After that, Constantine realized the weight of the contract—the answer he had been told was the price of Schiller's ticket.
Schiller had bought Constantine's silence with his answer, so Constantine could not expose his true identity before any Constantine performing for Schiller.
Then the Constantines far away would put on splendid performances for Schiller. This time, Schiller could not only watch them, but participate as well, achieving zero-distance interaction between audience and actors.
It drove Constantine mad.
Constantine was someone who did not need anyone else to tell him who he was. Not even the Joker could quite manage that; the Joker still needed Batman to tell him who he was.
Constantine had no such need. He knew who he was, what road he was walking, and where that road led.
Rock was the art of a confused age, but rock itself was not confused. Rock displayed chaos, yet its musicality was never chaotic. Its greatest charm lay in using clear and rigorous composition to lay the confusion and disorder of a particular era before people's eyes, allowing them to experience the beauty of tragic art through music.
Constantine was rock.
What did rock fans hate most?
It was not others calling them chaotic, insane, psychedelic, a bunch of lunatics—saying those who listened to rock were violent maniacs or uneducated wastrels. True rock fans did not care about that—they hated hearing that someone wanted to save rock.
Constantine realized that he had become an extremely successful commercialized, mainstream rock song.
It made him want to vomit.
And the person who had successfully made that happen now said, since you're already so successful, I can surely go appreciate other art with peace of mind. Then he left.
Constantine began drinking himself into oblivion again in fury.
Then Zatanna screamed at him