"Keep your mouth busy smoking and say less unlucky crap."
Su Ming immediately snapped back at Zha Kang. After tossing the bastard a pack of Wilson Cigarettes, he added, "If you can't keep your mouth under control, next time I'll use the Anti-Life Equation to control you and make you pick the salt grains off Bobo like a monkey and eat them."
The air from outside seemed to seep in, carrying a rich scent of fresh grass and a faint floral fragrance, followed by an indescribable unfamiliar smell that made one's heart race a little.
Back when he watched television as a child, Su Ming had seen two monkeys picking things off each other and eating them. At the time, he had thought they were eating fleas or lice.
"Don't drag me into this." Before Zha Kang could say anything, Detective Chimp objected first. Sitting on Deathstroke's shoulder, the monkey shook his head wildly. "First, I shower every day, so there aren't any salt grains in my fur. Second, even if there were, I don't want to see that scene happen."
Just imagining it gave Bobo goosebumps. Zha Kang squatting behind him, gently parting his black fur with filthy hands, searching for salt grains to stuff into his mouth while happily scratching his ears and cheeks.
Dark. Too dark.
It sounded a little crazy and dark, but John Constantine was not only a mage—he was also British. This sort of joke with a hint of gay flavor happened to fit his sense of humor.
He raised the cigarette in his hand in thanks for Deathstroke's gift, immediately opened the pack and lit another one, then exhaled smoke with a grin. "Ha, then I'd better stick to smoking. Also, it's not that I'm possessed by a defeatist and saying unlucky things.