I only speak the truth [OPEN]

[satangotmylungs]

Who; John Constantine and OPEN
What; See John drunk. See John passed out, in a rather bothersome spot. Poke with a stick, kick to the groin, splash with a bucket of water...wake up, John, wake up!
Where; Anywhere your character happens to be walking, an alley, whatever, the gutter, outside a shop...there is a head of dark hair, or a shiny black

Comments

[loves_vera]

Jayne wasn't the sort of person to really care who was passed out in the middle of the street. If they were dumb enough to do it, then let the pickpockets or monsters have at the gorram moron. But this unfortunate was passed out right in the middle of his way to the Roadhouse. He liked the bar, liked the lady who ran it, and so did Mal.

Which is why he found himself ambling in the direction of the form, prodding it with his boot enough to flip him onto his back.

Oh. Him.

He grabbed Constantine by the foot and dragged him unceremoniously into the alley, with the intention of leaving the moron there.

you...you Magnificent BASTARD I LOVE YOU ;3;

[satangotmylungs]

Again, John may have been balls to the walls out of it at the start, as he clearly was, but John had more things in his pockets than cash, coin, and perhaps some gold, which was the only reason he could sober up when grabbed.

It was all good and well that he'd grabbed his foot, really. As soon as he felt the strong hand (definitely not female, definitely able to be abused without guilt), the man sprang to life, looking for all intents and purposes like the undead.

He sat up quicker than could be expected, eyes seemingly pitch black, one hand quickly ripping the bottle of vodka that was slightly stuck to his bare stomach off, and aiming to bring it down on the wrist attached to the hand having a hold on him. And it wasn't a sloppy aim, it wasn't a pussy level of strength beneath it-one would think he was fighting for his life at the moment, despite being as sickly unhealthy-looking as he was, dark bags beneath those darker eyes, lips far too red for such a pale face.

[loves_vera]

Jayne was no amateur when it came to back alley brawls. Hell, he'd been involved in fights like that since he was twelve. He dropped his elbow, catching the force of the bottle across his shoulder and back. It also left him at the perfect angle to bring his other arm swinging around for a devestating left cross.

Gorram drunks.

[satangotmylungs]

It made a halfway-hit, halfway because John moved quick enough to only catch part of it, though it wasn't any easier to take. Here he'd been brought back from the dead, suffered his entire abdominal skeletal system being broken as easy as falling trees, blood loss, alcohol...and now this.

He didn't say anything, only grunted. And, for a moment, it seemed he was trying to drag himself away from the fight that he'd started. It seemed he'd thrown the towel in, that he realized he was in over his head.

But John dealt with worse shit on a daily basis than a brawl fight with a human. Which was why it was no surprise to him that he still had his holy brass knuckles in his jacket-more surprise for Jayne when he aimed a hellish set of the weapon on his closed fist, crosses engraved into each one of them.

The Big Man wouldn't be pleased, but he never was. Fuck Him. All that mattered was John didn't know what the fuck was going on and he sure as hell wasn't going to back the fuck down.

[loves_vera]

Brass knuckles? Was he serious?

With a smooth and praticed move, Jayne swung Vera to bear on the exorcist, aiming her squarely at his chest. "I heard the sayin about not bringin a knife to a gun fight, but jewelry?" He snorted, darkly amused.

"Now. We done here or does Vera need to punch a few holes in that cheap suit?"

[satangotmylungs]

John was standing, the breeze blowing his black, vodka-stained tie against his face before over his shoulder. His stomach was bear, pale, clearly underfed; his eyes were dark and narrowed, heavy circles beneath them, seemingly missing their pupils entirely; his stance was straight out of some horror movie, of the hero having finally slayed the last zombie with barely functioning ax blades, still held in his hand and cutting into his palms; the knuckles were clenched well around his fist, but he didn't seem to have recognized the fact of the matter that there was a gun pointed at his chest at all.

At least, not until:

"What kind of fucking pussy names their piece of shit gun? I've pawned off Roman coins more terrifying than that piece of shit. Too scared to fight like a real man, or are you toting a fuckin' badge behind you? You gonna go and squeal like a pig about the mean mad drunk?"