Stumbling into Paradise?

Not my characters, just my shuffling of words for my own entertainment. 

* * * * *

"Alright then, let's take a look-see and figure out what we're dealing with, eh?" said the man in the trenchcoat. He spoke with a British accent and his tone was relaxed, as if *this* was no big deal. He placed a hand on the forehead of the little girl(his left hand, a lit cigarette dangled from his right). She was lying on the bed, well, technically, she was tied to the bed, a network of bungee cords crisscrossed her torso and legs. A little thing, couldn't have been more than seven or eight, dressed in pink Hello Kitty pajamas. The bungee cords would have seemed a gross sadism, except for the flickering red flames that were her eyes and the green drool at the corner of her mouth.

The man, Constantine was what he had called himself when he had showed up at the door earlier, looked into those flaming eyes. "I am addressing the entity within. Identify yourself."

The girl's head shifted slightly, as if her "eyes" were noticing Constantine for the first time. She coughed, and a glob of the green drool flew out of her mouth and landed on the cords across her chest. Her parents, who were cowered in the corner behind him, were still as statues. "I know you" came a deep gravely voice that could not possibly have come from the little girl.

"Then you know not to piss me off. So tell me, who are you?"

"My name doesn't matter, gutter mage."

"Oh, and why no--" and then he noticed movement under the cords. Through the gaps in the cords he could just make out the girl's tiny hands pulling the pin out of a grenade. Before he could respond, there was an indescribable amount of sound and a fleeting moment of a thousand points of pain followed by nothing.

* * * * *

When Constantine opened his eyes, he was laying down. Surprisingly, he felt fine. He looked at his hands, felt his face. Nothing. Not even the scar that Maria had given him. He sat up. That was when he realized that he was no longer in his own clothes. He was cad in a white, sleeveless tunic that stopped just below his knees. A quick check and he realized that he was wearing nothing but the tunic. He looked around. He had been lying on a plain wooden table, just long enough and wide enough to accommodate him. The room was smallish and white: white floors, white walls, white ceiling. No visible lights, but clearly he could see. No visible doors either. He got up and made a quick circuit of the room. No hidden doors either. But he could hear a bit of sound. He put his ear against one of the walls and listened. After a moment, a look of disgust crossed his face and he pulled back, shaking his head. Reflexively, he patted where he would normally have pockets, at least one of which would normally have a packet of Silk Cuts. He put his ear to the wall again, and pulled back more slowly. Sure enough, he could just make out a muzak version of "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." He sat back down on the table, "Where the hell am I?" he whispered.

"A singularly inappropriate question." The voice was kind-hearted, despite the admonition, as if a kindly uncle was trying to scold a nephew while simultaneously trying not to laugh at the youth's mischievousness.

"Is that so? Care to enlighten me then?"

"What do you remember, John?" The question seemed genuine, full of concern.

"I remember being called in by Father Tommy. A girl in his parish was possessed, and he knows better than to wait in line for his lot to bring in one of theirs. He rung me up and I went to have a look. I had just asked the entity to name itself, when..." He looked up, but of course, there was no one in the room to look at. "There was a grenade. The possession was bait." He snapped his fingers. "This is some kind of bloody hospital, innit?"

A tinkling sound, like a spring breeze tickling wind chimes, filled the air. "Oh, John! A hospital? Without doors and windows and machines that go beep and doctors and nurses and IVs? Come now, you're more clever than that."

"Well, I certainly don't feel dead. And I do have some experience there."

"Ah, that you do. But do you have experience with the Final Death? The death that leads to one's eternal destiny?"

"I assume that most of my trips to hell have been a sneak peek at my coming attractions. Are you trying to tell me that it wasn't?"

The tinkling again. "I am not telling you anything, John. I am merely asking you questions."

"Questions. I believe I started this conversation asking a question. Where am I?"

"And, again, I reply, what do you remember?"

"And I already answered that one, mate: possession, grenade, explosion, and waking up here. Which just brings us right back to, where the hell is here?"

"Oh, John, as I said, that is an inappropriate way to ask the question."

"Well, I'm not exactly the most appropriate man you'll ever meet."

"Oh, well do I know that, John Constantine. You are, in your own words, 'a nasty piece of work.' But despite that, you have done a lot of good in the world. You've fought against hell your entire life. Saved lives, and even souls, on countless occasions."

Constantine grinned. "If you're trying to tell me I'm in heaven, mate, I'm not buying it. I've done things..."

The voice was silent. Waiting.

"I've done things that I ain't exactly proud of. There's a string of bodies and a whole legion of ghosts that will testify to that. And I've done some things that I am unrepentantly proud of that would put make the angels blush. I might have fought hell, but I never served heaven."

"A couple of aphorisms may be appropriate here. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' and 'sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.'"

"Meaning what? That all along I was heaven's pawn in the war against hell? That all of the crap I went through, that I inflicted on others, was all... what? Part of some bloody divine plan? Bollocks! Identify yourself, or bugger off and let me nap." He laid back down and closed his eyes.

There was total silence for a beat, and then--

"I am the Metatron" boomed the voice all around him, startling Constantine to sit up and look around. "Although maybe you would prefer me like this." The latter voice was British and came from one spot in front of him. Alan Rickman stood before him, looking just like he had come off the set of Dogma back in '99.

Constantine grinned and clapped slowly.

"You like?" The Metatron gave a slight bow. "This is actually one of my favorite bits of iconography. God likes it, as well. Used to make me assume this form all the time, until Rickman joined the celestial chorus. I rather miss being him."