It was Uncle Hotch's Hootchshack, the dodgiest establishment to get your beak wet in all of the state of Californa far from the buzz of the cities. There were no movies made and no stars born here. It resided in the city of Grainesville - population 4006. A small town where dreams go to die. And frankly, that was exactly what had happened to the man in the black leather jacket sitting at the bar, ordering his fourth glass of whiskey in the 20 minutes he had been seated here. The Hootchshack had sprung up during prohibition, a place to sell illegal moonshine under the radar - the original owner, Uncle Hotch, was the brother of the Sheriff, as well as father to four of the small town's deputies. No federal agent would be let anywhere near it, so it had a long history of operating under the table.
But once the World War swept in and Prohibition ended, the shack became more of a bar instead - much like it was now. Just that it had gotten a lot shittier in the past 80 years. The air was stale and a scent of sand and sweat lingered. It would've stung the eyes of the man, if he hadn't gotten here by riding his motorcycle without any goggles on. Sand bothered him extremely little these days. Nothing really bothered him. His name was Johnny Blaze. The undead stuntrider - bounty hunter from hell and number one on Heaven's Hit List. He was a lot of things to a lot of people. He was a son, husband, father and brother. And he had failed everyone who called him those things. That was why he was here, perhaps.
He had rode here from the battle. It was still on the news. Casualties in the hundreds of thousands, and many, many more were still missing. The battle of Detroit. The sorcerer with the fancy cape was dead - so was the Billionaire man in the metal suit. Banner's mind is in greater fractures than when he was green. The short, angry mutant with the pointy bones had been burnt all the way down to his imbued bones, and regrown from those. There were more examples of Johnny's failure, 406 thousand and forty seven, was the confirmed number. He hadn't even changed his clothes. He still wore the shirt under his zipped up jacket that was covered in the blood of the 9 year old girl who had gotten torn to shreds by the demons that crawled out of the hole created by Zarathos. The demon had brought hell to earth. Johnny thought he could deal with it.
But he was wrong.
God, why did he have to be wrong. He had stopped Lucifer, he had outwitter Mephisto. Yet, the demon that beats him is the same one that had been riding shotgun with him for the past 20 years. The demon he summoned to his aid when his father was killed. Zarathos gave him the power of the Ghost Rider. Helped him kill the wicked and create justice in the world. All Johnny had brought to the world was chaos and destruction.
He slammed the glass down, ordering another double of scotch. The bartender walked over and poured, not speaking a word to the dirty biker with the empty eyes. Behind them, Johnny could hear two other, younger, dumber bikers - part of the 'California Devils' band of bikers, arguing. The bartender had a concerened look at both of the gentlemen, each had a pistol in their waistband and knives in their boots. Johnny didn't care, he needed to drink. the TV continued to play the footage from the scene in Detroit. The destruction, the remnants of Demons and people alike.
He felt it boil inside of him, his left hand was tucked inside of his jacket, resting. The bartender asked noticed it, and spoke up.
"Uh, so, what's with your arm?" Johnny looked at him and scoffed.
"Fell on my bike, hurt it kinda bad."
"Oh, I understand. Partaking in the oldest form of pain medicine, I see." As he finished the pour, Johnny's free hand grabbed the bottle, he wasn't done.
"You sure you can pay for that?"
Johnny produced a 200 bill from the inside of his pocket and the bartender shrugged, keeping an eye on the argument behind Johnny. They were getting loud.
"Fuck you Bill you stupid son of a bitch. You really think Poker's played with six cards?!"
"Oh yeah, ask your rocket scientist wife if I was so dumb last night, then Teddy. This is how poker's meant to be played."
Johnny looked up at the TV, took a big swig from his bottle and shook his head. Teddy reached for the knife in his boot to punish William for what he had just said. They were friends and brothers in the gang for the past 15 years, but he was angry and willing to throw it all away. A sentiment shared across the room.
Johnny stood up, his left hand still inside of his jacket as he swaggered towards the men.
"You're loud. Show some respect."
Bill and Teddy stopped, each at the other's throat.
"And who the fuck are you?" Bill asked, Johnny shrugged.
"Just a drifter. In need of a drink and some peace and quiet."
"Well, you better get your peace and quiet somewhere else. This bar belongs to the California Devils, and I don't see no patch on your jacket."
"The bartender seems to dislike you two being here, so I think you're full of shit. But, if you insist, I'd be more than happy to have you two escort me out of here." Johnny said, slurring his words slightly.
Bill looked at Ted, and then back at Johnny, getting up, he pulled his knife and attacked Johnny. A stab in the air, Johnny had taken a step to the side, twisted his body to make himself a smaller target and found the bottle swining down at the side of Bill's face, hitting him with the broader side of the rectangular orange glass. The bottle held together as Bill hit the floor, crawliong back up onto his feet as Johnny took another swig, Bill lead with the knife, Johnny spun on his heels, hitting Bill with the bottle straight in the face, shattering the bottle and breaking his nose as well as the lip of the other biker. The scent of blood filled the air. Johnny, still only using one arm, threw the broken bottle aside, waiting to see what Teddy would do. He threw a chair at Johnny, who got hit and braced for it with his shoulder, getting knocked off balanced, Teddy swung at him, hitting him in the jaw, Johnny winced.
"So fuckin' tough, huh?!" Teddy readied his guard and Johnny took a step back, the pool cue was on the floor, knocked over from the stand on the wall. He flung it at Teddy who caught it and intended to use it as a weapon, only to be met with the one-armed biker's fist breaking through the wood and hitting him in the face. Knocking him out over the table.
Johnny returned to the Bartender with his eyes, whom was looking both scared and excited that someone came and kicked the assholes behinds, but was afraid of the consequences of this. The Devils weren't nice people, and didn't take kindly to someone roughing up their boys - even if they were low lives like William and Theodore Barkly - the idiot cousins.
"Sorry about the mess." Johnny apologized, as the Bartender was getting ready to shout at him to get out of this place, a bullet rang out through the air. Piercing Johnny's stomach - from the downward angle, and hitting the bartender in the head, killing him instantly on the ricochet.
On the floor, the bleeding, bordering on unconscious heap of a man - William laid. His .45 in his hand. Shaking.
"You're toasted, you drunk motherfucker..." As Johnny winced from his bullet wound.
Fire burned in his right eye for a second. He stood back up as the flames grew in power from his eye.
"I'm drunk today, William Barkley..." Johnny's voice had a gravitas the hollow-biker hadn't had before. Something spoke from inside of him, using his voice simply as a vessel, as he slowly turned around.
"But, tomorrow I'll be sober. And you'll still be roasted." Pulling his hand from inside of his jacket, the hand was nothing but bones, grpping the handle of a sawed off double barreled shotgun. Fire burning in his face, as his skin was peeling around his right eye. Johnny pulled the trigger, and a pillar of hellfire erupted from the gun, searing William and Theodore to nothing, burning away their very soul. No heaven, no hell. Nothing. Leaving behind nothing but the Bill's hand that was holding the gun that hit the floor with a cold, metallic sound as the fire spread across the Hotchshack.
Johnny had one shell left. Zarathos was still alive, and he had to change that.
He walked away from the inferno of his own creation, and soon the roar of his engine the only noise he would hear.
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