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Superior Ghost Rider. Chapter 3, 4, 5. Sheriff
🕑 Added 2025-03-22 15:15:44 +0000 UTCThe intercity bus stopped in El Paso, Texas.
John stepped off the bus and winced at the bright sunlight. His stomach twisted unpleasantly from hunger. The last time he ate was fifteen hours ago—a Snickers bar he bought before boarding.
"A little fasting is even good for your health," John muttered, recalling his empty wallet.
Still, he wasn’t planning to starve for long. Superpowered individuals, unless their abilities were too specialized, never had trouble making money.
[In my case, the timeless classic works best,] John smirked. [Robbing thieves. Cops don’t complain, and Zarathos is pleased.]
Now he just needed to find a target.
Anyone who grew up in a rough neighborhood knew how to get into trouble. Even a bookworm who never played outside knew who not to look at.
To attract trouble, you just had to look like a mark.
John slouched slightly, concealing his muscles, and made his gaze uncertain. In this guise, he approached three guys sitting on the steps of an abandoned house, blasting loud music and drinking beer.
The guys tensed slightly as John’s shadow fell over them.
"Yo!" John said, putting on an overly serious face. "I need a gun."
The trio sized him up and set their beers aside.
"Do we know you?" asked the tattooed guy calmly. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm nobody," John replied, his voice slightly shaky. "I just need a gun."
"And why do you think we have one?"
"Well," John averted his gaze. "I figured guys like you always have guns."
"Guys like us?!" The tattooed man jumped up. "You see us drinking beer and just assume we're gangsters?!"
John took a few hesitant steps back, but the guys had already surrounded him.
"I didn’t mean anything by it," he mumbled.
They gave him hostile looks. Then, after a second, the leader burst out laughing.
"Relax! I'm just messing with you!" The tattooed guy clapped him on the shoulder. "So, why do you need a gun? Never mind! You got money?"
"Yeah, of course," John patted his jacket pocket.
[They don’t know it’s just an empty wallet.]
"Alright, follow me," the tattooed guy motioned him inside the abandoned house. "I’ll show you what I got."
The moment the door shut, John's took a metal pipe to the skull.
"Get him!" the thugs yelled, piling on top of him.
John didn’t care. The Cross of Zarathos activated. As fire erupted from his bones, the pain vanished. His flesh burned away, revealing the skeleton beneath.
Ghost Rider was here.
The first thug was the easiest to punish. The idiot was so caught up in kicking John that he didn’t even notice the transformation. The hellfire leaped onto him, incinerating his sinful soul and reducing his empty husk to ash.
The second thug managed to jump back—but not far enough. One slap from the Rider turned him to dust.
The tattooed guy was the luckiest. He managed to dive behind a table and grab a rifle. An unusual choice of weapon for a street thug.
"Die, mutant!" the thug roared, firing wildly.
His luck ended there. The Rider advanced like the Terminator, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off his magic-enhanced skeleton.
The rifle ran empty. John casually yanked it from the thug’s hands and snapped it over his knee. At that same moment, the thug’s will broke.
"Please, spare me! I can be useful!" thug began crossing himself, as if that proved his innocence. "You need a gun? I got plenty!"
Rider tilted his head slightly, as if intrigued.
"Yeah, yeah! I’ll show you!" thug practically skipped, relieved to have bargained for his life. "It’s just nearby!"
[So much for ‘tough guys.’] John glanced at the ashes beneath his feet. [All it takes is killing their friends.]
They went down to the basement. The thug moved aside a hidden wall, revealing a stash.
[What a useful minion. Without him, I might have missed the stash. My greedy heart couldn’t have handled that.]
"This is an MP5," the thug said, showing the submachine gun. "It fires in both auto and semi-auto. I also got an M16, an under-barrel grenade launcher, and some grenades."
If John had skin on his face right now, he might’ve raised an eyebrow—or even whistled. This wasn’t street-level. This was military.
"Where’d you get this?" asked Ghost Rider.
The thug flinched at his voice—like grinding metal sheets.
[Considering I don’t have a tongue, is this the sound of my soul? Some questions are better left unanswered.]
"They're rookies," the thug mumbled. "Some army guys set up in my hometown—Branding. A total backwater where nothing ever happens. They rolled in with crates of weapons, planning some huge deal. That’s all I know, I swear!"
"How’d you get their weapons?" Ghost Rider grabbed his shoulders.
"I just stole a couple while they were distracted!" The thug broke out in a sweat from the heat so close. "I was just gonna sell a few here, nothing more!"
Ghost Rider gave a slow nod. Sounded like the truth.
"So… you gonna let me go?" the thug asked cautiously.
"Of course. But first, I need confirmation that you’re telling the truth."
"I swear on my mom! Man, just let me go!"
"I have other methods of confirmation."
Fire spiraled in his empty sockets, burning away sins. Penance Stare.
In a single second, the sinner felt every ounce of pain he’d ever inflicted. There was no more effective way to interrogate. His mind shattered, saliva dripped from his lips, eyes turned empty—but his tongue still worked.
"You show me all the weapons?" John crossed his arms.
"No…" His lips trembled, but his words were hollow—soulless. He was already dead, just still breathing. "It's… there…"
Breaking a floorboard, Ghost Rider found a hidden crate with a pistol and holster inside.
[I’ll take it.] John tucked the pistol under his jacket. [Chasing down fleeing sinners is too much of a hassle.]
The broken thug didn’t move as John took the pistol and gathered up the hidden cash—they’d already sold off a few automatics.
John asked a few more questions, and when he was sure the informant had nothing else of value, he sent his soul to hell.
[In my own way, I did let him go.]
He pulled the pin on a grenade and blew up the entire stash. Firepower like this had no place on the streets.
By the time he stepped outside, he was human again—the process of regrowing muscle and skin was agonizing. Clicking a key fob, he heard the beep of a stolen car.
[Might be worth checking out Branding.] John slid into the driver’s seat. [I can spare a day to rid the world of some illegal arms dealers. And it’ll keep Zarathos’ fire from roasting my skull for a while.]
///
The car tore through the desert at top speed—faster than taking the road. Every bump made it groan in protest, the suspension was definitely shot. John just smiled.
[That’s the beauty of taking cars from sinners. No reason to feel bad about wrecking them.]
Some might think John took the killing of three men too lightly. Just a few hours ago, and now he was smiling, hands steady—as if he’d just taken a bathroom break, not ended lives.
There were two reasons for that.
First, he had Johnny’s memories—the man had been killing for years. At first, his hands had shaken, but that passed. Killing was just another job, and enough repetition made any job routine.
Second, Zarathos punished restraint with a deep, burning ache in the bones—but rewarded each act of vengeance. For every sinner sent to hell, warmth spread through John’s skeleton.
Both factors erased stress entirely.
So yeah, for John, killing was no different than taking a piss.
"Branding. Population: 450."
Old houses, a single store, a rickety church—it looked like every Wild West movie had been filmed here. There was nothing else. The entire "town" could be walked through in ten minutes.
[A real shithole,] he thought, eyeing the empty streets. [I’d hang myself from boredom here.]
From the informant, he already knew the arms dealers' camp was up on the hill. That alone was enough reason to burn them all, but he didn’t feel like leaving right away. Would be a waste to drive four hours just to finish everything in five minutes.
He needed a good meal, fresh supplies, and a proper bed—not just a car seat.
John pulled up next to a passing girl in her twenties and asked through the rolled-down window:
"Hey. Any place to stay around here?"
His question threw her off. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger for a few seconds.
"We’ve never had anything like that," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "No tourists come to Branding. The last outsiders arrived two months ago."
[Sounds like the guys I’m here for.]
"Anyone renting out a room?" He studied her freckled face. "I’ll pay."
"How much?" she asked immediately.
[Like I’d know!] he grumbled internally. [Never rented a room from someone directly. Hotels are easier. Screw it.]
He pulled some bills from his wallet.
"I need a private room, a hot shower, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Just for one day." He showed her a hundred-dollar bill. "Is that enough?"
"Whoa!" Her eyes widened in surprise. "A hundred bucks for a night? You some undercover millionaire?"
John smirked at her small-town innocence. She had no idea that in a big city, a hundred dollars was nothing.
"So, do you know where I can rent a room?" He rustled the bills for emphasis.
"Oh! Yeah!" She snapped back to reality. "My brother’s room is empty. I think you can stay there. Oh, by the way, my name’s Kim. What’s yours?"
"John Smith," he lied easily.
"Really?" She giggled. "Sounds like a secret agent name!"
He parked the car and followed her into a cozy country kitchen, where he happily dug into pancakes with strawberry jam. Kim could cook.
Over lunch, he also learned that Kim was a very lonely person. Only lonely people latched onto a stranger’s ears and dumped information on them, just to hold their attention for a little longer.
"Branding used to have a mine, but it ran dry five years ago," Kim chattered, watching him eat. It was a little awkward. "When the mine closed, there was no more work. Everyone moved to the nearest city, El Paso, or even farther. Only the old folks stayed—to wait for their graves."
"What about you?" He was full but grabbed another pancake. Tasty. "Why didn’t you leave?"
"I stayed with my dad. He can’t leave. Mom passed a long time ago, and there’s no one else to take care of him," she sighed. "But my brother moved out. He’s settling in El Paso, and once he’s ready, we’ll join him. Oh! I’m rambling! You probably want to talk about yourself, Mr. Smith!"
John ignored the obvious hint.
"I like listening to you," he said with a slight smile. "By the way, where’s your father?"
"He’s busy. He’ll be back by dinner," she waved it off. "If you’re done, come on, I’ll show you your room."
John left the empty plate and followed Kim upstairs. A typical young man’s room.
"My brother’s stuff is still here," she quickly shoved a box of magazines under the bed, "but I clean every day."
John gave the room a quick once-over. No bad smells. Bed was comfortable. That was all he needed. A half-hour nap, then it was time to hunt.
"Mr. Smith, I’m all alone in a town full of old people," Kim’s voice took on a playful edge. "No peers around, so I have to satisfy myself with my fingers. Think you could help a lady in distress?"
[Gotta love small-town girls,] John helped her out of her dress. [So refreshingly direct.]
///
John lay on the bed, holding Kim’s naked body against him. With a slight smile, he traced his fingers over her freckled shoulders. Cute.
"Mr. Smith," Kim whispered, resting her head on his chest. "Why did you come to Branding?"
"Heh, trying to loosen my tongue after an orgasm, little fox?" He gave her a light slap on the ass.
"I’m not a fox!" She pouted. "You’re just too secretive!"
"I told you, I’m here on business. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone," John stroked her back like a cat. "By the way, you mentioned some people showed up here two months ago. What do you know about them?"
"They’re deserters. Stole army vehicles loaded with weapons and set up camp on the hill. Making deals, selling guns."
"That’s criminal!" John felt his pulse quicken. "And you’re just casually talking about it?"
"So what? Everyone knows," she shrugged, completely unbothered. "Those guys come down from the hill every day—to buy groceries or shoot pool at the bar."
[Yeah. That’s why I hate small towns. Nowhere to hide from anyone.]
John stared at the ceiling, thinking. Go hunting now or stay in bed with Kim a little longer? Thanks to a simple protection spell, he wasn’t worried about knocking her up or catching anything.
His eyes wandered around the room until they landed on a framed photo. Kim and a tattooed guy... The same guy he had burned alive four hours ago.
His heart sank. He already knew the answer, but he asked anyway:
"Who’s that?"
"Hm?" She lazily turned her head and glanced at the photo. "That’s my brother."
Oh, shit…
[Slept with my enemy’s sister? Looks like I’ve unlocked a new level of villainy.]
"My brother was always trouble," Kim continued. "Fighting, stealing, in and out of jail. When those guys started building their camp, he snuck onto the hill at night. Came back with an army crate, tossed it in his truck, and left for El Paso."
John stayed silent. Not a muscle on his face moved, but his traitorous heart pounded faster.
"Wow, your heart’s racing!" She pressed her ear to his chest. "What’s wrong, Mr. Smith?"
"You do realize your brother stole a crate of weapons from deserters?" He tried to read her expression, but she turned away. "He’s probably dead by now."
"Oh," Kim hugged him tighter. "My dad says the same thing..."
"You said the deserters go to the bar," he quickly changed the subject. "What time?"
"There are always two or three of them near the pool table. Not much else to do in Branding."
"Got it," he carefully pulled out of her embrace and started getting dressed. "I’ll go shoot some pool."
"I’m coming with you!"
"No," he said firmly, locking eyes with her. "Better make dinner. I liked your pancakes."
"Really?" She beamed. "Dad says the same! Once I save up, I’ll move to El Paso and get a job as a chef!"
"Yeah," John mumbled, dressing faster.
[Living with Kim is like living with a radio. Not a second of silence.]
///
John stepped into the bar—not that it deserved the name. A tiny room with two tables. An old bartender, standing behind a counter with only three bottles of liquor. And, of course, a pool table, scarred with holes from bad shots. Two deserters lazily knocked balls around.
The bartender shot John a quick glance, clearly surprised to see an outsider, but he quickly looked away.
The deserters stared longer. John studied them too. Ex-soldiers were easy to spot—strong builds, short haircuts, one idiot even wore his dog tags…
[And military police still haven’t arrested them? Luck really favors idiots.]
"Hey, guys!" John grinned, walking up to the pool table. "How about a game?"
"Did we invite you?" one deserter scowled. "You think you can just join in?"
"You looking for trouble?" the other, drunker one, slurred. "Wanna fight?"
"Yeah, I do."
[That was easy. Almost too easy.]
They stepped out of the bar and into a deserted alley. The moment they were out of sight, John activated the Cross of Zarathos.
"Fucking mutant!" the deserter screamed at the sight of a man spontaneously combusting and took off running.
[Damn transformation process! Not only does it put me through hellish pain, but it also costs me precious seconds!]
As soon as his flesh burned away, the Rider drew his gun and shot the fleeing man. The flame-coated bullet tore through his heart from two hundred yards away. Nothing remained but ash.
A useful ability from Zarathos—flaming projectiles followed sinners as if guided by an invisible thread. Saved time on aiming.
"Appreciate you waiting for me," the Rider said, lifting the drunk by his shoulders. The guy had tripped over his own feet and collapsed. "Now you’ll answer my questions."
Penance Stare.
In ten minutes, he knew everything.
Two months ago, the Hulk went on another rampage, obliterating an entire military base. Enraged, General Ross ordered the delivery of heavy weaponry to arm his forces for a hunt against the green giant. Machine guns, assault rifles, rocket launchers—five vehicles loaded with enough firepower to capture a metropolis.
The soldiers did some quick math and realized the cargo was worth five million dollars—more than they’d earn in twenty years of loyal service. That’s when they made their choice. They became deserters, killed anyone who refused to go along with them, and drove the vehicles to Branding.
One of them claimed he had direct ties to the Kingpin of New York. He left to negotiate a deal for the weapons. Two months passed, and there was no word from him. No one believed he was coming back.
The rest of the deserters had no criminal contacts. They sent scouts to nearby cities to find buyers among gangsters. In a month, they had only sold a tenth of the stock—and for far less than they wanted.
Total losers.
Business was going so badly that they hadn’t even noticed the missing crate.
The Rider sent his informant to hell with a slap.
[These idiots need to be wiped out just so they don’t reproduce.]
///
Before attacking the camp, John returned for dinner. After all, he had paid for it and wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
Besides, it was better to strike while the deserters were asleep.
"Right on time, Mr. Smith!" Kim greeted him at the door, wearing an apron. "Dinner’s almost ready! Come chat with Dad!"
John stepped into the kitchen and saw an older man sitting at the table, wearing a sheriff’s uniform. The pistol in his holster gleamed under the light.
[This just keeps getting more interesting…]
"So this is the tenant my daughter won’t stop talking about!" The sheriff stood up and laughed.
"Daaad!" Kim huffed as she stirred something on the stove.
"Have a seat," the sheriff said, pulling two beers from the fridge. "Name’s Steve Southwell. And you’re Mr.…"
"Smith," John reminded him, taking the beer and sitting down.
"Very common last name," Steve muttered, squinting slightly. "Mind if I see your ID?"
"Left it at home," John took a sip. "Am I under suspicion?"
"Let’s put it simply," the sheriff sighed. "Strangers rarely visit Branding, especially not ones as… interesting as you. My daughter saw your gun."
[Oops. Slip-up.]
"Military-issue Beretta, if I’m not mistaken," Steve glanced at his jacket, trying to spot the weapon underneath. "You asked my daughter about the deserters and where they’re hiding. I’ve been told you visited the bar, left with two of them, and after a single gunshot, neither was ever seen again."
[Goddamn small towns! I made a little noise fifteen minutes ago, and now even the dogs know.]
"Mr. Smith, I know what you’re after. I just want you to know—you have an ally in Branding," the sheriff ran a hand over his metal badge. "Someone who can help you in this war against your enemies."
"Interesting," John set his beer on the table. "Mr. Southwell, who do you think I am?"
"Let’s cut the jokes. War criminals showed up in town with five truckloads of heavy weaponry. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed. My only question is—who do you work for?" Steve studied his face carefully. "FBI? CIA? Maybe Texas Rangers?"
"You’re better off not knowing," John said with the straightest face possible.
"I figured as much," Steve nodded importantly.
It was hard to keep from laughing.
[Special Agent Jonathan Blaze. Heh.]
"What are you planning to do, Mr. Smith? After you deal with the deserters?" The sheriff rested his hand on his gun. "I’m ready to assist in the operation!"
"Mr. Southwell, why the sudden enthusiasm?" John took a sip of beer. "You ignored the criminals in town for two months."
"I sent requests to every agency, but no one responded. Frankly, I’m surprised they actually read my reports and sent you. I even wrote to the Avengers, but they demanded proof. Where the hell am I supposed to get proof? The deserters constantly guard their camp and shoot anything that looks like a sheriff," Steve frowned. "I’m the only law in Branding. Or do you expect me to take on thirty armed soldiers by myself? What am I, Captain America?"
"I hear you," John turned to Kim. "When’s dinner ready?"
"Just a second!" she said, plating the meat.
"Mr. Smith, what exactly are you going to do?" the sheriff asked, narrowing his eyes.
"First, I’m going to enjoy your daughter’s culinary masterpiece," John smiled at Kim. "Then I’ll make a phone call. By morning, the deserters will be gone."
"A special operation, huh," Steve nodded knowingly. "Special forces, helicopters…"
[I don’t even have to try. He’s making up the story all on his own.]
"I can help too," the sheriff placed his hand on his gun.
"No need," John shook his head. "Professionals will handle it. You’d only get in the way."
Steve looked a bit disappointed but didn’t argue.
///
After a fantastic dinner and some light flirting with Kim, the Ghost Rider set off to raid the camp. The whole thing took five minutes.
Armed with intel from his informant, he easily snuck behind the sentries and burned them down before they could react. Then he grabbed a rocket launcher from one of them and fired into the sleeping camp.
Happy ending.
He destroyed all the vehicles carrying weapons. The explosions were loud enough to be heard in El Paso.
As payment for saving the world, he took a duffel bag full of cash from the weapons sales—about a hundred thousand dollars.
John was back home before midnight.
///
That night, John slept like a baby. No nightmares. Just a pleasant warmth in his bones.
He turned on the shower and simply enjoyed the hot water streaming down his body.
Unfortunately, solitude didn’t last long.
"Did you hear those explosions last night?" Kim chirped through the door. "I even saw flashes on the hill from my window! Must’ve been a whole army! Probably even tanks…"
"Of course," John said, trying not to laugh. "And helicopters. No special operation is complete without helicopters."
"Were you part of it?"
"Was I part of it? I led the damn thing!"
"Mmm, I feel so dirty…"
"Just give me a minute," John said, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. "I’m almost done."
"You don’t get it, silly," Kim said as she opened the shower door, completely naked. "Move over a little…"
///
After breakfast, John exchanged a knowing look with the sheriff. Kissed Kim goodbye.
He left an envelope full of cash in her room—a good girl like her shouldn’t rot away in some backwater town.
John got into his car and headed for New York.
[I’ve got enough money for the near future. A satisfied Zarathos won’t fry my brain for a few days. Time to pay Doctor Strange a visit.]
