Simon stared at the asphalt, seeing his snot and blood intermingling with the oil and grease... It looked strangely beautiful, as the different textures and colors blending together to form a new whole. He thought about how the world had looked to him as a child, when everything -- no matter how small or slight -- seemed like it had so many possibilities.
That joyous look at the world had faded over time, giving way to the heady rush of drugs and illicit sex. Before long, bright young Simon had lost his way. His mum and dad had forsaken him... he had a nasty little STD that kept popping back up at the worst of times... and he'd ended up selling crack cocaine on the streets of Manhattan, just one more small cog in the giant combine that served as the Kingpin's empire.
Simon rolled over on his back, wiping at his shattered nose with the sleeve of his shirt. It hurt like hell, but he barely felt it -- his adrenaline was pumping now, giving him an odd sense of calm. He stared up into the flaming visage of hell and managed to choke out "Just kill me, man... Don't draw it out."
The Ghost Rider paused above him, a long coil of chain wrapped tightly around his left fist. Though there were no lips or skin to reveal the figure's emotions, Simon thought he saw barely disguised revulsion reflected back at him. The empty eye sockets seemed to glow from within as the flames licked higher and higher about his skull. "You wish for mercy? After all the lives you've destroyed with your poisons?"
Simon started to explain, but no words came. How could he explain what he'd done? He'd been shorted by his supplier so he'd had to stretch the coke as much as he could, lacing it with whatever was handy to keep his sales up. He'd known a few people might get sick or even die... but they were junkies, right? They knew they were gambling every time they took a hit.
The Spirit of Vengeance looked up and down the deserted alleyway. A few cars were passing by near its interest but there was no one about to bear witness to what was about to occur. He wasn't sure why this was important to him -- perhaps some last vestige of guilt, perhaps? "Once, I would have forced you to see your crimes for what they were. You would have experienced the torment of my Penance Stare... Now that is denied me. I must seek other means of punishment."
Simon closed his eyes and pushed himself to his knees. There was something in this monster's voice that he recognized... they were the words of a man pushed to the breaking point, shoved so far to the edge that he knew he could never back away from it again. It was the voice of someone about to kill. "Make it quick, man. Do that for me, at least...."
The Ghost Rider raised a gauntleted fist, the coiled chain flashing in the moonlight. He brought it down once and red things flew upward, sizzling when they met his flames. A second blow came and then a third.
When the body slid back, wetly smacking against the ground, the Ghost Rider stood stock still for a long moment. He tossed his chain back, feeling it wrap snugly around his torso. In all his many years of existence, he had been many things -- but a murderer was never among them.
Times had changed.
The motorcycle flew through the air like a thing possessed, seeming to hover in mid-air above the row of vans, parked side by side. John Blaze felt his stomach drop as his bike dipped, the front tire striking concrete. He felt the wheels begin to twist beneath him and he fought the urge to force the bike to do what he wanted. Instead, he lightly turned the front wheels in the direction of his skid and slowly brought the cycle around. He zoomed past his support team, noting their expressions of joy as he began a celebratory victory lap.
He was the world's greatest cyclist, loved and adored by all who knew him. Men admired him and their girlfriends all wanted to be with him... Life was good.
And then he woke up, his head splitting from a hangover that threatened to overwhelm him. He heard Cartoon Network blaring at him from the other room, with the voices of Craig and Emma rising above the din. They were fighting over something -- again. "Rox... Where are you?" he asked, rolling over in bed and burying his face beneath a pillow. He felt nauseous and tired, like he had just gone fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. The last thing he need right now was this. "Shut up, you guys! Please!"
The noise quieted briefly but then resumed as Emma boldly proclaimed that she was about to kick her little brother's ass. John pulled himself out from between the sheets, catching a brief glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror. He looked like hell, with two days' worth of stubble on his face and eyes so bloodshot that he looked like Bela Legosi on acid. His foot brushed an empty beer bottle on the floor and he cursed under his breath, disgusted with both his surroundings and with himself.
He cast a baleful glance over at the crib at the foot of the bed, but the baby was still sleeping. Thank God.
He wondered briefly when it had all gone so wrong... but he knew the answer, all too well. New Orleans and all that had happened there still haunted him -- hell, it was still with him.. Let it lie, he thought. Sometimes old ghosts need to stay buried. Even the ones that aren't really dead yet.
"Will you kids please keep it down?" he yelled, stepping into the front room. The kids were on top of one another, alternately laughing and snarling. Despite the banging in his brain, John had to smile. It was good to have the kids back, especially after all that he and Roxanne had gone through to find them*.
(*See issue # 100, written by Alex Maggi and Matt Turnage)
"Sorry, dad." Craig said, scrambling off his sister and narrowly dodging a swipe from her foot.
"Where's your mom?"
"She's outside," Emma answered, seemingly oblivious to how loud the television was. John reached past them and turned the volume down, looking over at the balcony. He could Roxanne there, staring downwards. She wore a long housecoat that was frayed at the edges. She'd had that thing since the early days of their marriage, refusing to throw it away for some reason known only to her.
Roxanne Simpson Blaze heard her husband step outside, but that wasn't the first thing she noticed. It was the way his natural scent -- his cologne, soap and body -- was soured by the smell of stale alcohol. She didn't bother turning to face him. "Away already? It's only a little past ten."
"Don't start," he warned. He leaned over the railing with her, staring down at the parking lot below. Their motorcycles were parked side-by-side. "Anything in the news?"
"Another loser found dead, with reports of Ghost Rider in the area. Same as usual." She caught his eye, staring into his very soul. They'd been through so very much together, testing their love against the fires of Hell. It was terrible to hate him now, as she had grown to do. "Who do you think it is?" she asked, eager to turn the conversation away from their recent fights. She wanted to discuss anything but that.
"No idea. We know it's not Dan... and I talked to Janine just the other day. I wonder if it's related to that Ghost Rider we heard about a few months back*. He came and went pretty quick."
(*See issues 107-110, written by Manuel Chavarria)
"Could be."
A silence descended upon them like a shroud and it was painful in its presence.
It was John who spoke first. He was always the one who dreaded the quiet -- growing up surrounded by the roar of engines did that to you. "I love you."
"It's not about that and you know it," she whispered.
"We can't break up... Not after all that it took to get us back together. The kids --"
Roxanne surprised him by moving into his arms. He hesitated for only a second before wrapping his arms around her. "John," she said, her breath coming warm into his ear. "I want to leave the weirdness behind us."
"Me, too."
"Then let's kill it."
"We can't do that," he protested, though there wasn't much strength to his words. The thing that had traveled from New Orleans with them was still sleeping in its crib, not having stirred a bit when the kids had begun their noise. "It's a baby."
"It's a monster -- and if you don't kill it, I will."
"Ghost Rider's not a killer, dad. You know that."
"This isn't the Ghost Rider we're used to dealing with, Stacy." Arthur Dolan drove through the crowded city streets, trying hard not to let his anger grow out of control. He loved his daughter dearly and had supported her through many things, including the relationship with Dan Ketch that still haunted her. It was that relationship that had spurred her interest in the Ghost Rider -- and for that reason, he didn't want to fight with her. "I know what you're thinking... but this isn't related to Dan. I'm sure of it."
Stacy stared out the window, one finger lightly curling her auburn-colored hair around it. "I... I've been having dreams again. About him. I feel like there's something I've forgotten*."
(*Indeed there is -- Stacy's knowledge that Dan Ketch was acctually the Ghost Rider was taken from her by Jennifer Kale)
Arthur reached out and squeezed her hand tightly in his. "He knew you loved him, Stacy. No matter what happened to him, he knew that at the end."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "You make me feel better, daddy. I don't know why," she laughed. "But you do."
They drove on, sharing a connection that had only deepened since Dan Ketch's disappearance.
They were unaware that a shadowy angel of death passed briefly overhead, watching over them.
The Caretaker leaned against the side of the mausoleum, ignoring the small drops of rain that had begun to fall. It was a full moon, illuminating the Cypress Hills Cemetery as if it were early evening and not the dead of night. He'd spent many a night here, tending to one wounded soul or another... as a member of the immortal Blood, he'd been given a sacred task long ago: Watch over and protect the shards of the Medallion of Power, the object which infused two bloodlines with the potential for greatness.
He spat on the ground, his ears picking up the sound of stone grating against stone. It was time, he knew. Time to make good on his pledge once more.
He turned just as a motorcycle's engines revved to life and the Spirit of Vengeance bolted forth from within the tomb. He resembled something out of an old horror story, the living embodiment of death and revenge. Draped in leather and chains, his skull flared bright yellow and orange, casting strange shadows all about the cemetery.
He pushed the bike forward, spinning it about to face the Caretaker. His empty orbs glowed. "What do you want, Caretaker?"
"Just wonderin' what the hell you think you're doin', that's all."
"I am avenging the innocent."
"Are you?" The Blood stepped forward, bending down briefly to pluck up a shovel that lay at his feet. "From what I've heard, you've been cutting a bloody path through the underworld. That's not like you."
"I have... changed."
"So I've heard." The Caretaker tilted his head to the side, studying him. "I know who you are but I can't figure out how you became the Spirit of Vengeance again. Are youl servin' Gaea*?"
(*As the Ghost Rider did in issues 101-106.)
"No. The connection between the Spirit of Vengeance and the earth's goddess is no more." The Ghost Rider held up a hand to halt the Caretaker's approach. "I am not like my predecessors. I do not need your guidance."
"You need it more than most."
They stared at one another for a moment more before Ghost Rider broke the silence. "Innocent blood has been spilled... They are crying out for vengeance." His mystic chain unwound from his torso, coming to a rest in his right hand. "Are you going to stand in my way?"
The Caretaker spat again, smiling to himself. "Wouldn't dream of it. Who are you going after?"
"One you know well," the Spirit of Vengeance replied, revving the engine once more. Flames shot forth from beneath the tires as his bike began to move forward. "This time, Blackout's reign of terror will end forever."
The Caretaker watched in silence as the Ghost Rider's motorcycle bore him out of the graveyard. "He's got some serious issues, Seer. You were right to bring me into this."
His fellow Blood stepped from the shadows. Youthful-looking, with dark hair and a starry tattoo around one eye, Seer was something of an outsider amongst her own kind. Her alliance with the Caretaker was a deep one, however. "How did he get the power, Caretaker? That I don't know."
"He once used a relic to channel part of the Ghost Rider's power... somehow his soul is still able to serve as a conduit to the Spirit of Vengeance. What exactly kick-started this transformation, though.... that I don't know."
"Will he be able to handle this?" she asked, placed a hand on her friend's shoulder.
"Max Parrish has been through a lot, Seer... If anybody can handle being the Spirit of Vengeance, it's him. But he's gonna need help. A lot of it. Right now, his connection to the power is tenuous at best. He can't use the Penance Stare and he's a hell of a lot weaker than Dan was at his peak. Blackout's gonna tear him a new one."
John Blaze stared at the tiny thing as it lay in the sink, fussing a bit. It was near the faucet, which was spewing forth cold water. The baby-thing was crying, making heart-rending noises that tore at John's heart. He was glad Roxanne and the kids were out, even if it left him to do the dirty work.
The baby was an odd thing, with clammy gray skin that was stretched taut over the bones. The flesh on its face was so thin that it barely hid its skull and the teeth were sharp things, capable of removing a finger if one got too close.
It was the child of Zarathos and Lilith, created from an unholy union*. And now it's in my care, he thought. An ugly as sin monster, who'll probably grow up to destroy the world. Remember that.
(*See Midnight Sons Unlimited # 4)
John held the child under the water, trying to muffle its screams with a cloth. The thing's teeth tore into it as it bucked and fought in his grip.
"Die... Just go ahead and die...."
John closed his eyes, trying to ignore its cries... but they ate away at his reserve, weakening him. He pulled the infant away from the stream, patting its back to help it clear its lungs.
"I'm sorry, Rox... but I can't do this."
The baby-thing reached out to him and he allowed it to bury its face in his neck, whimpering softly.
"Old Ghosts" will continue
Next Issue: Max Parrish -- star of Before the 4: The Storms -- is now the host for the Spirit of Vengeance. What has led him once more into this role? And will he be able to handle one of the Ghost Rider's deadliest adversaries? Plus: How did John Blaze come to be the surrogate father for such a monstrous child? The answers will shock you....
Author's Notes
Welcome aboard the Ghost Rider express. I was actually slated to take over this series a few issues ago, as announced in Alex Maggi's final letter column. A lot of stuff got in the way, but several years later -- here I am. Marvel Volume One was where I started out and though I never plan to be as involved with it as I once was, it feels nice to be here for a bit. My 12 issue run will wrap up dangling plotlines from both the runs that preceded mine and give me a chance to play with some of the knowledge I gained while writing part of the Marvel Encyclopedia Volume Five: The Marvel Knights.
Max Parrish is a fairly obscure character but he was briefly the Spirit of Vengeance's human half -- as shown in Before the 4: The Storms. Expect more on his background next issue, as we really begin to get into the whys and wherefores of our little saga.
Let me know how I'm doing.
Barry
