Janglin' Jack [Greed]

[downwithmyship]

In the middle of this wretched town, down a side street, there's an old wooden two-story pub. Bar on the bottom and humble home on the top, from the looks of it. And on top of that, there's an odd glitter in the light. Little glints shining through the haze and drawing in the zombies. As they come close, loud reports from a shotgun send skull and

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[constantbastard]

In the shadows at Jack's back is a new light and flicker as Constantine lights a silk cut, regretting the ash and smoke that floats through the air out of his hands. The pockets of his trench coat are stuffed to the brim making is hang awkwardly on him. Only the smoke comes out of the darkness pricking at Jack's hair like an intrusive hungry thing. John's face is lit only by the red red cherry of his cigarette.
"Have all yer ducks in a row, my precious? They've come to siege the castle. Come to give King long hair the boot."

[downwithmyship]

Jack sniffs at the air like a nervous animal and the sound of a voice so close makes the hair on his neck stand on end. How did anything get past his defenses? How did they sneak up on him? He's hardly even slept in days. He's so alert. So careful. How?

"Who's there?"
He turns, aiming his weapon above the glow of the cig and between the reflective wet whites of clever eyes.
"Bugger off, mate, or I'll leave yer head a mess on the floor an feed whot's left t'the starving beauties outside."

[constantbastard]

"My choices then are- walk into them or have my meats strewn out? The second option seems so much less painful. You really don't know how to negotiate."
John taps ash into his hand and then goes about rubbing it into the hem of his coat. His dray finger prints make a rough scratching sound on the material like a scuffling rodent. The coat is dark gray up to his shoulders wish cigarette ash. His hands are black with it.
"Here I thought you wanted conversation. Is that any way to talk to a fellow englishman?"
He picks up an open bottle.
"Do you have a cork for this? I need it you see. It's all getting away from me..."

[downwithmyship]

It's true. Jack is lonely. Maybe if he keeps a close enough eye on the man. If he watches him and doesn't let him take anything. Or just doesn't let him leave. If he keeps John among his things as well, then the man can't possibly rob him. Just move things around. Yes. This is brilliant. This is how it will be.

"Fine then. Stay. But don't bloody touch any..." But there's already a bottle in John's hands. Hell with it.
"Whot d'you need a cork for. Whot is it's getting away from you, mate?"
He looks the man over, curious over the layers of ash covering his coat. Wondering what the man is filching in his pockets..or trying to.

[constantbastard]

He glances at Jack, silently passing judgment on the man's intellect. The most important thing. Can't Jack see it slipping away? Wafting into every crevasse away from them?
"Ya ever had a lover? Someone you lived for? You wanted nothing more to wake up in the morning with them and have them be the last thing on your mouth before bed. Then all the times between. Took them to hell and back... and then they killed you?"
He takes a deep breath off his cigarette, holding it in tight before blowing out into the neck of the bottle. He slips his finger inside to make sure it stays.
"It's been leaving me my whole life. Not anymore though."
The hand with the cigarette dips into his pocket. He brings out a smoke filled jar.

[downwithmyship]

As John talks, Jack runs the fingers of one hand lightly over the smooth, old wood of the bar's wall. He thinks of time spent breathing her in and time spent hunting her down. Thinks of dying with her and for her twice...and that he'd do it again.

"...Aye...it 'appens I 'ave, mate. An' there's no use in jarring it all up. It'll always leave you. ... She always finds 'er way. Slips away faster the more dearly you love 'er. Like sand in a tight fist. ... D'you come t'take 'er from me, then?"

He guards all of his treasure well, but what he's really guarding --what's most important-- is what holds his treasure and himself. His one true love. The Black Pearl. He'll defend her to the death again if he has to.

[constantbastard]

John seems to consider it. It's always worth considering.
"No. Figure it's best to wait till she leaves you."
He sits down, hugging one of his pickle jars to his chest. The pocket hangs stretched out and floppy.
"Think I'll wait right here. Make up a cuppa? There's a love."

[downwithmyship]

Jack's eyes widen with anger and he fires a useless warning shot, murdering a few innocent bottles.
"...bugger..."
He lowers the gun, but continues to glare at John.
"She's not leaving me this time. No sea t'leave on, savvy? Others tried t'fool me into leaving 'er, but I stayed. Cap'n goes down with 'is ship, does 'e not?"

The pirate goes digging about in his mess of liquor bottles and finds a few still with liquid inside.
"No tea t'offer, mate, but you've yer choice of poisons."
He'll need to feed his new pet something.

[constantbastard]

John really hates guns. He nearly jumps out of his skin and looks ready to piss, not sure if the shot was missed intentionally. His hands first check all the jars in his pockets before himself for any holes.
"Mad buggar."

Unknowing of his pet status, John takes the liquor to calm his nerves. It's the least this man can do for scaring him.
"I'll pass on the lead then, eh?"
He tips the bottle up.
"What's your name then? Say it now or suffer a horrible nick name... you'll probably get one anyway so nevermind. Shit!"
In his fright, John dropped some ash on the floor. He gets on his knees, trying to rub it up with a corner of his coat. It seems to just smear more around. He's becoming frantic.

[downwithmyship]

The pirate relaxes a bit once he has John pegged as mad and obsessed. There's no threat to him as long as Jack doesn't try to go after the man's cigarettes.
He finds a bottle for himself and starts drinking as he heads back to sit with his new 'friend'.

"Name's Captain Jack Sparrow. An yours?"
But John seems more interested in panicking over the loss of some ash. Poor, mad bugger.
"Here, mate. Could do you a bit better."
Jack tugs down a bit of rag he'd been using to cover the windows and tosses it over to help with the ash collecting.
"That or collect your leavings in another bottle an' find some means t'carry it about."

[constantbastard]

"Can't! Smoke gets out."
John glares. Jack is trying to ruin him or something. At least the rag helps. He gets us all the ash he can, pouting at the bit now permanently stained into the cracks of the wood like a tattoo. John sits on the floor with legs crosses and carefully ashes into the neck of his bottle.
"Won't work when there's too much smoke you see?"

It takes him a moment to realize introductions have been attempted.
".. John. Constantine."

[downwithmyship]

The complaints over the inefficiency of ash storage are just absurd, so Jack ignores them, shaking his head. The zombies are getting closer. There are more. He takes a look out and doesn't like it at all. He takes a deep drink, and thinks on it. Then John gives his name.

"Constantine? That explains it. I've not yet met a Constantine who wosn' a mad bastard of some description."

He checks outside again and swears under his breath. He can hear others fighting them in the distance.
"Not sure how much longer our barricades will hold, mate. Jus' t'give proper warning."

[constantbastard]

John nods. Constantines are all bastards. It's a family trademark.
"That's fair. What Constantines have you had the pleasure of being buggered by?"
He gives a grin before blowing into the bottle. John doesn't seem to be very upset by the impending doom of the zombies.

"I might be convinced to lift a finger if you see fit to provide some food. I'm feeling woosy. Not much of a fighter when I'm hungry."
Get on that, Jack.

[downwithmyship]

There's a slight sneer. John may take this how he likes, regarding buggery either literal or not. Jack does not feel like discussing it.
"An arsehole of a pirate calling 'imself Conrad... Skilless, underhanded dog, claiming t'ave support of forgotten gods t'get 'im by. Him, a charming mad woman I once allowed passage on my ship. Johanna, think it was. You've a bit of her look about you, honestly."

Jack can't believe this bastard. He snorts in a huff and gets to his feet to see what he can find in way of food.
"Demanding little bugger. An' whot if all the food yer likely t'get, lies out there with them standing between?"

[constantbastard]

John just smirks at the mention of Conrad. He doesn't know much about that one and hasn't found anything interesting about him. Jack's description is the same as the few other sources he's had. Johanna though... she was supposed to be something. Just as doomed as the rest of them, but a real artist of the con. He's not sure if Jack is making insult by saying he looks like his female ancestor. It doesn't sound like it.

"Then I'm walking out past them while what's left of your math skills are slurped down."
Like most things Constantine says, it's more then half a bluff. The card up his sleeve only serves to protect him from a handful of individual zombies. Otherwise he wouldn't be up here taking refuge with Jack. He's scared shitless of those things.

[downwithmyship]

Jack was actually quite taken with Johanna until the woman robbed him. She used his tastes for both women and magic against him and conned him out of free transport, a bit of his rum, a good sum of gold, and a favour owed before they finally made land fall and he could be rid of her. John's resemblance to her is both attractive and annoying.

"Ah. So you'll just be walking straight through, then? Not a worry? Then jus' whot the devil are you 'ere troubling me for? If it's so bloody easy?"

He digs through his boxes and heaps of empty bottles. Jack himself looks a bit gaunt, and hasn't had much of substance in days. He tosses John a moldy bit of bread and lifts up the partial remains of a cat, but one sniff tells Jack it's badly spoiled.
"Bugger.... Not much here.... Think that an' a few jugs of water are the last of it... Not enough for company. Barely enough for me on my onesies. Savvy?"
John will have to go, regrettably. Part of him rationally realizes they both will, if they're to live long.