Let battle commence!
DS: By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, none such as you shall---
JC: The hairy hoardes of what? And look --- not to be rude or anything, mate, but what have you got on?
DS: (Looks down at his attire: the cape with the upswept collar, the black leg tights, the flared gloves, etc.) What?
JC: Jesus, it's wanks like you that give this profession a bad name. You look like a frigging ringmaster for a particularly poncey sort of carnival, don't you?
DS: Well, not as such... I mean, it's a sort of presence thing---
JC: Hate to hand it to you, mate, but that oaf with the tongue out of KISS has presence. What you've got is... well, for starters, a cape with a collar shooting up eight inches over your head! I mean, what's the bleeding point of that?
DS: Well--- (Shakes himself as if from a trance) By the Moons of Munipoor! I will not be---
JC: (Sympathetically) I've a hunch you've looked even sillier than that at times, eh?
DS: (Nods dumbly)
JC: Well, never mind. Let's pop off round the corner for a quick one, shall we?
DS: Your... your will is strong, John Constantine, but I... (Adapts a martial arts pose) I can fight with my body as well!
JC: Oh bloody hell, look, if it's knocking heads you're after, there'll be plenty of yobboes down at the pub. Some of them could stand for a good arse-kicking. Now come on!
DS: All... all right.
JC: Just buy us a packet of silk cuts as well, will you? Er... you have got money stored somewhere in those ballet tights, haven't you?
DS: I am Doctor Stephen Strange! I can conjure unlimited amounts of money!
JC: This looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, mate.
DS: Really?
JC: No.
The Champ.
And, in this case, the champ doesn't get the girl, really, because they're always leaving him or dying or getting dragged down to Hell as a result of John's awful behavior.
Next: Hard Knocks
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