Second Chances
		      by Crystal McCalvey


Though air conditioning was a luxury not completely alien to this
country, the scorching sun still reigned over most of the land.
Those who retreated to the relief of the shade were spared no ounce
of mercy from the humidity, and even the night offered little in
the way of sympathy.

Having staked out a spot in front of a clattering fan that only
served to throw the hot air into his face rather than cool him, the
yank stared forlornly at the notepad in front of him. In spite of
his friend's advice, the only stories he'd heard all day from the
bar full of mercenaries were nothing more than the most inane
bragging. Nothing that he could use in the least.

There had to be something in this place to work with.

Reaching up to mop at his brow with an already soaked handkercheif,
his gaze raked over the room once more. It was the perfect setting.
A run-down bar that had no 'better times' to speak of in fond
memories of it's regular patrons. The sort every author had wet
dreams about actually describing with any amount of clarity. 

The noise in the dank ramshackle bar was typical of every dive in
every town across the world. Clanking glasses, the chatter of old
chums in the corner, and the inevitable sounds of someone retching
not too far off. On top of that was the smell... The vile dusky
scent of vomit mixed with the sawdust dumped on top of it by a
bartender who saw no need to expend any extra effort. The booze was
even the worst form of watered-down pig-piss that could possibly be
passed off as any form of alcoholic imbibation. 

Twirling the worn-down stub of a pencil between his fingers, he
began to draw errant swirls and assorted scribbles on the sides of
the pad. A few more, then he could pull David away from his old
chums and head back to the hotel for some rest. A chance to sit in
a cool room for awhile sounded better than a chance to return to
Eden at this point.

Steeling himself for the next round of rehashed stories that might
come his way, he put on his friendliest smile while turning around
on his stool to face the room.

"Anyone else got a story to tell?"

***

Nudging his glass of so-called gin away from him in disgust, a war
torn figure sat alone at the bar with a growing sense of annoyance.

Perhaps he'd managed to choke down enough of his drink for it to
fuel his already present foul mood, or perhaps he was just looking
for a reason to shoot his mouth off. Whatever the reason, he just
had to do something. Days of nothing to do and little decent drink
to stave off the muggy heat had been riding on him like his harping
old hag of a mum. 

Settling his blood-shot gaze on the American at the other end of
the bar, his tongue shot out to run over parched lips thoughtfully.
Maybe, maybe. He'd been sitting here for most of the day debating
the merits of telling his own tale.

The others would shun him as his chums had way back when, that
wasn't in doubt. The money he'd earned for his silence had long
since run out though, and jobs were few for one of his reputation. 
He still had no idea who this guy was, but he could take a guess.
It was easy to spot a journalist looking for a break and some
horror stories of old wars to tell. An expose might get him some
good, quick cash. Especially if he twisted the story a bit to put
himself in a good light.

Gripping his hand around the glass he'd so readily discarded
moments before, the bitterly warm gin was swallowed in quick gulps.
A little bolster to his courage and he'd be set.

"I got one."

***

Those who knew Van Owen glanced up upon hearing his voice to see
what might come of this particular exchange. He wasn't one to talk
often unless it was to shoot his mouth off in a drunken stupor.
Such things were always good for a laugh, and laughing was always
good to forget about their present living conditions.

All eyes were upon the Dutch mercenary as he slid off the edge of
his stool to make his way toward the writer. Every few steps he'd
take a quick glance around, as if afraid he might be surprised by
something in the short distance it took to reach his goal. 

In spite of this his arrival received a friendly smile from the
writer as he gestured for a seat to be taken.

"Really? Well have a seat then. I'd love to hear it." 

The jittery mercenary sat as requested, casting a sidelong look
toward the overly-friendly man speaking to him. Hesitation caught
him once more as he found his resolve lacking. Those watching saw
this, and began go goad him into sharing. They all had after all,
it was his turn. Only fair. 

Even those reassurances were ignored for the most part. It wasn't
untill one of the men dared to question his masculinity did he
break down. No more teasing, no more insults, no more, no more,
nomorenomorenomore!

Slamming his glass down on the bar to bark a request for a refill
at the bored bartender, his attention turned fully toward the
presumed journalist.

"Alright. Back in '69 I was with this one group out in the congo.
Spent years there we did, doing what we do. Nothing really
interesting in that though. The usual stuff. We were thompson
gunners, best of the best."

As the story proceeded, a pencil tapped idly against the notepad.
Another one. It was the same as before, so why should he bother to
write it down? For several moments he let his attention slip from
the tale-teller, only to be drawn back as one particular part of
the story caught his attention.

"...He was the best of all of us, but he had a big mouth. He
started selling secrets to the other side. So the CIA had him
killed."

***

A heated blast of air swept through the already muggy room, causing
those who looked toward the door to squint against the dust kicked
up. The image seen when their vision cleared wasn't anything really
surprising.

A figure stood silhouetted for a brief moment in that space between
light and dark that tends to reside in doorways. That brief
hesitation of the light from creeping out to annoy it's darker half
with its presence. Almost every eye turned to regard the stranger,
only to resume their conversations as if he didn't exist. Unaware,
or uncaring of the scrutiny he'd just received, the figure shuffled
in and made his way toward the far end of the bar to sit with a
weary groan. 

"Guinness."

He most certainly wasn't a local. The man didn't have the look of a
mercenary, nor did he really seem like he could hold his own in any
sort of a fight. So it was quite a surprise to most in the room
when he turned to stare pointedly at Van Owen.

"That ain't how the story goes."

A flicker of fear crossed Van Owen's features momentarily, only to
be replaced by indignant anger. Snatching up his glass of gin he
swaggered toward the stranger.

The closer he got, the sorer shape he seemed to be in.  His
clothing was covered with a thin layer of smeared dirt, and his
hair was mussed in a haphazardly wind-blown tangle that matched the
grimy several-day-old stubble on his chin. Definitely someone who'd
had the world riding his shoulders for a good long time. 

"You calling me a liar?" 

After stating his challenge, Van Owen's gaze bored into the
stranger while awaiting a response. Perhaps he could at least take
some of his frustrations out on this scrawny fellow. If nothing
else, he'd enjoy the chance to make the man crawl beneath his heel.

The only reply however, was silence.

Annoyance flared in him as the others began to snicker over the
lack of reaction, so he stepped his efforts up to look good in
front of the others.  

Slamming the gin glass onto the worn bar top with a force that
caused it's contents to slosh over his hand, he leaned forward to
shove his face up close to the newcomer's. The bitter stench of his
breath blew out hot against the stubbled cheek of the poor sod
whose space he was so blatantly invading.

"You deaf? I *said* 'Are you calling me a liar?'" 

"Two words mate: Breath mints. To answer you though, yes I am
indeed calling you a liar."

The entire tone the stranger took was out of place. Not at all
right for the attitude of those who wandered to this place, nor for
the liking of the mercenary trying to get a rise out of him.
Arrogant, and cocky, that was to be expected, but the utter lack of
concern to the point of sounding almost bored caught his would-be
assailant quite off guard. 

"You're full of it. You weren't there."

Though he managed to recover from being thrown off his little game
well enough, his voice didn't hold quite as much conviction as it
had before. Instead it held a quavering edge of fear that someone
might actually know the truth, impossible as it was.

Rather than answer right away the stranger merely reached into his
pocket to grope around for a pack of cigarettes, which he
unceremoniously dumped on the counter in front of him. Tugging one
of the Silk Cut's loose to lift to his lips, his eyes finally
shifted over to look at the Dutchman currently breathing down his
neck.

"Got a light for me fag, mate? Aw, fuggit, nevermind. Found 'em."

A single matchbook produced from another pocket soon found one of
its number ripped out to flare alight for usage. In the flickering
flame that danced along the thin cardboard stick the features of
the haggard face came to life. With that same flame the anger
filling the half-drunk mercenary rekindled itself.

"Well?"

"Well water."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean!?"

"It means," began the stranger as he shook the match out with a
flick of his wrist, "I don't plan on answering anything till I get
myself a good stiff drink. So siddown and shut yer yap."

"I'll do no such thing, not till you admit you're full of it!"

"Fine." 

Twirling the burnt match between his fingers only to allow it to
fall to the floor a moment later, he shifted on the stool so one
arm propped comfortably up against the bar. Plucking the fag from
between his lips a long, drawn out breath of smoke was slowly and
deliberately exhaled at the mercenary's face. 

"I'm full of it. That doesn't change the fact that you're a bigger
pile of bloody horse shit than me."

Before any more could be said, the stranger lifted his hand into
the air, swirling it around so that the smoke created a thin cloud
that only added to the already choking haze of the bar.

"Now c'mon, it's obvious you're a friggin' liar. You guys want to
hear the real story? It's alot better than his."

Fidgeting like a deer caught in the headlights of an impending
crash, the dutch mercenary sat down on a stool hard. His mouth
flapped ineffectually a few moments as sound failed to come out in
protest. At that particular time his hand found his empty glass and
he turned silently to motion for the bartender to refill it. 

Sitting back with a smug smile, the fag regained its place between
the chapped lips of its owner as he puffed away on it thoughtfully.
Rather than speak right away he waited patiently until the
mercenary once more hand a drink. It was about this time he
realized his own wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Hey, I said gimme a bloody Guinness. Can't expect a man to tell a
story proper-like without a drink."

Casting a glare at him, the bartender grudgingly went off to get
one of the requested stouts from his own personal stash beneath the
counter.

"That's better. Now... the story." Moving his fag only long enough
to take a good chug off of the bitterly warm Guinness, he began
mulling over exactly what to tell. 

"Well now. Let me tell you boy's something. There's a hell of a lot
more between heaven and hell than most anybody expects to see in
their miserable lives, and I've about near seen most of it myself."

By this point the once-noisy bar had subsided, falling prey to the
chance to hear the stranger's version. Many chuckled, guffawed, or
out-right hollered at the stranger to quit stalling with the
nonsense he seemed to be spouting, only to be shushed to silence by
others who wanted to hear what this outsider had to say. 

Van Owen simply sat grudgingly, wishing for this ordeal to be over
all the sooner. So while he waited for the chance to deal a worldly
amount of pain on the pissant Brit, he swilled back more of the
terrible gin to warm the pit of his stomach in a sickly way. 

"What I'm gonna say is as real as real can be, and if any of the
lot of you doubt my word, well you can bloody well kiss my arse and
go to hell. Tell 'em John Constantine sent you, they'll treat you
special-like."

John merely watched Van Owen with a hidden smile from behind the
veil of smoke he was producing from his beloved Silk Cut as if that
particular statement were meant solely for him. Pausing just long
enough for dramatic effect, and another swill of his drink, he
continued.

"There's devils, and angels. There's a bloody god, and there's a
damned hell. Some folk though, they got themselves caught in a bit
of a pickle. Don't happen often, rarely happens in fact, but this
is such a case of it."

"Now, one part of his story I won't deny is the fact that he was
fighting with his chums. His mate though, he was the best of their
group. Led them through some pretty sticky situations. So his
bosses got kind of leery about letting him loose with all the
information he'd learned."

After that rather large mouthful John sat back once more, drumming
his fingers against his half-empty Guinness. The silence stretched
on this time past the point of suspense, moving on toward the
awkward silence begging to be broken. The kind that almost shatters
audibly once it is, and it always is.

"So good old Van Owen here, he shot off his mate's head for a
pretty penny."

The Dutchman cracked a scathing smile, as he broke out into a
roaring laugh that was entirely devoid of humor. A good number in
the bar began to fidget from that sound, the laugh of someone
clearly on the verge of snapping.

"How do you know that? How can you know it?" Turning to glance at
the rest of the room imploringly, Van Owen stepped off of his stool
to edge as far away from John as he could. "He can't, he can't know
that... I took him out away from everyone."

Running a hand back through his scraggly thining hair, dark eyes
flitted around to peer at those who were slowly begining to shake
their heads in disgust at him.

"It was an accident. H-he wanted me to!"

Slowly the Silk Cut was pulled from John's lips only to be crushed
into obscurity on the heel of his shoe. It was almost sad watching
Van Owen prattle on so desperately to people who'd grown deaf to
his lame arguments. Already a good number began to file out from
having their fill of being in the same room as the traitor. 

"Don't like that truth, mate? How's this one for you?" 

Now his tone shifted, his very posture, everything about him that
had screamed 'pathetic loser' before. His eyes came alive with a
piercing quality that bored their way into the very core of his
unfortunate listener. His words were strong, confident, and above
all persuasive.

"Sometimes when things have gone to hell, you get a second chance.
A way to make things right. You just got to believe real hard, and
that chance'll come before you know it."

Jerking his eyes away from those who'd turned their backs on him,
Van Owen sat down rather hard in defeat. Slowly his head turned to
stare at John in bewilderment as his words fell over him. 

"Y-you think so?"

"I know so." 

John nodded slowly while pulling out another Silk Cut and lifting
it to his lips. The match in his hand cast another warm glow on his
otherwise stark face as he cupped his hands around the end of his
fag, watching the mercenary from over the edges of his hands.

"Just got to start out by admiting the truth. That's always how
things are done. So... What was his name anyway?"

Pausing with a puzzled expression, Van Owen shook his head to allow
a bit of clarity to creep back in. It was an innocent enough
question after all. 

"Roland? The thompson gunner?"

Pulling away the match he used to set fire to his fag, John slowly
shook out the flame as he had before. Rolling it between his
fingers till he felt the heat fade, his eyes remained fixated on
the man seated halfway across the bar.

"That'd be it."

***

With that final statement the tension in the bar snapped like the
strings of an over-tuned violin. The light cut out till the only
source of illumination seemed to come from John's fag; a steadily
glowing ember of crimson hellfire hovering in mid-air.

As with the last time the door opened, a figure was illuminated in
the doorway. The wind whipped about this tall man, snapping the
fabric of his uniform as loud as any crack of lightning ever was.
It tugged at his pant legs to try and tear them from the confines
of his boots, it snapped at his arms like biting snakes, and the
collar flipped up and over the gory stump where a head should be.

A new light filled the bar from the rapid muzzle-flash of Roland's
Thompson gun. Van Owen's body jerked and danced; a gory marionette
suspended only by the further rain of bullets that pierced through
his body to offer up a scarlet geyser of warm blood that repainted
the bar a hideous shade. A show of light and liquid, flowing
together to make a macabre display of almost artistic death. 

The loud ear rattling thunder of the Thompson gun finally cut out
once the hail of bullets had stabbed through Van Owen enough that
his upper half and lower half both found very different places to
land on the floor which had become slicked by something other than
vomit and piss-poor booze. 

Silence reigned once more, and Roland moved on silently; avenged. 

***

Sitting in place thoughtfully, John watched the pool of blood
slowly begin to trickle it's way along the cracks in the
floorboards while everyone else seemed to have disappeared in that
magical manner that they tend to do when in fear for their lives. 

Turning his attention away to more important things, he stretched
out over the counter to grope behind it for a moment. Rewarded by
his efforts with a new bottle of Guinness, he sat back and glanced
over the pile of gore that was once Van Owen to smirk at the figure
clutching a notepad to his chest as he huddled in the corner.

"Cheers, mate."

******

Author's notes: 

Natural disclaimer. John Constantine is property of DC
Comics/Vertigo, Van Owen, Roland, and Warren (the writer in the
story) are copyrighted to Warren Zevon. 

While I'm a fan of John Constantine, I admit to really not knowing
much about him besides what I've read off of spoiler pages. The
real reason I wrote this story was to tell the tale in a song my
boyfriend introduced me to: Warren Zevon's 'Roland the Headless
Thompson Gunner'. It's a good song, and I recommend it to anyone
with a taste for the odd. That said, hope you enjoy. If not, oh
bloody well.

Special thanks to my boyfriend for introducing me to the song,
'Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner', and thanks to David Tai for
helping me bat around ideas. (Now go write your fics, ya lazy
arse!) Also thanks to Trisha Lynn Sebastian for posting my fic on
OTL.