Migraine of the Damned and a Pint of Trouble (John Constantine)

As the sun dipped below the London skyline, John Constantine slumped in his chair at the outdoor cafe bar, one eye fixed on the amber liquid in his pint glass with a mixture of disdain and desperation. The bitter taste of the British lager was a poor substitute for the whiskey he'd rather be drinking, but it would have to do. The sounds of the city's nightlife hummed in the background, a cacophony of laughter and music that only served to grate on his already frayed nerves and continued to amplify the head-pounding migraine he woke up with. But it was the figure lurking in the shadows that really caught his attention - the devil himself, horns gleaming in the fading light, his presence a constant reminder of the deals that had been made, and the debts that still needed to be paid. Constantine's gaze flicked towards the devil, his expression a mask of disdain, but a spark of curiosity flickered in his eyes - what did the Prince of Darkness want now?

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