C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LG H O S T R I D E R
"Time fer you to bite the ground."
Jonah Hex ♦ Bounty Hunter from Hell ♦ Chihuahuan Desert, USA / Mexico
There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah never got his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men.
"This here establishment's private property."The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was,
"An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey.
"Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella.""Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned.
"Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off.""Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip.
"That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"*BLAM!*
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.
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