Metropolis.
2:00 PM on the third Saturday of every month—the reveal day for the month’s top-selling comic books across America.
Today was no exception.
Three young men were huddled directly beneath the electronic billboard, each holding a copy of a monthly issue.
“This month’s sales champion is definitely Iron Boy, right?
The final issue had him snap…
his…
fingers!
The culture section of the Daily Planet even gave him a half-page feature!”
“Why can’t it be Spider-Boy and Miss Phoenix?
Haven’t you checked the official website?
The editorial team even dug up old trade paperbacks from twelve issues ago to analyze them!
They’ve been laying the groundwork for their romance line since seventy years ago!
With a combo like pairing them up and selling nostalgia, it’d be a miracle if sales didn’t explode!”
“Both of you are dreaming.
Haven’t you read Purple Old Farmer vs.
Thunder God?
In issue forty-seven, the Thunder God brought his axe down and chopped the Purple Old Farmer’s head right off.”
“That’s way too bloody.
Relying purely on violence and cheap novelty to grab attention…”
“Your Iron Boy died in his final issue too.
Isn’t that just grabbing attention?”
“That’s called a spirit of sacrifice!”
“Give me a break…”
The three raised their voices higher and higher, slowly drawing a crowd of onlookers in front of the comic shop.
But in the very next instant…
The cover of the sales champion slowly rose from the bottom of the screen.
The cover depicted a bearded, middle-aged man with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, standing before an endless wheat field.
The wind rustles through the wheat, fragrant with the scent of rice blossoms~
—My Uncle, Captain America
India.
A cow was chewing on flowers at the mouth of an alley while a motorcycle carrying ten people squeezed past between the herd and pedestrians.
Among them was a blonde man out of place in a khaki trench coat, carrying a takeout box with a cigarette pinched in his right hand as he navigated the alleyways.
A moment later.
The man tucked the cigarette behind his ear and pushed open a iron gate.
The furnishings inside the room were sparse.
The only living creature was a bearded hulk lying sprawled out on the bed.
Constantine laughed out of sheer exasperation.
He had spent four whole days traveling across three countries, shaking off at least seven groups of trackers of unknown origin.
And the endpoint of all this effort was this guy snoring in a hotel—a man who could tear apart a tank, yet was rotting away without a shred of dignity in a foreign land!
BANG!
He kicked the side of the iron bed frame, violently jolting the man—who in his sleep was probably flirting with some Eastern European dancer—straight into the air.
“Lock-foot boy, do your fucking job proper!”
The snoring ground to a sudden halt.
The man’s eyes snapped open.
“Constantine?” Benjamin flew into a rage the moment he recognized the visitor.
“You arsehole scammer from the underworld!
Believe it or not, I’ll rip off that useless thing of yours that’s never been put to proper use and stuff it right down your throat that only smokes cheap cigarettes…”
“You should try meditation, Ben,” Constantine interrupted with sudden calmness.
“India is the birthplace of meditation.
It’s good for your blood pressure.”
“My blood pressure was fine until I saw you!”
“Alright, alright…”
Constantine let out a cold snort, casually tossing the oiled-paper takeout box he had been holding.
“Tandoori chicken, local specialty.
Give it a taste.”
…
Benjamin looked down at the takeout box on his knees.
He raised an eyebrow.
Well, he had to admit…
“What’s the point of just eating chicken?” he asked seriously.
“You didn’t get me any seasonings?”
“What seasonings?”
“Fuck!
I want something ice-cold!
I want something that’ll perk a man up!”
Constantine nodded slightly, unhurriedly reaching into the inner lining of his trench coat to pull out a small packet of powder.
“Here.”
“Satisfy that lower half of yours that can never be filled, along with your brain-stem-deficient head.”
“John, even though you’re a son-of-a-bitch scammer, you really are the bastard among my friends who understands me best.”
The corner of Benjamin’s mouth curved upward.
He opened the package, brought it to his nose, and took a deep, hard snort…
COUGH—!
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH!
“What the hell…
why is this so strong?!
I feel like someone jammed a whole thermite grenade up my fucking nose?!”
“You’ve had one of those jammed up your nose before?”
“There’s nothing the Soviets wouldn’t do, goddammit, cough cough…
cough cough cough!”
He pounded his head against the railing of the iron bed frame while coughing.
“That’s why I gave you garam masala, my dear Ben,” Constantine sighed.
“Authentic hand-ground mixed spices from Rajasthan, blended from seventeen raw ingredients.”
“In this damned New Delhi, what other premium ingredients were you expecting me to prepare for you besides this stuff?”
Benjamin gritted his teeth, finally catching his breath.
“Constantine, you know what?”
“?”
“If I can’t snort powder, I’m the uncoolest bastard in the world,” Benjamin said nostalgically.
“…Are you fucking mental?” Constantine was speechless.
“How many years ago was that advertisement of yours?”
Twisting his mouth, Benjamin paid no more attention to this British bastard, turning instead to tear open the oil-soaked paper box.
He stuffed a piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed twice.
“This cream isn’t bad,” Benjamin’s eyes lit up.
“Amul butter.”
“Two hundred rupees?”
“Spot on.”
Benjamin drank a couple of mouthfuls in content, though he lowered his head with a slight frown.
“But why is this butter turning into water?”
“Maybe because the weather’s too hot?” Constantine rubbed his chin.
Benjamin fell silent.
“Constantine.”
“Yeah?”
“What the hell did you actually buy me?”
Constantine stepped back.
BOOM—!
Benjamin’s fist grazed past him.
“What are you doing?!”
Constantine had a face full of shock and fury.
“Do you know how expensive my face is?!
This is a face kissed by Satan!
A national treasure of Hell!
Demons across all nine circles of Hell have to fucking make an appointment first just to line up and spit on this face!”
“I’m going to beat your face into a Picasso.” Gritting his teeth, Benjamin pulled his fist out from the wall as rubble showered down.
“You don’t even know who Picasso is.”
“But I know how to push your nose around to the back of your head.”
Benjamin cracked his neck, preparing to charge forward again.
Right at this crucial juncture, however, he saw all the cheeky grins on Constantine’s face vanish completely.
The Hellblazer’s expression turned solemn as he abruptly pulled out a booklet.
“Take a look at this.”
Frowning, Benjamin took it and flipped through a few pages in a hurry.
Constantine’s brow furrowed as well, and he asked tentatively:
“Notice anything?”
Benjamin closed the comic book, looking lost in thought.
“Who approved this script?”
“How the hell should I know?” Constantine was at a loss for words.
“I knew it was some trick you cooked up,” Benjamin sneered.
“This trash comic full of low-grade melodrama and fictional plots isn’t going to fool me, Constantine.”
“If you want to fool me, Constantine, you’d better go back and retake your witchery classes!”
“Forget it then.”
Constantine let out an irritated huff and walked away without looking back.
Only the distant tolling of temple bells filled the tiny room.
…Did that bastard really leave?
Benjamin sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the empty doorway for a moment.
In the end, bored out of his mind, he flipped the comic book open once more…
Author: Peter Ken Parker.
Could it be?!
Uncle Ben rubbed his eyes.
“Aha!
Caught you!”
Outside the window, a blonde head poked in upside down.
The despicable Constantine said triumphantly, “Look at you, a big grown man secretly crying here like a girl!
Benjamin Kent, you coward!”
“Constantine!
I’ll fucking—”
While Captain America on the other side of the Earth was preparing to slaughter the Hellblazer…
Kent Farm, Ariel’s room.
“Next…
do we really have to do it like this, Ariel?” a girl with long reddish-brown hair asked in a low voice.
Lana Lang, the cheerleader captain adored by countless males at Smallville High, was currently sitting on Ariel’s bed, nervously angling her long legs clad in black stockings together.
She carefully folded the draft and held it against her chest.
“It’s fine,” Ariel, sitting at his desk, said casually.
“My uncle doesn’t have any objections.”
“Didn’t your uncle not even leave a contact method…?” Lana said softly.
“That’s called tacit approval,” Ariel said solemnly.
“Silence equals consent—that’s a basic consensus in the legal world.
Of course, I haven’t checked which specific state’s laws that applies to yet, but the general direction is solid.”
“…That’s definitely not a consensus in the legal world.”
“Alright, Captain Lana.” Ariel waved a hand with his back to her.
“Go submit the draft.
As my assistant, that’s your responsibility.
Make sure you haggle properly with the publisher on my behalf.”
Lana stood up from the edge of the bed, tucked the draft into the folder she brought with her, and walked to the door.
But as she was about to push the door open, her shapely legs lingered, shifting reluctantly.
“Ariel.”
“Yeah?”
Looking at the boy’s back, which had seemed reliable and broad ever since they were young…
“This month’s Homecoming…” Lana brushed a few strands of red hair behind her ear, her watery blue eyes growing resolute.
“Ariel, I’d like to invite you to go with me…”
BANG.
The wooden door was pushed open from the outside.
A barefoot blonde girl strode arrogantly into Ariel’s room as if declaring ownership, holding a tray with two glasses of orange juice in her hands.
Joanna Kent.
“…?!”
“…I’ll be going now!”
Holding the folder, the girl squeezed past Joanna and ran out.
“Hey!
Lana!
Did you drink the orange juice?”
Ariel could even hear Martha calling from downstairs.
Unfortunately, it was to no avail; the cheerleader captain was already long gone.
“Well then, Joanna.” Ariel shrugged.
“Looks like we can hog the juice Mom squeezed all to ourselves.”
Saying that, Ariel took one of the glasses and drank heartily.
With his financial assistance…
The Kent family was thriving day by day.
Now, they didn’t even have to dilute their orange juice with water anymore!
“Have you thought about what dress you want to buy?
Joanna, your big brother is now a famous comic artist renowned in Metropolis.” He let out a burp full of orange juice flavor.
“The first royalty check has arrived, and our family has officially said goodbye to the miserable fate of dirt poverty.”
Joanna didn’t respond.
She simply walked over with her orange juice to the spot where Lana had sat moments ago and sat down by herself.
“…What’s wrong?” Ariel blinked.
“Is that cheerleader captain your girlfriend?” the girl asked coldly.