There he was again - slumped over the old oak surface, a cold pint chilling his right hand, and a cigarette staining his left. John's puffs were slow and lazy, the stick dangling off his thin lips in a way that was almost worthy of respect with how it managed to stay in place.

A routine had set in - the occasional weary sigh would leave his form, a thin layer of the ever present guilt that followed his travels clinging to his mysterious figure, and then he'd bring the glass to moisten his dry throat yet again. His movements were unhurried - almost too unhurried for a man like John, but the day had taken a toll on him and he had decided to treat himself by taking it slow tonight.

And by slow, of course, he meant spending yet another night in the warm confines of his favorite cheap bar and hopefully in the arms of some nice lass or lad later. How was that any different from any other night, you might ask? Good question.

Unfortunately, no one had really caught his eye - the bar was quiet for once, by some miracle, and all the pretty birds had already been signed for - Maybe got 'ere too early, he thought as the smoke wafted from his nostrils.

Although the background chatter was more or less unnoticeable, the atmosphere was blissfully filled by the old and somewhat nostalgic rock piece playing from the jukebox in the other corner of the dimly lit shithole. John almost found himself tapping his fingers against the bar to the rhythm.

A small, very small, smirk played on his face for a moment, like he had just thought of a joke he didn't have anyone to share with. He couldn't help but think that was a good way to summarize most of his life.

Despite the leisured way he sat on the barstool, Constantine stayed keenly aware of everything happening between the walls of the establishment - The burdens of being the world's greatest con-man and master of the dark arts, he thought a bit bitterly, with a heavy load of sarcasm, yet with an undertone of pride, before puffing some more on his smoke.

Then, he washed down the nicotine with the last sip of his beer, before bringing the glass down with a quiet thud. "Another one, will ya, mate?" He signaled by tapping against the battered wood that had seen better days and nodding towards the only bartender on shift. His free hand began toying with his beloved Zippo lighter, a gesture that both soothed and distracted him.

And as he waited for his third - or maybe forth? Hell, might've even been the sixth - drink, John once again scanned his surroundings with a half-lid gaze. Who knew, maybe he'd get lucky enough to find some trouble to keep himself entertained. And if he was extra lucky, maybe a pretty face to go along with it.