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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine	By : Krystal_Frame Category: 1 through F > Constantine Views: 917 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own JC or any other DC properties. Merely meant for funsies.

Chapter List
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John hadn't been in Japan for nearly a decade. His arrival on a red-eye flight was heralded by strong winds, a freezing rain and the promise of snow in the forecast. It might have been comforting in December, but this was July. The coastal city of Hakodate had been plagued by unseasonable weather for ten days. Some might say it was a sign of the times, or global warming. The fact that the center of the mysterious weather seemed to move around in circles out at see...much like a school of fish...or perhaps a whale, had John hitting the books metaphorically speaking before he jumped on a plane.

Bake-kujira...ghost whale. Known to reek havoc with the weather, plague whalers and fishers and generally run amok. It hadn't the history of killing anyone but a few fishing and tourist vessels had gone astray. A friend in Japan's weather bureau asked John to come out, sensing that the issue was of a dark arts nature. Now John stood on a dock, the wind slapping his legs with his trench coat, watching a flock of birds wheeling, turning and swooping 300 yards off shore. Below the flock the water churned and bubbled, agitated by a large school of fish. Two water tornadoes had spun down from the clouds and flung hail at him, threatening to come close to shore but neither making it. All in the half-hour that he had been watching.
He'd identified it. He knew exactly what it wasd. But he was buggered to know how to deal with the damn thing. Or why it was there. Whaling and fishing were controlled by the Japanese government with a grip that would put Godzilla to shame (it had to happen), and the fishers spent more time repopulating the fish schools than taking from them. The waters around the tiny island nation had never been so healthy and the last nuclear disaster had been ages ago. A single tsunami nine months ago had upset some oil rigs, but the spills had been quickly dealt with and the green efforts of the nation tripled in its wake.
"So what th'hell is your problem, luv?" John wanted to know, the smoke from his cigarette drifting by him in the wind, perfuming the air.
The birds above the ghost whale started diving in pairs, some catching the same fish and taking into the air to fight over it. The shore was littered with severed fish heads, fish fins, fish bones. Detritus from 10 days of constant feeding.
Feeding..
Hungry.
John's belly rumbled when he thought of it, but it was the whale that was starving. What did whales eat? John's childhood education came to him and the word "krill" floated through his mind. But how the hell was he to get a metric ton of krill? And would it be enough? Would the Bake-kujira require ghostly krill?
John groaned, then moaned, then rolled his eyes and took the chalk from his jacket pocket. He made himself a circle on the deck of the dock and sat down in it, preparing his mind.
Krill...tiny, microscopic shrimp creatures that filled the ocean like bacteria filled a petri-dish. He had to summon the ghosts of the krill, billions, and billions of krill, to feed this hungry ghost whale.
John sat for hours conjuring, rolling the same words past his throat and over his tongue and into clenched teeth as night fell and the temperature with it. He shivered, risking hypothermia as he cast this absurd, mega-spell over and over. The memories of the ghost krill were short lived, but their presences swept across his mind like feathers, leaving him with a constant itch. He felt like he was crawling with fire ants and that made him sweat, which only made the cold worse.
It was for a good cause, he told himself.
The wind grew stronger and colder, the sea roiled beneath him, but John held his focus. A foolish idea, in the end. The krill had attracted the ghost whale, alright, and it had powered under the surface of the sea all the way to the shore where it's great maw took out the krill ghosts, the dock, and John with it.
Wood splintered, smaller pieces taking flight and swirling around the five tornadoes now following the Bake-kujira. John rattled around the bone cage of the whale for a few minutes, collecting bruises before he was tossed into the air and assaulted by clouds of splinters and shrapnel. He looked like he'd lost to a cannon filled with buckshot by the time the tornados threw him into the sea. The air had been cold but the sea was freezing and struggled to get just the use of his limbs back.
He'd shrugged off his coat, stubbornly keeping it in one hand, and was just reaching the surface of the water when he spotted the schools of fish, the birds and the whale headed back his way. After the hours he'd spent calling upon dead krill John couldn't possibly imagine that the beast was still hungry. Yet the whale was coming after the source of num-nums with single minded persistance.
John tried to swim out of it's path, making a circle around the bubbling fish, and heading towards shore. The whale was huge, slow to turn, but completely attuned John's every move. It began to turn, and the churning water swept over John's head. He forced his eyes open under the surface, determined to get a good look at the mythical creature. To his shock he found that it was not more than bones and scraps of flesh.
One scrap, however, more than any other...stood out.
John stared at the giant, conical object hanging under the whales body, completely erect.
He burst back to the surface and gasped air into his lungs. "Horny..he's bloody horny." John shouted at the birds. He felt the whale slide under him, brushing against his legs as fish and birds flapped and flopped around his head. He ducked back under the surface and saw that the whale was turning on it's back, presenting it's...probiscus to him.
"I'm no bloody she-whale." he protested, once his head had broken the surface. The whaled turned under him, resituated then once again floated his flagstaff through John's kicking legs. This time the animal was close enough that John felt his toe hit the whale's belly, and the tip smacked him between his nether-cheeks.
Lesser of many evils, John, he thought. Gasping for breath while he reached out for the stiff fishy member. He kicked his shoes off, regretting that they would be lost to the sea, then found the fleshy tube with his feet and started..assisting. A great roar of what John hoped was pleasure, came from below. Huge bubbles of fetid air rose to the surface, churning it further, and stinking up the air around them. John groaned, flailed his arms to remain above the surface, and kept going with his feet.
It took...so much longer than he could have imagined. The roars of pleasure had gone to ear splitting intensity, causing John's ears and nose to bleed. The birds had buggered off, some of their kind falling dead to the surface of the water thanks to the whale's beastly moans. The whale had moved so that it was pressed closer to its source ecstacy and John had found the narrow tip of the douche wedged between his cheeks. It took the ache out of his shoulders and arms, and John was so close to collapse there was no point resisting. He floated in the turbulent waters, jacking off a ghostly whale for nearly two hours before the release came.
John had expected Old Faithful, Mount Everest, popping a water balloon. Something appropriate for the kind of porn the Japanese nation was known for. What he got was a slither of warmth up his back and an oil slick of clear muck instantly covering him and the water around him for at least half-a-mile.
No sooner had he found relief, the whale faded back into non-existance, diving deep and disappearing. The birds that had sought shelter on the shore took flight to follow their meal ticket, and John was left in a slick of whale splooge dotted with dead fowl and fish.
He splashed heavily onto the beach in stocking feet, and didn't even turn around to make sure the now sunny, summery ocean scape was free of the Bake-kujira. He ripped his socks off and trudged through the melting snow and sand, swearing to God and all of heaven that he would never, ever do that again. "I'll sooner conjure Free Willy."
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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine