John Constantine and The Useless Magic Rock

Great.

(An older work of mine, few years old)

Ow...

He lifted a hand and gripped his pounding head.

He squinted his heavy eyelids to a visionable level, the dull lighting of a street lamp above him blinding.

Carefully, and painfully at that, the person currently spread out on the concrete road rose his head to take in a glimpse around him.

"Fuckin.....what the in the bloody hell happened?"
His eyes widened considerably at the squeaky noise that came out with the question.
Why was his voice so damn high?!

Was he kicked in the balls before he passed out?!
Something knock em in his throat?
Screamed to much, lost it and was just now comin back?

Sitting up to rest on his arm, he used the current hand on his noogin's exterior and switched it to his neck. He rubbed the area in hopes of a placebo.

It didn't hurt, nor was it sore, and frankly that was a problem in his book.

Finding that he was quite done with sitting on the floor, he pulled himself up and leaned on the lamp pole.

He sat there for a moment, feeling his heart run in his chest, pain lingering on his sides and ankle.

In a dazed fashion, he watched the bugs and flies swarm and float around the bright source.

A car passing by brought him back.
Right.
To find out where the hell he landed himself this time.

Making his way across the road and along the sidewalk, the figure patted down his long beige coat for his things.

Alright, checklist:
Watch-check
Lighter-check
Magic card-check
Cigarette packs-check
Pocket knife-check
His contact cards-che-No.

Where were his contact cards? He was going to change it sooner or later, the whole John Constantine; with his number and the following: Exorcist, Demonologist and Master of the Dark Arts.
It was weirdly enough that the last bit was what got people's attention.

He picked around again, his materials needed to call his angel 'friend' was there along with a few other objects he carried on hand and whatever he brought for his last case.

Strangely, his phone wasn't on his person either.
Sure he didn't use it a whole lot, 'specially on cases, but it was still his!

Walking past a few late night strangers, he saw a new height difference between him and them.
Maybe the slight limp?(call it wishful thinking, for all he knew, he hit his head and things just didn't look right yet.)

John pulled out a cig from a pack and lit it.
Again.....oddly enough, this gained new looks of disappointment, concern and worry.
He's been smoking for years, picked it up from his excuse of a abusive father and most people excepted his habits from someone his age, a few disgusted looks here and there-but never concern.
So why now?

He went past his reflection of a shop window before pausing and deciding to push his luck.

Well that explains that....

The full moon looming above him, John saw what was concerning in a few ways.

His form was battered up a bit, making him think he might've faced something before this,
A split lip, a cut brow and a bruised cheek; photo perfect with his lit bud.

But he wasn't concerned about that, if he managed to only look like this after every spat, then he'd consider himself lucky.

But what startled him the most wasn't the state of his face.....but the appearance of it.

"Fuuuuuucck......" he groaned quietly, his sweat-filled blonde bangs plastered against the face of what seemed like a ten year old.

"H-hey, young man? Are y-you alright kid?"
He turned to his left to find a man kneeling down to his level.
Fuck he was a lot shorter too!

"Um...uh y-yeah mate, peachy..."

His usual response seemed to of sent up a red flag, making the man and his woman friend behind him pass a look of concern.
"S-son.....is...is there someone hurtn ya?"

Oooh no.
No.
Nonono no no.
NO.

He was not havin this conversation again.

"Oh no! J-just was in a bit of a scrap earlier is all! Thanks anyway." He hopefully half-lied and went around them, trying not to run.

His cig's smoke trailing after him as he made it down the block corner and shot off.