Ghost Rider: Highway Song

[Rift]

Somewhere outside of Amarillo Texas, just after Midnight

Johnny Blaze sat in a darkened corner of a small dive bar throwing back another shot of whiskey. It wouldn't get him drunk, nothing much could, not with the Spirit of Vengeance sitting in his head, but it was a decent distraction. Useless as it was it gave him something to focus on beyond recent events. He had been hunting down a mystery, trying to figure out what was happening out on the stretch of roads called The Devil's Highway. There had been all manner of supernatural and occult disturbances along the former Route 666 and the Rider was more than willing to handle them. Drawn to such events anyway it had taken a special interest in these instances believing they may be linked to answers both Blaze and Zarathos sought since the revelation of their supposed origin as a weapon of the divine.

It had all been for nothing. For months now there had been next to nothing and the lack of answers, the anti-climatic ending to a quest they thought would give them personal vengeance ended up being nothing. Without mystical threats to contend with the Rider did what it always did: it handed out vengeance to anyone that had it coming.

The end result was business as usual, a trail of dead and charred bodies, and the never ending roaming that had been his life for so long. As upsetting as such an existence would be to others, as it had to Johnny not so long ago, it was still better than the alternative. Being a pawn in some cosmic chess game between Heaven, Hell, and everything in between was no kind of life at all. At least giving people what was coming to them was his choice for the most part and not some denizen of the Pit or some angel from on high yanking his chain. Still it was a distraction from what both he and the Rider really wanted: vengeance for all that had been done to them, for all the lies and manipulations.

Just as he had been thinking for the thousandth time about how he could get back on track, back to locating the rogue angel he'd been told was responsible for the tragedy of his life, he was drawn back to the reality around him when a pair of men in uniforms approached him, their golden badges twinkling in the faint light from the nearby jukebox.

“Look at this. Boy looks like some kind of vagrant, some biker trash. A drifter blowing through town lookin' to cause all manner of trouble. You ain't local, are you boy?” one of the cops asked.

Johnny sipped his drink and sighed. “Look who's talking.”

“ 'Scuse me?” asked the other officer.

Blaze shook his head. “Ain't no excuse for your kind. Or the bad acting. I mean really? Small time cops hassling the outsider? Just how many B-movies did you watch before settling on that routine?”

The pair turned in unison to look at one another.

“Cops in this county don't wear tan uniforms and cowboy hats. It's dark blue, almost black. And they have real badges, not something from a dollar store toy aisle. Besides I could smell just how far south you come from. Brimstone has a way of clinging,” he continued. “Now, you want to step outside to do this?”


Moments later...

The scorched and burning forms of the demons flew threw the large front window, one crashing into an SUV's windshield and the other skidding across the pavement of the parking lot. Heavy boots crunched shattered glass as the Ghost Rider approached, molten chain smoking.

“Time to go home,” the Rider declared.

“Screw you! We ain't the first and we won't be the last! We are Legion Blaze! You hear me? The Hell Lords put a bounty on your bone head! There's a conflict, a war raging and leadership is about to change! We already got one of you Spirit of Vengeance #*^@$ mixed up in it, you are gonna keep your carny ass out of it!” the one still capable of talking spat.

The Rider cocked his head to one side, like a dog curious about the sound it had just heard. Snorting it grabbed both of the low level Hellfiends and dragged them, both tied by the chain, to the center of the parking lot. An inhuman whistle pierced the night as soon a sound like thunder roaring amidst screams of a thousand tortured souls grew nearer. Skidding to a stop the Hellcycle rumbled as the Rider mounted it, threading the chain through the bike before revving the engine.

“Tell your bosses we've bigger fish to fry. We don't care about your little game of musical chairs. One devil's the same as another. Come after me again and they will find even Hell Lords can't escape vengeance!” The Rider spat, voice alternating between Blaze's and Zarathos' deep baritone sound that resembled gargled gravel. “Now...let's RIDE!”

With that the bike roared down the road, dragging the smoldering forms of the demons behind it...

[Rift]

Several Weeks Later...

The message had apparently been received. Johnny Blaze went about his life, what semblance of one he managed to live between regular bouts of supernatural horror, relatively uninterrupted. He drifted from town to town, sticking to back roads whenever possible. It was in these overlooked towns that he felt most comfortable. To some degree the small towns where everyone knew everyone else reminded him of better days, times when he was closer to happiness. Whether it was memories of his time on the stunt circuit, touring with the carnival, or Roxeanne and the kids the feeling of optimism they brought was short lived. Those days and the people that made them special were long gone. If he were to dwell on them too much he figured it would drive him to madness. Thus he never stayed long, living out of one cheap motel after the next before once again hitting the open road.

Some part of him wanted to blame the Rider, but he knew that was not completely accurate. Sure, Zarathos made it hard to settle down and relax. You couldn't call somewhere home when the monster living inside you periodically decided to emerge, turn a sinner to ash, and actively go hunting for more. Even small towns the media andcity dwellers actively ignored held secrets and concealed evils worthy of a Spirit of Vengeance's attention. A drunk driver who killed someone and got away with it, a local cheat tossed down a well, or a politician who made a rival disappear were not unheard of. Johnny had seen all it and worse. No matter the secret the Rider would sniff it out and punish the sinner. Of course that was true anywhere. Even his brief stint in Los Angeles where he tried breaking into the movie business was cut short when the Rider took vengeance on a sleazy producer.

Still think the cops want to pin that on on me. Having my old agent call out of the blue just smacks of trying to get me to go back fora not so friendly chat, he thought.

Ghost Rider issues aside, Blaze knew the truth. He just wasn't cut out for settling down. The idea of a normal job andthe "Apple Pie Life" just didn't appeal to him anymore if it ever really did. He'd seen, done, and lost too much to ever be a regular guy. Pain in the neck that being the Rider was he'd finally come to terms withit. It was definitely a curse, but it was his curse, his burden to bear. And so he rode on, trading normal for broken yellow lines and burning chains.

He was so at peace with this existence that he didn't even complain to Zarathos when he'd realized that each Rider induced black out was carrying him closer to the preternatural forces of evil he'd threatened not long ago. Apparently the Rider knew something he didn't or just couldn't let the incident in the bar go. Or maybe the demon mentioning that another Rider was in the thick of it triggered some kind of protective instinct in Zarathos. He didn't know, but what he did know was that he was fast approaching a place sure to beswimming in evil both mystical and mundane.

"New Orleans huh," he said as he roared past an old street sign. "what fresh hell are we gonna run into here?"

The Rider remained silent.

"Good talk."

With that he sped towards the city and the unknown.

[Rift]

Three days after his arrival in the Big Easy, Johnny Blaze found himself jolted awake by a boot as it nudged his ribs none too gently. Sitting up and coughing he looked around, half expecting to see the dingy, dirty, no-tell motel he had rented just outside the French Quarter. Instead he found himself in a literal ditch on the side of the road, covered in dust, dried blood, and what what he thought was a weed sticking out of his hair. The sun was blazing, the ground hot, and he had no clue how he had ended up there or where there was.

Putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare he squinted at the figure that had been prodding him moments before. The man was tall and lanky, his dark skin only a few shades lighter than the black coat he wore. His hat was of a style Blaze had seen, but didn't know the name of, something a cross between a gambler and a top hat, favored by those who were really into voodoo or were very down with looking the part during festivals and the like.

"Well lookee 'ere huh? Da boy not as dead as he looks!" the man said with a grin that was almost as bright as the sun. "Be sufferin' a hangover me thinks yeah? Too much of the Devil's brew now?"

Johnny accepted his outstretched arm to regain his feet and began brushing himself off. A hangover would have been a welcome reprieve from the pounding he felt in his head. This unfortunately was not the first time he had experienced such an episode, but it was the first time in a very long time. Years ago when he had first become host to the Rider, he'd have episodes where he would blackout only to wake in strange places where he would later learn that Zarathos had gone on a tear through the local populace, usually bringing his brand of vengeance to the criminals he found there. All that had come to an end when he and the Rider finally came to an agreement. He would cooperate, the two would work together, and there would be no more joyrides with him as an amnesiac passenger. Something seemed to have changed.

"I've had quite enough of devils, be it booze or otherwise," he grumbled.

"Could be, could be. But everyone has their devils Johnny, some are just faster and meaner than others. And 'dey always catch up Mon Ami. You may ride fast, but you can never outrun 'dem!"

Startled by the man's sudden candor and the fact that he knew him without a proper introduction, Blaze backed away, fists balled.

Blaze half snarled and said, "I don't recall giving my name."

"Dat's good 'cause you didn't! But who doesn't know the infamous Johnny Blaze! I once saw you make a jump, broke old Kineval's record ya did. Of course you should have blown up nice and crispy, but you had someone lookin' out for you!" he explained, reminding Johnny of his pseudo-celebrity status. "'Sides, ain't every day you meet da man that outraced Death herself and escaped dat most unholy of pits!"

"Who are you?" Johnny demanded, half expecting the stranger to morph into some hell-fiend.

"I be da man dat can tell you why every unatural monstrous 'ting in the whole of New Orleans wants you dead! I can jog yer memory so you remember what you and your friend did, why he hasn't poked his head out fer our little chat here, and why you are officially wanted fer murder as of..." the stranger paused to dramatically check the pocket watch he carried. "Two minutes ago!"

With that sirens sounded in the near distance, drawing Blaze's attention. When he returned his gaze to the stranger, he was gone.