bought him a drink. Despite all this, he can be charming when he wants to be, and he wisecracks more or less constantly. He doesn't have many friends, but he cares deeply about those he does, and, despite appearances, he cares a good deal about humanity as a whole. He's not against a bit of crime where necessary, and he regularly walks over people to be where he needs to be, but whoever said being a good guy meant you had to be nice?
Sample Entry:
Ha fucking ha.
Only bloody job offer I've had in years, and I'd still turn it down if I hadn't... somehow got here anyway. And speaking of, how the hell did I get here? And where is here? Camp Fuck You Die, I suppose - and congratulations on the cheery, welcoming name, by the way, Elizabeth - but that's not exactly specific.
Oh, sod it. I'm still hoping this is a bad trip off something, and they're busy shitting their pants over my comatose body. Jesus, I wish I could believe that...
But even if this is real, and you're up there thinking this is funny, I'm telling you-- Shit! There's a fucking duck eating my shoe. Get the fuck out of it, you feathery little bugger! Go on, piss off, before I-- ow! Oh, you son of a bitch, you were aiming for the balls, weren't you? Give me a cleaver and a place to stand and I might not move the earth, but I'll have duc a l'orange tonight...
...Yeah, you fucking better run. Flap. Swim. Whatever. I'm going to beat a very brave retreat before you call over the whole nest. Oh, yes, I see that look in your beady little eye, you bastard. Fuck you, and fuck the countryside. Hell, Hyde Park's too big a field for me. I'm a city boy, always have been. And what now? Now I'm stuck in a damn summer camp looking after a load of kids. And, I mean, seriously, they couldn't call in anyone who lives in the same country? Or who can look a scarecrow in the eye without trauma flashbacks? I'm telling you, all the worst shit happens in the country. Just look at the news. The country drives people nuts.
Apparently me quicker than others, since I'm seeing robot cows and tentacle monsters. This is not bloody okay. There's a psychedelic pigeon talking in my head, I'm soaking wet 'cos I just fell into a pond full of killer ducks, and you know what's worst? What's unforgivably worse? My fucking fags are wet.
Is this some sort of misanthropy test? Because if so, I think I pass. I hate the world. I hate the camp. I sure as fuck hate you right now.