A Rider is Born: Prt1
There is a summons.
It comes quickly and quietly, interrupting Johnny's musings. Cutting through the conflicting signs. His hands redden, unbearable heat rises in his body as he tries frantically to cool himself down. It does no good. Water dissolves off his hands and the steam oozes out the open window. The steam is palpable, rising from some inner sidewalk within himself.
I haven't been sick in years.
This is bad and he needs to get himself to a doctor. He knows it. Believes it. The fact that he hasn't keeled over from the heat is impossible.
This is not right.
His mind suddenly leaps to the incredible disappearing and reappearing state of his afternoon-and the tension is cut by a rumble from outside.
It could very well be a lion. Today he touched a tiger who spoke and talked of things beyond his mortal (Not quite. Never. Never sir) comprehension. His feet pad cautiously toward the doorway of his bathroom, afraid of what he might encounter.
Hell, if it's the bar, he's going to throw a fit. It needs to stop showing up at the most inopportune times-
Grace..
-------------
"Ain't she a beaut' hon?"
Quientin Simpson could only marvel at Barton Blaze and the bike he so carefully straddled. A girl child watched from underneath her father's arm, brown eyes wide as she took in the expanse of chrome and paint. Even someone who knew nothing about motorcycles, about transportation, could see that Grace wasn't just a bike. Nothing so paltry. She was a work of art.
"...I wanna touch."
"No!"
A boy child pushed her away with pudgy hands, " -That belongs to my daddy."
---------
Grace, the only mother he'd ever really known, was missing. She'd vanished abruptly, without a sound betraying her exit, leaving only a pile of books in her wake. Their pages flapped in a non-existent wind as Johnny hung back.
I don't want to go out there.
His feet thought differently.
If I go out there I'm in trouble.
His body paid no heed to his mind's warnings as he activated the lift and ended up on the concrete outside his apartment.
The roar was louder here. The lion hungry.
Grace. Johnny couldn't have been more surprised if He'd walked into that bar again, out here in the street.
His father's bike sat complacently in the alleyway, twitching her non-existant tail and studying Johnny with lidded and sensuous eyes. Every scratch was gone, every dent fixed. The chrome was polished, as if three decades of wear and tear and fear had never happened.
Even stranger, the bike was running by itself.
Johnny took a cautious step forward, wondering what the hell was going on-when he felt the chilled presence of the figure standing directly in the bike's path.
The last time I saw him- Anger welled up inside Johnny as he pointed a finger, reminiscent of all those years ago That bastard, that snake, that two timing monster, that-that-
"....You."
Hate consumed his voice as the elderly stranger smiled genially and stepped forward, "Hi Johnny."
"...Stay away from me." Johnny willed the figure to vanish, willed the past to change.
"....A little late for that." The Devil stepped forward, examining the bike with a critical eye, "....Nice Bike....Yeah.." This would do fine. A new look for the modern era. And at least I don't have to find him a horse.
Somewhere in Hollywood, a nice man named Peter Fonda shivered.
"What are you doing here?"
The Devil smirked, "Oh, I've always been here." The old man tilted his head to the side, "Phoenix, Denver, Huston..."
Johnny's career flashed before his eyes. It was all a joke. It meant nothing. The admiration, the skill he thought he'd mastered. All for nothing, "...It was you." Johnny growled, "....Keeping me alive-" Making me famous, dangling me along like a cat teasing a mouse-
"Oh no no." The old man held up a hand, walking toward him, steps slow and deliberate, "....It's all you Johnny. You're the best."
The best. A false idol. The devil couldn'tve been more thrilled. Each child who emulates you. Each teen who watches you religiously. One less for him. My own little golden calf. A calf with benefits. A cow ready to give milk for the first time.
The devil smiled warmly, "and I'm your...biggest fan."
His voice matched an octave reserved for a cat's purr as he stalked closer, "The posters, the Video games," Give, Give to this man rather then to those who deserve it. The ultimate sin of vanity, "The chanting crowds; screaming, "Johnny-Johnny...Johnny-"
Something crawled up Johnny Blaze's spine and died.
"...It's like watching an investment." The devil continued, "That keeps growing and growing...until the day you cash it in. And that day?" He traced a gloved hand over one of Grace's handlebars, "Is today. Find the one called Blackheart and destroy him."
The order was casually thrown away, as if they discussed the weather or the latest Cowboys score. Johnny shook his head, willing the sudden cobwebs to clear, vowing to go to Roxanne. (Roxanne? Was that her name?) Then to the hospital, "Find him yourself."
He swung a leg over Grace to find that it fixed in place, fused to the metal itself. His hands automatically reached for the handlebars and fixed themselves to the metal, welding him to the machine. Panic gripped him, his brain swimming as the devil shook his head, "...It doesn't work like that Johnny. You're under contract."
No! You can't sign a contract under false pretenses can you? I wasn't! It's not-
The Devil raised his cane, his face wearing a look of intense concentration as he brought it down with the thunder in the desert.
Grace started.
Chunks of concrete and stone tore up from beneath her as the wheel spun. Instinct brought Johnny's heels down as the bike roared under his control (barely! Good god, if it kept going like this-) the engine roared in protest, Grace surging forward.
Johnny could no longer hold on to the world, reality, the bike-anything that made sense. Terrified, he planted his feet on the pedals as the bike moved of it's own violation, leaving a trail of fire behind him.
---------
It comes quickly and quietly, interrupting Johnny's musings. Cutting through the conflicting signs. His hands redden, unbearable heat rises in his body as he tries frantically to cool himself down. It does no good. Water dissolves off his hands and the steam oozes out the open window. The steam is palpable, rising from some inner sidewalk within himself.
I haven't been sick in years.
This is bad and he needs to get himself to a doctor. He knows it. Believes it. The fact that he hasn't keeled over from the heat is impossible.
This is not right.
His mind suddenly leaps to the incredible disappearing and reappearing state of his afternoon-and the tension is cut by a rumble from outside.
It could very well be a lion. Today he touched a tiger who spoke and talked of things beyond his mortal (Not quite. Never. Never sir) comprehension. His feet pad cautiously toward the doorway of his bathroom, afraid of what he might encounter.
Hell, if it's the bar, he's going to throw a fit. It needs to stop showing up at the most inopportune times-
Grace..
-------------
"Ain't she a beaut' hon?"
Quientin Simpson could only marvel at Barton Blaze and the bike he so carefully straddled. A girl child watched from underneath her father's arm, brown eyes wide as she took in the expanse of chrome and paint. Even someone who knew nothing about motorcycles, about transportation, could see that Grace wasn't just a bike. Nothing so paltry. She was a work of art.
"...I wanna touch."
"No!"
A boy child pushed her away with pudgy hands, " -That belongs to my daddy."
---------
Grace, the only mother he'd ever really known, was missing. She'd vanished abruptly, without a sound betraying her exit, leaving only a pile of books in her wake. Their pages flapped in a non-existent wind as Johnny hung back.
I don't want to go out there.
His feet thought differently.
If I go out there I'm in trouble.
His body paid no heed to his mind's warnings as he activated the lift and ended up on the concrete outside his apartment.
The roar was louder here. The lion hungry.
Grace. Johnny couldn't have been more surprised if He'd walked into that bar again, out here in the street.
His father's bike sat complacently in the alleyway, twitching her non-existant tail and studying Johnny with lidded and sensuous eyes. Every scratch was gone, every dent fixed. The chrome was polished, as if three decades of wear and tear and fear had never happened.
Even stranger, the bike was running by itself.
Johnny took a cautious step forward, wondering what the hell was going on-when he felt the chilled presence of the figure standing directly in the bike's path.
The last time I saw him- Anger welled up inside Johnny as he pointed a finger, reminiscent of all those years ago That bastard, that snake, that two timing monster, that-that-
"....You."
Hate consumed his voice as the elderly stranger smiled genially and stepped forward, "Hi Johnny."
"...Stay away from me." Johnny willed the figure to vanish, willed the past to change.
"....A little late for that." The Devil stepped forward, examining the bike with a critical eye, "....Nice Bike....Yeah.." This would do fine. A new look for the modern era. And at least I don't have to find him a horse.
Somewhere in Hollywood, a nice man named Peter Fonda shivered.
"What are you doing here?"
The Devil smirked, "Oh, I've always been here." The old man tilted his head to the side, "Phoenix, Denver, Huston..."
Johnny's career flashed before his eyes. It was all a joke. It meant nothing. The admiration, the skill he thought he'd mastered. All for nothing, "...It was you." Johnny growled, "....Keeping me alive-" Making me famous, dangling me along like a cat teasing a mouse-
"Oh no no." The old man held up a hand, walking toward him, steps slow and deliberate, "....It's all you Johnny. You're the best."
The best. A false idol. The devil couldn'tve been more thrilled. Each child who emulates you. Each teen who watches you religiously. One less for him. My own little golden calf. A calf with benefits. A cow ready to give milk for the first time.
The devil smiled warmly, "and I'm your...biggest fan."
His voice matched an octave reserved for a cat's purr as he stalked closer, "The posters, the Video games," Give, Give to this man rather then to those who deserve it. The ultimate sin of vanity, "The chanting crowds; screaming, "Johnny-Johnny...Johnny-"
Something crawled up Johnny Blaze's spine and died.
"...It's like watching an investment." The devil continued, "That keeps growing and growing...until the day you cash it in. And that day?" He traced a gloved hand over one of Grace's handlebars, "Is today. Find the one called Blackheart and destroy him."
The order was casually thrown away, as if they discussed the weather or the latest Cowboys score. Johnny shook his head, willing the sudden cobwebs to clear, vowing to go to Roxanne. (Roxanne? Was that her name?) Then to the hospital, "Find him yourself."
He swung a leg over Grace to find that it fixed in place, fused to the metal itself. His hands automatically reached for the handlebars and fixed themselves to the metal, welding him to the machine. Panic gripped him, his brain swimming as the devil shook his head, "...It doesn't work like that Johnny. You're under contract."
No! You can't sign a contract under false pretenses can you? I wasn't! It's not-
The Devil raised his cane, his face wearing a look of intense concentration as he brought it down with the thunder in the desert.
Grace started.
Chunks of concrete and stone tore up from beneath her as the wheel spun. Instinct brought Johnny's heels down as the bike roared under his control (barely! Good god, if it kept going like this-) the engine roared in protest, Grace surging forward.
Johnny could no longer hold on to the world, reality, the bike-anything that made sense. Terrified, he planted his feet on the pedals as the bike moved of it's own violation, leaving a trail of fire behind him.
---------