Nevada, 27 miles outside Las Vegas
The Crossroads. 11:57 P.M.

The man on the motorcycle shivered slightly as the cool air of the desert night blew past him, forcing him to zip up the gaudily-colored leather jacket. In his prime, he had been an athlete, fit and attractive, but those days had long passed. The women that had thrown themselves at him were gone, the wine he’d drank now passed over for whatever cheap bottle of whiskey he could manage to afford, and the fame he’d enjoyed to the fullest was nothing more than a distant memory.

His name was James Fargo, and once upon a time he had held the title of World’s Greatest Stunt Cyclist.

He anxiously tapped his fingers against the white helmet that lay cradled in his arms. How many years had it been since he’d conquered the world, all youthful arrogance and unflinching vigor? He remembered how his father cried when he changed his birth name—‘James’ no longer good enough for him—and Flagg Fargocame into creation. His parents died in an automobile accident a few years after he won his title, and he didn’t bother to attend the funeral. The life of a celebrity had enchanted him, transfigured him into a creature unrecognizable to the people that had loved him.

But that was years, possibly even decades, ago, and time had taken its own transformations out upon him. His back ached uncomfortably, and as he sucked down his tenth cigarette since arriving at the crossroads he felt his chest tighten. His lungs were failing, his doctor had told him, due to too many years of alcoholic excess and unhealthy abandon. He had only months left to live, and the deadline had finally stirred him to action.

It had taken all of the meager resources left at his disposal to track down the man he was hoping to meet in the desert. This other man had once held the same world title as he…he was the man he stole it from, in fact. Fargo had no inkling on what to expect when the meeting began, but his research had indeed borne fruit in one aspect: this was the last opportunity he had to change his life.

“Of all the people in all the world,” a man’s voice said, snapping Fargo out of his ruminations, “you are probably the dead-fucking-last one I expected to find out here.”

Fargo swiveled at the waist, his slightly overweight midsection tightening as he straddled his motorcycle. The other man had appeared from thin air, no vehicle seen in the open space of the desert highway. Wearing a black leather jacket and the familiar blue riding leathers beneath it, John Blaze removed his sunglasses and smirked, looking all dangerous and elegant. “Doesn’t look like the years have been very kind to you, Fargo.”

“Hey, Johnny,” Fargo said as he stepped away from his bike, crossing the empty road to get a closer look at his one-time opponent, “long time, huh? Lots of years between us now, can’t imagine you’re still sore about me beating you out of the title.”

“I’ve moved past all that,” Blaze said as he took Fargo’s hand in his, shaking it firmly, “but make no mistake: I hated you for a very long time. I almost killed myself because of what happened then. Did you know that?”

“I know you died inside long before I took the title, Johnny,” Flagg answered, “and I know what happened to you, what caused you to lose everything. I’ve known for a long time…about the Ghost Rider.”

“I never credited you with much intelligence,” John admitted, taken back only slightly at his past rival’s statement. “So who told you about the Ghost Rider?”

“Jesus, Blaze,” Fargo replied with a slight laugh, “you sure didn’t make it that hard to figure out. Hell, you and the demon both wore those same ratty leathers for years. What, you didn’t think people would put two and two together when that monster always popped up after you rode into town?”

“So you know,” John said, ignoring the snide questions, “what’s it matter? I’m a little past the point of being blackmailed…”

“Heard a story not long ago,” Flagg said, lighting another cigarette despite the stabs of pain in his chest, “guy in a bar heard from another guy in a bar, that kind of thing. The story goes that if someone needs a wrong made right all they have to do is be at a crossroads at midnight. They’d make a deal with ol’ Scratch, and the flaming skeleton would ride out to avenge them. Can you see why I’d find such a story familiar, Johnny?”

“I’m only gonna warn you once, man,” Blaze interrupted, “run away.”

“I’m dying, Blaze,” Fargo confided, his head hung low, his voice speaking in a soft whisper, “and I can’t go out like this. I can’t die a nobody. I need to taste the limelight one last time. You understand, don’t you? I need to feel important again.”

“That’s not how it works, Flagg,” John said, feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic toward a man he’d hated, but yet felt a kinship toward, “and you don’t want what you’re asking for. Trust me on this.”

“I want what you must have wanted, Blaze,” Fargo argued, turning to look at the other man with eyes that were now razored with a cold sincerity, “I want revenge. Not against a person, but against life. I want what’s coming to me, and I don’t care what happens to me once I get it.”

John Blaze said nothing for several long moments, his head raised to stare at the stars hanging over them in the night sky. “Fair enough,” he finally answered, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you…”

PRIDE—THE LAST GLADIATOR

By Chris Munn

Our Lady of Mercy Hospital
Las Vegas, Nevada
Two Weeks Earlier

His eyes strained to focus on the transparent sheets of plastic that so vividly displayed the invisible monster that had been attacking his body for who knew how long. The x-rays simply told him what he already knew…

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

Doctor Winston Phelps frowned at his patient’s statement and counted his blessings that his back was turned to him. Flagg Fargo had been a friend for several years, and now it was his duty to tell him how long he had before shuffling off the mortal realm. “Flagg—James—I don’t know how to tell you this…”

“How many times have you scraped me off the pavement, Winston?” Flagg asked with a forced smile, more for his doctor’s benefit than his own. “Give it to me straight, no bullshit.”

“A cancerous growth the size of a silver dollar has appeared in your lower respiratory cavity,” Dr. Phelps said as he pointed to the large white spot on the x-ray of the biker’s lungs, “and while that’s bad in and of itself, the tumor has also metastasized, meaning that any hope of surgically removing it has become null and void.”

“Huh,” Fargo grunted, “ain’t that some shit?”

“On your own,” Winston continued, “I’d give you about two months maximum before your body shuts down. But if you were to check yourself into the ICU, we could possibly extend it to a little longer, maybe even a year.”

Flagg stood on shaking legs from the examination table and buttoned up his Hawaiian shirt. “Doc, you knew my answer to that before you even brought up the option. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let myself die in bed. I’m too goddamned proud for that.”

“Please don’t let this be about money,” Phelps said as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I know you’ve hit hard times these past few years, but I can see about getting some of the fees waved as pro-bono work. You’re still a celebrity in these parts, so I’m sure something can be done.”

“I haven’t had health insurance in about twenty years, man,” Fargo replied with a laugh, “no agency would give a plan to a guy that could die in a cycle crash on any given weekend.”

“So what kind of plans will you make?” Winston asked, realizing that there was no dissuading the decision.

“Looks like I’m going to have to make that comeback a little sooner than I expected, that’s all,” Flagg answered with a wink and a grin.

The Caesar’s Brothel Bar
Las Vegas, Nevada
Nine Days Earlier

“Drinks are on the house,” Lester Brighton, bartender at Caesar’s Brothel, said with a grunt as he slid the shot glass in front of the patron.

“Nice to know, friend,” Flagg said with a smile and a nod before tipping his head back, slamming the shot of bourbon down his throat. He’d been a regular at the Brothel—Vegas so loved its puns, as the bar sat in the seedy back-alley shadow of Caesar’s Palace—for close to a year, and even the gruff mullet-wearing Brighton had taken a shine to him.

Lord, he had been such an ass to people over the years, Fargo realized, especially in his prime. Stunt Cyclist Champion of the World had been his title, and did he ever live up to the name. The misery he’d put poor Johnny Blaze, the man he’d beaten to win the title, through surely would have been enough to guarantee his passage into Hell. Not a day went by recently that Flagg didn’t think about Blaze and what might’ve happened to him. He simply disappeared a few years after the contest for world champ, though he’d heard rumors of the kid riding a carnival ticket.

But at least Blaze had been given the dignity of a challenge. Flagg, on the other hand, hadn’t technically “lost” the title…it had simply faded away from public knowledge. Nobody gave a shit about stunt riding anymore, so nobody cared who held what kind of title. A name in a book was all he was, something for old sports enthusiasts to opine about in their grey days.

But all that was going to change, Fargo had decided, oh yes it most certainly was going to change.

“Flagg fucking Fargo!” a booming voice shouted as a firm hand slapped down on Fargo’s shoulder, snapping him out of his inner monologue. The hand pulled back, swiveling Fargo around on his stool to face the gang of three standing impatiently behind him. Jackson Monaghan, his mustache pencil-thin and his hair greased back with pomade, sneered as he gripped forcefully on the stunt-rider’s shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you, you piece of shit.”

“Monaghan—Jackie—ease up already,” Fargo insisted, trying not to wince from the pain shooting up his neck, “I’ve been here waiting on you, promise.”

Jackson grunted, then released his grasp. His two torpedoes flanked his side, their suit-coats bulging from the pistols holstered under their arms. The mob, Fargo noted with a mental sigh, nothing worse than the fucking mob. “So where’s our money, wash-out?” Monaghan asked as he straightened his tie, looking down at the seated Flagg. “Fifty thousand dollars, and the interest on it is a bitch.”

“Two weeks,” Fargo said before taking another sip of his bourbon, “you’ll have it all in one lump sum. My manager’s setting up a comeback event for me, guaranteed sell-out at fifty bucks a head—all of it going to you gentlemen, soon as the gates close.” A lie, at least until he was able to talk Dale into it, but the gangsters certainly didn’t need to know that.

Monaghan laughed, hard and from his considerable belly. “Who the fuck is gonna pay to watch you crash on the first jump, Fargo?” he asked. “You can’t even hold that glass without your hand shaking. Besides, if you ride like you gamble these days, well…let’s just say I wouldn’t take a bet on your odds.”

“Two weeks,” Flagg repeated, “taken care of.”

Jackson smirked, then nodded at his two cronies to move toward the door. “I’ll give you your two weeks, Fargo, because I’m such a nice guy. But if you try to run or otherwise fuck me over, a bike wreck will seem like dying in your sleep compared to what I do to you.”

Flagg said nothing in return, because he knew the gangster was right. He watched Monaghan and his crew depart from the club, and only then did he swivel back around to order another drink. So what was he going to do now? He had to convince Dale to book the show for him, for one—but even then, how was a man dying of cancer supposed to put on a grueling stunt-riding performance? He’d likely fall off the bike the second he sat down on it, as sick as he’d felt lately.

Fargo lifted his head and allowed his eyes and ears to drift to the other patrons of the bar, hoping for some brilliant burst of inspiration to smack him in the face. There were the two men at the table directly behind him, and with just two words from one of the men’s mouths Flagg Fargo knew his luck was about to change.

“Ghost Rider…”

Fargo spun in his seat and hopped up, bottle of bourbon and three shot glasses in his hands. He stepped up to the two men’s table, kicked loose a chair, and sat the bottle down between them. “Howdy, gents,” he said with a wink and a smile, “what was that I just heard you say?”

Las Vegas, Nevada
One Week Earlier

Flagg slumped down in the cushioned leather chair, feeling much like a teenager being chewed out by disapproving parents. Sitting at the desk across him, Dale Fazikas puffed hard on the fat cigar rolling around between his lips. The three hour wait in the event promoter’s lobby had, apparently, been one big waste of time.

“Look,” Fazikas said, adjusting the white cowboy hat resting atop his balding head as he spoke, “it’s not that I don’t want to help, because I do. You used to be the man, Flagg, and I ain’t disputing that. But even you gotta admit, stunt cycle shows aren’t a big draw these days. If it were motocross or BMX, then maybe I could give it a shot. But stunt riding? A hard sell if I ever heard one.”

“I know, I know,” Fargo replied, unpacking a cigarette to slide into his mouth, “but I fucking made you in this town in my heyday, and you owe me for that. I ain’t ever asked you for a favor before, Dale, but now I’m cashing in my chips.”

Fazikas sighed, a puff of smoke exiting his lungs with the exhalation of air. “You’re absolutely right, you did make me a lot of money. But that was years ago, man! You know why I can’t do this, so don’t make me say it…”

“No, no,” Fargo said while leaning forward to place his hands on the wooden desk, “go right on ahead.”

“Fine, okay,” Dale said, his irritation beginning to show in his voice, “you’re washed up, Flagg…a has-been that’s flailing around trying to do anything to keep from fading away. But you just got to face facts, brother: while you may be one of the meanest sons-of-bitches to ever ride chrome, motorcycles are a fad that’s just not profitable anymore.”

It was Flagg’s turn to sigh, loud and long, as he stood from the comfortable chair. He pondered for a moment whether or not he should tell his life-long friend the news, but inevitably he decided that Dale would find out for himself sooner or later anyway. “I’m dying, Dale. Doc’s given me about a month to live, and I just want to go out with a bang. I can’t let myself waste away in some hospital bed…give me the chance to check out of this world doing what I love best: staring death in the fucking face and giving it the big ol’ middle finger.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Fazikas asked, his eyes large, like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. “Not about something like that.”

“Book me a comeback show,” Flagg pleaded after a long, nervous drag on his cigarette, “and I guarantee it’ll be the most spectacular thing you’ve ever witnessed…”

Nevada, 27 miles outside Las Vegas
The Crossroads. 12:21 A.M.

“So that’s the plan, Johnny,” Fargo said, the lengthy explanation of the events of the last two weeks having been told one final time, along with the events that were to come, “are you willing to help me?”

John Blaze turned his head skyward, his gaze affixed on the stars twinkling above them, and for several long moments he said nothing at all. Always the showman, Fargo noted, keep the suspense going for as long as fucking possible. When Blaze finally returned his gaze to the man standing before him, a smile was playing on his lips.

“It’s bat-shit crazy, Flagg,” Johnny remarked, “and I must be bat-shit crazy to be saying yes. When’s the show?”

It was Fargo’s turn to smile. “Tomorrow night, buddy…tomorrow night!”

“Then we got a lot of shit to go over, don’t you think?” Johnny asked, waiting while Fargo went through a fierce coughing fit.

“What happened to you, Blaze?” Flagg asked from his bent position, hands on his legs as he caught his breath. “Where did the Ghost Rider come from?”

Blaze lifted his head to the stars, twinkling like supernovas in the oppressively dark Nevada desert night, then closed his eyes and sighed. “My foster father was dying of cancer,” he explained, “and to save his life I sold my soul to the Devil.”

Flagg raised back up straight, unsure of what to say next. “Did your dad live, then?”

Johnny laughed. “He died the next night, just not from the cancer. For daring to protest, I had a demon bound to my soul to act as the world’s avatar of vengeance. I learned a very important lesson that night, Fargo.”

“Oh yeah…?”

“Devils and men have one thing in common,” Blaze said as he walked away into the dark, “they both lie…”

Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas Motor Speedway
The Next Night

Dale Fazikas had done the impossible.

In the span of one week, Flagg Fargo’s return to championship motorcycle stunt-riding had been brought to life, an unrelenting hype machine with the full force of Fazikas’ promotional army behind it. Fargo had guaranteed a sell-out event, and that’s exactly what had been delivered. Tickets sold as exclusive, premiere placeholders only available the night of the show had given the event the right mixture of mystique and excitement—within just a few days of the announcement, anyone who was anyone in Sin City was arranging their way into the event on that glorious Saturday night.

Once the seats had been filled, once the Motor Speedway was alive with the screams of 50,000 motorcycle fans, once the hastily erected sets of gravity-defying stunts began to glow with the bright pulse of neon…

Once all that had happened, Flagg Fargo finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

He’d coughed up blood earlier in the evening, and it took him the better part of an hour to finally catch his breath again without wheezing. His old riding leathers fit a bit too tight on his weather-beaten body, illustrating just how out of shape he’d become in the intervening years since his last daredevil cycle ride. In the dressing room, with the chant of his name echoing down the halls, he couldn’t keep his hand from shaking while he reached for his white helmet.

“You ready for this?” Johnny Blaze asked from the dressing room’s doorway, a long leather duster coat concealing his body.

“Let’s do this shit,” Fargo replied with a smirk and a donning of his helmet.

The announcer began his opening monologue, introducing the collection of perils built within the Neon Garage pit area of the Speedway. The barrel roll…the loop de loop…the double turnover…the conflagration run…and the big finish jump over 23 vintage Dodge Mustangs (generously donated by a private collector)! When the announcer finished, the spotlight flared to life and illuminated the tiny figure amidst the giant instruments of death.

Flagg Fargo, his body clothed in white leather and his head obscured by a white helmet, waved to the crowd as he rode forward. Beneath him, thrumming to life between his legs, was the 300 pound Harley Davidson XR-750, the bike made famous by the irredeemable Evel Knievel. He cycled once, twice, three times around the perimeter of the set…and what followed was the greatest night in stunt-biking history!

Forty-five heart-stopping minutes later, the announcement came. “Ladies and gentlemen, Flagg Fargo will be taking a 5 minute recess to prepare for the night’s final stunt in which he will leap over a line of 23 Mustangs!”

Fargo waved again to the crowd before riding his cycle into the concealed pit area, hidden from the eyes of the spectators. The mechanics and road crew had been sent away moments prior, instructed to give Mr. Fargo some time alone to mentally prepare himself for the most dangerous stunt of the night. He stopped the bike and looked around pensively, careful to make sure no one was observing him, and only removing his helmet when he was convinced.

“Okay, Fargo,” John Blaze said as he stepped away from the XR-750, helmet cradled beneath his arm, “your turn.”

From a darkened dressing room, out stepped Flagg dressed in a racing outfit identical to the one worn by Blaze. “Thanks, man,” Fargo said as he took the helmet from John’s hands, “I mean it.”

“You don’t need to do this, Flagg,” Blaze advised while the other man straddled the motorcycle, “just let me do the finish for you. You’re in piss-poor shape and I don’t think you’ll make that jump in one piece.”

“You hear that?” Fargo asked, referring to the sound of 50,000 audience members screaming and chanting his name. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me tonight, Blaze, but this…this needs to be mine. I have to know that I was something once, and that I could be that something again. This one, last jump will be the exclamation point not just for tonight, but for my entire fuckin’ life! Do you understand?”

Blaze sighed. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Do me a favor,” Fargo said as he dug a folded envelope out of his pocket, “read this when the show’s over, if you don’t mind doing me one last favor on top of everything else.”

“Sure, yeah,” Johnny agreed as he took the paper from Flagg’s hand, “now go make history.”

Fargo slapped the visor of his helmet down over his eyes and saluted to his friend before gunning the bike’s engine and speeding back up the ramp and onto the arena floor. Blaze listened to the cheers of the crowd and the excited voice of the announcer as Flagg prepared to make the jump, taxiing around the arena to gather applause and momentum. Johnny looked down at the envelope that had his name scrawled upon it, and decided to get it over with. What he read didn’t surprise him at all…

John, I know you more than anyone else will understand why I’ve done this.

Flagg approached the jump ramp and twisted the throttle, an explosive propulsion sent him careening skyward toward the ramp’s edge. It took only seconds for him to become airborne, sailing above the arena floor and the cars lined up across it.

There’s one last thing that needs to be taken care of, to keep my name from being drug through the mud once all this is over. The money taken at the gate tonight, save for what was needed to pay the Speedway and Dale, is yours. Take it and do whatever you want with it, rebuild your life if you can. But know that you won’t be the only one trying to claim that money.

He closed his eyes and released his grip on the handlebars, spreading his arms wide in a pose of unbelievable confidence. This was the moment that would define him in people’s minds for all time.

Jackie Monaghan is the mob guy I told you about, the one I owed money to. These guys thrive on the suffering and pain of good people, John, and I know that’s something you can’t let pass. Below is his address. Take care of him for me, huh?

Flagg Fargo never reached the second ramp, missing by approximately ten feet. The motorcycle inexplicably exploded upon impact with the cars at the ramp’s base, blowing the rider back into the air and into the impact wall on the arena’s facing side. Fargo’s body was a burnt, twisted thing that no longer even resembled human. After a night that comeback legends are made of, the World’s Greatest Stunt Rider went out in a literal blaze of glory.

So that’s it, Johnny. There was no way I was going to die slowly in some hospice bed. I refused to let my life end like that, I was just too damn important. Call it pride, call it ego or narcissism, I don’t care. Not much else left to say, except this old cliche: it’s better to burn out than to fade away. See you in Hell, partner.

–Flagg

“Can you believe this shit?” Jackson Monaghan yelled as he stepped through the door of his ranch house, followed by his two bodyguards. “That motherfucker croaks in front of a live fucking audience, and when I go to get my fucking money they tell me its already been collected! When I find that motherfucker, there will be fucking hell to pay, I tell you!”

“Here I am,” a man’s voice came from the living room, prompting Jackie to flip up the nearest light switch and his guards to remove their pistols from their jacket holsters.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jackie demanded to know as he pulled his own gun and pointed it at the stranger sitting on couch.

John Blaze smirked and pointed at a briefcase sitting open on the coffee table across from him, a briefcase containing numerous stacks of money. “That’s the money from Fargo’s show, which I think I’m right to believe you’re claiming as your own? I’m here to tell you sorry, it’s my money now, and if you want to live to see tomorrow you’ll never let Fargo’s name escape your lips ever again.”

“Vincent, Leonardo,” Monaghan said to his two goons, “kill this fuckin’ guy and collect my money, fuckin’ please.”

“Is it getting hot in here,” Blaze asked as steam began to drift up from his body, “or is it just me?”

Before the three made men could fire their weapons, John’s head became engulfed with flame, scorching him down to the white bone beneath his melted flesh. In a panic, Jackie began to fire his pistol at the leather-clad, flaming skeleton standing in his house. The bullets passed through the specter, chipping away at bone but doing little damage.

“Oh my Jesus,” Jackson whispered as he fell to his knees. His two bodyguards had already fled through the front door. “What is this? What are you?”

The Ghost Rider stomped forward, the sound of popping, cracking flames echoing through the large home as he approached his quarry. The demon reached down with fiery, skeletal fingers and grasped the balding man by the top of his head, causing the flesh to sizzle and scald at its touch.

“Flagg Fargo,” the Ghost Rider said as he crushed Monaghan’s skull with a closing of his fist, “vengeance is ours…”

The End

Burnt Offerings

Well, I hope you enjoyed my concluding chapter to the “Spirits of Vengeance” story-arc! I am so proud to have been a contributor to such an awesome collection of stories and writers. Meriades Rai, Josh Reynolds, Dale Glaser, Hunter Lambright, Ed Ainsworth, and David Golightly—you are all my Brothers Ghost Rider.

This story itself went through so many different ideas, drafts, and revisions that I’m a little surprised it actually got finished! I originally had an idea for an original Ghost Rider of History like the others got to do, but when it was decided that I would be the title’s next ongoing writer once the “Spirits” arc finished I started to look more at the bigger picture. I decided to go with using Johnny Blaze as the Ghost Rider of this final chapter because it brings the book’s concept back to the “original” Ghost Rider (the first one created, that is) and syncs the timeline up. It’s no lie that this Ghost Rider title has had its share of confusion regarding what is happening when (here’s the read order: Ghost Rider # 8-16, then Ghost Rider # 1-7 and the Marvel Girls: Rebecca Lockwood special, then Defenders # 1-7, and then finally Spirits of Vengeance # 1-7).

Now, I think I’m going to go back and re-read the first six chapters of “Spirits of Vengeance”, and that’s what you should do, too!

Chris Munn