FIC: Ghost Rider: Season of the Witch 1/??
Title: Season of the Witch
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (might get heavier later on, will warn appropriately)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles, maybe a few other surprise appearences
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: I bought me Essential Ghost Rider Vol. 1 the other day and, looking through it, I was assaulted by so many plot bunnies, so many stories that could be twisted into the movie 'verse, mainly that of Witch Woman. You can read more about the original comic story: Heres And, I'll tell ya, GOPCGR inspired me to include Carter in this, and when I did, everything just fell into place completely!
Prologue-
Lightning set the barren landscape ablaze for an instant as the sky complained angrily, a galvanic charge running through the dry night air; it stirred up the dust devils, little whirlpools of desert. The Phantom Rider blazed against the horizon, the beat of his steed’s hooves unnaturally loud, like the thunder in the heavens above. Chief Silvercloud stood absolutely still, determined not to show his fear though his stomach churned fretfully. He waited, his back to the fire as if to take on the darkness itself, to challenge it. The sight was more horrifying than even he could imagine, and found himself taking a step back in the face of the Phantom’s rearing horse, covering his mouth and nose with his hand as if to hinder the thick taste of brimstone from settling upon his tongue.
“You got something of his,” the demon spoke, his head a pale outline of bone set alight by the flames of Hell. “And I’m here to collect.”
Chief Silvercloud held up his arms in defiance, leaning as if he were fighting the wind. “They are just boys,” he argued, “they did not know of the consequences. They were led astray by our shaman, Snake-Dance-you cannot punish them for that. They are good men, they would make fine warriors one day if only...”
“It’s not my choice,” rasped the Rider harshly, and Silvercloud believed he heard a hint of regret in his tone. “I don’t judge them, I only reclaim what’s rightfully his. They made the bargain, I will uphold it.”
“They are rash, impulsive, but yet so young,” Silvercloud continued, desperation pouring into his voice which cracked under the strain. “They are of my tribe, under my care...”
“They betrayed you,” replied the Rider.
“They betrayed no one but themselves, and that was my failure,” the chief lowered his gaze in sadness. “If they turned from their rightful path, than it is I who is to blame. Spare them, allow them to make amends. They would not ask this for themselves for they do not truly understand yet the pact they have made, but I ask it for them-for their mothers and sisters, for their brothers and future wives.”
Carter Slade wanted to relent, wanted to show mercy, to prove he was still capable of it. Carter Slade wanted to repay the tribe’s generosity, to spare the young men a fate he knew only too well of. Carter Slade wanted to lay a comforting hand upon Silvercloud’s shoulder, to assure him that he’d never allow anything to happen to his boys. But the demon that possessed him, this demon that Carter Slade became-the Phantom, the Ghost Rider-he would never allow it.
“Years ago, your tribe showed me a kindness,” spoke the Rider. “Chief Flaming Star took me in during the day, sheltered me, provided for me,” he patted the side of his steed’s neck. “He gave me Banshee here, and that is a charitableness I shall not forget. But it’s something I’ve learned-you can’t barter with the Devil and win. Gather them,” he ordered, “tell them it is time.”
Present Day-
Johnny surveyed the scenery with one sweeping gaze, the wide expanse of the desert stretching out as far as the horizon in tedious, barren sameness. Grit filled his eyes and mouth as he rubbed a gloved hand across his face. Visions of the past held reign within his haunted head; he’d been chasing them for days, he barely knew his own dreams from world around him anymore. He’d been running, and he’d run here. Something had drawn him to this place.
He glanced up at the sign: “Welcome to Sunny Copper Head, Arizona, Population 565 and Growing!” The last part had been crossed out with red spray paint to read: “Population, Who Cares?” and “And Going Nowhere.” An out-dated and not altogether ethnically sensitive portrait of a smiling Indian maid held out her hands in greeting while her red-skinned warrior consort held his tomahawk high against the sun in the most unthreatening manner possible.
Something stirred in him-a memory? He’d been running a while now. It was time to stop. It was time to face what was coming.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town-
The wind rattled against the window pane, kicking up dirt and grit from the surrounding desert, grinding it into every surface. The screen door in the kitchen gently battering on its frame, blowing open and shut about an inch or so on its bent hinges, the catch of the tin doorhandle softly clack-clack-clacking against the lip of its cradle. It wasn’t locked. Who would want to break into a crappy little hole like the beat-up, run-down old ranch house anyways?
In the bedroom, the young woman slept uneasily, tossing and turning until the covers were irrevocably twisted about her waist. A fan slowly revolved at the foot of the bed, cooling the exposed sole of her foot and not much else, its steady, bland rhythm providing no comfort. Sweat slickened her skin, drenching the thin t-shirt she wore and the sheet below her. She gasped and thrashed her body onto its back as the wind began to howl mournfully, a thousand damned souls all screaming at once. The full moon cast strange and perilous visions into the darkness and the shadows moved in the stillness of their own impetus.
The man in black materialized within the gloom, a spectre born of the darkness itself. Leaning on his cane, the apparition bent over her prone form, close to her ear; the distorted shape he cast against the wall not that of a human at all but the stuff of nightmares. She smelt, she felt the fire on his breath as he whispered. “The Rider will come to you, and you will know him. And then, you will help me bring him to heel. And if you cannot do that, you will kill him.”
“Yes,” the young woman replied, her voice flat and trance-like, “my Master.” He leaned over then and kissed her upon the lips; she breathed him in as if he were smoke.
1.
The deceptively cheerful bell over the door chimed as the stranger strode in, tugging at the brim on his cowboy hat in friendly salutation. He paused to study the wooden cigar store Indian that stood crookedly on warped floor planks, meet its majestic glare, and moved on to the jukebox. Plucking a coin from his jeans’ pocket and flipping it once in the air, he slid it in, the mellow strains of ‘Leave Yesterday Behind’ played smoothly from the tinny speakers as he sidled up onto a stool in front of the bar, away from the rowdy locals playing pool at the shabby old table to his left.
He spared them a small but wary glance, leaning his elbows against the wooden surface before him, rubbing the sand and sleep from his eyes. Linda Littletrees could tell the man’d been on the road a while--he looked tired, worn down to the bone; day and night, their hours no longer kept his counsel and all was focused on the twilight horizon ever before him.
The grime that coated the windows of Grant’s Dimestore, Drugstore and Barroom was so thick, it dimmed the light inside the dingy little room, filtering the sunlight through layers of accumulated grunge. But it couldn’t diffuse the sparkle of Linda’s brightest smile as she strolled on up to the counter; her teeth were a soft white contrasted against her bronze skin and the dusky rose of her lips. “Well howdy there, handsome,” she greeted. “You look like you could use a nice strong cup of coffee.”
“Good God, darlin’, jus’ get the poor guy a cold one,” a portly, aging American Indian man said as he sauntered out from the backroom kitchen, wiping his hands on his sleeveless undershirt and taking a seat at the end of the bar, on a stool closest to the unsteady ledge that held a small color TV. “There’re still a few in the cooler out back.”
“Oh uh, no,” the stranger spoke, displaying a lazy Texas drawl, removing his hat and setting it down on the counter beside him “no beer thanks; don’t like the alcohol. If you have something else, preferably without caffeine, if that’s okay-It’s bad for the blood pressure,” he added quickly. His kind, sort of languid eyes reminded Linda of the turquoise jewelry her mother used to make and sell on the reservation, his eyebrows and hair dark like a raven’s feathers against the wan skin of his slender face. Well, hello tall, dark and good-lookin’, thought Linda as he removed his leather jacket, exposing a lithe, finely muscled build.
“I have just the thing,” she grinned, slapping her hand gently on the edge of the bar. “I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade not an hour ago, squeezed the lemons myself-my secret recipe. It’s been chilling in the fridge-just the thing for a parched throat. I’ll get you a glass, and I’ll throw in one of my renowned egg salad sandwiches, just for you,” she winked at him.
Without taking his eyes from the TV screen, the stout man in the tanktop jerked his thumb towards a dusty free-standing shelf near a disused magazine rack. “I'll give ya a buck off the Pepto-Bismol,” he grunted, and the boys snickering around the pool table burst out in a raucous round of laughter.
Linda screwed her face up tight and scowled at him, looking for all the world like she just might box the ears of a man at least two times her senior; instead, she whipped a dishcloth at his plump thigh. He hardly even blinked, but then glanced around furtively as she disappeared into the kitchen and, when he was sure she could no longer see him, reached out and changed the station on the TV set.
The news flickered onto the small screen and the stranger’s eyes were dragged away from Linda’s aesthetically pleasing retreating figure to the television. The anchor’s painted on smile was nearly stationary as she spoke: “And in entertainment news…in light of new information received by… extreme stunt performer and enthusiast John Blaze is no longer wanted for questioning in the murder of his chief crewman, Daniel McLaughlin…a railway worker, whose death Blaze had previously been taken into custody in regard to. Though the police have not issued a formal statement, it is believed that the slayings were the work of an obsessed fan who…Blaze was unavailable for comment…denied reports yesterday that he is missing…”
The stranger closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh; if it was true that your life flashed before your eyes in the face of tragedy, Johnny Blaze was sure that the fate of a celebrity, even a minor one, was a much more surreal one-to watch it all play out in third person on the television. He could only thank goodness for small favors, such as the picture accompanying the report depicting him with his helmet obscuring most of his face. He remembered that photo, the day it had been taken-he’d been talking to Mack just moments before, assuring him that everything was going to be fine. Mack. Oh, Mack. ‘If onlys’ gave you just two things, Barton Blaze would have told him: jack and squat. But, sometimes, they were all you had.
“Russell, godammit!” huffed Linda, snapping Johnny’s attention back to the present. She was balancing a tray on one arm, holding a pitcher with that hand as she stretched the other to change the channel back to the first program. “There’s but one thing I ask for in return for working this job, and it ain’t the rotten pay-do not interrupt my stories!”
“You don’t speak Spanish,” the heavyset man, Russell, observed impassively.
“What’s your point?” she shrugged the tray onto the bar, sliding a plate with a sandwich, a pickle and some chips over to Johnny, placing a glass beside it. She poured the lemonade from the jug, flashing Johnny a flirtatious smile.
“It’s in Spanish,” replied Russell stolidly, pointing matter-of-factly at the chittering figures on the TV.
“Some things are just universal,” Linda insisted, shrugging.
“Like soap operas?” Russell asked blankly, scratching his sweat-dampened chins.
“Like the international language of emotion!” she scoffed. “Such passion and spectacle! I cut off the crusts for you,” she pointed out to Johnny, and he thanked her with a grin. “I don’t do that for everyone, you know. D’you want some tomato paste with that?” she asked as Johnny took his first bite of the Wonder Bread and mushed egg concoction.
“It’s an egg salad sandwich,” Russell commented.
“Yes, thank you, Russell,” she said peevishly, setting the ketchup bottle down on the bar. “Are you just going to sit around all day and state facts? Ooh, look at her!” she said suddenly, gesturing delightedly as an actress came into the picture, the busy print of her tawdry dress only slightly louder than her wailing vocalization. “She’s my favorite-she makes me laugh! I call her Consuela but I have no idea what her real name is.” She cocked her head to the side. “She just looks like a Consuela.”
As she glanced away to chuckle at the outrageous drama on television, Johnny spared a look and saw out of the corner of his eye the boys around the pool table mugging, snorting with laughter as they puckered their mouths and crossed their eyes. He frowned a little, keeping his glare on them as he raised the glass to his lips; he nearly gagged as the lemonade passed over his tongue, suppressing a choke into a small cough. “It’s good,” he assured her in a strained voice, pleased by the proud smile that crossed her mouth. “It’s real good.”
Boisterous guffawing from the pool table hooligans, and Johnny was relieved to see Linda remain blithely oblivious. “Weekend regulars,” she told Johnny in a dismissive undertone, shrugging her shoulders. “No self respecting roadhouse would even let them past the door, and they got kicked off the reservation for littering and harassing the tourists, so they come in here. Don’t know what they think will change from week to week round this place, especially since Russell stopped stocking those girly magazines. So, is that where you’re headed, San Carlos-the reservation?”
Johnny was quiet a moment as he considered his answer, chewing on a bite of his sandwich contemplatively. The song had ended a little while ago and even the pool table regulars fell silent awaiting his response. His eyes went all far away and just when Linda thought that maybe he just wanted to be left alone, he replied, “Thought I’d go out to Salt River Canyon for a day, but it’s not where I’m headed, no.”
“Didn’t take you for a fisherman,” she observed, giving him the once over, sizing him up and cocking an eyebrow in approval.
“Oh I’m-I’m not,” he asserted in his easygoing way. She snorted a laugh when he told her, “Couldn’t ever bring myself to eat a fish called a crappie anyways. No, I just-I like the peace.” She nodded-not in a courteous but disinterested way, not the way you do when you’re making polite chit chat, but in a way that made him truly believe that she understood. But she couldn’t, could she? He cleared his throat. “Actually, I was wondering if you knew a place I could stay; just for a couple of days, it doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a roof over my head and preferably something not altogether unpleasant under my butt.”
“You’re not one of those ‘see the real America, take a crappy back road’ types, are you?” she teased him. “No,” she put up a hand to stop him responding, “I know you’re not. It’s just, we don’t get many visitors nowadays passing through Copper Head, Population Who Cares-trust me, it says so on the sign. Tell ya what though, I got a room I can rent ya. It’s nothing fancy, there’s no a/c but we’ve got satellite TV and I make a mean breakfast.”
“You pretty much sold me with the satellite television,” grinned Johnny easily, raising his arms as if in surrender.
“I’m Linda, by the way,” she introduced as she leaned over the counter, her hand extended; he took it in his, palm to palm, fingers curled around the almost baby-softness of her skin, and shook her hand firmly. “Linda Littletrees, at your service.”
He hesitated and, though he hated to do it, he justified a lie by assuring himself that it would keep her safe, “I’m...Daniel.” He looked to the bottle resting beside his hand upon the bar. “Ketch...” Oh, that was too cheesy; would she buy it? “Ketch. Daniel Ketch.” To his relief, she smiled cheerily and he forgot himself for a instant and took a deep, contented gulp from his glass, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he resisted the urge to heave. “It’s good,” he declared once more, forcing a smile.
“Want a refill?” she asked expectantly, eagerly holding out the pitcher.
“No! Thanks but, uh,” he coughed, holding out his hand in what he hoped did not look as much like a desperate gesture as it felt, “I think I’ll have a can of pop now, if you’ve got one.”
TBC
Go to chapter 2
Peace, Ghani
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (might get heavier later on, will warn appropriately)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles, maybe a few other surprise appearences
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: I bought me Essential Ghost Rider Vol. 1 the other day and, looking through it, I was assaulted by so many plot bunnies, so many stories that could be twisted into the movie 'verse, mainly that of Witch Woman. You can read more about the original comic story: Heres And, I'll tell ya, GOPCGR inspired me to include Carter in this, and when I did, everything just fell into place completely!
Prologue-
Lightning set the barren landscape ablaze for an instant as the sky complained angrily, a galvanic charge running through the dry night air; it stirred up the dust devils, little whirlpools of desert. The Phantom Rider blazed against the horizon, the beat of his steed’s hooves unnaturally loud, like the thunder in the heavens above. Chief Silvercloud stood absolutely still, determined not to show his fear though his stomach churned fretfully. He waited, his back to the fire as if to take on the darkness itself, to challenge it. The sight was more horrifying than even he could imagine, and found himself taking a step back in the face of the Phantom’s rearing horse, covering his mouth and nose with his hand as if to hinder the thick taste of brimstone from settling upon his tongue.
“You got something of his,” the demon spoke, his head a pale outline of bone set alight by the flames of Hell. “And I’m here to collect.”
Chief Silvercloud held up his arms in defiance, leaning as if he were fighting the wind. “They are just boys,” he argued, “they did not know of the consequences. They were led astray by our shaman, Snake-Dance-you cannot punish them for that. They are good men, they would make fine warriors one day if only...”
“It’s not my choice,” rasped the Rider harshly, and Silvercloud believed he heard a hint of regret in his tone. “I don’t judge them, I only reclaim what’s rightfully his. They made the bargain, I will uphold it.”
“They are rash, impulsive, but yet so young,” Silvercloud continued, desperation pouring into his voice which cracked under the strain. “They are of my tribe, under my care...”
“They betrayed you,” replied the Rider.
“They betrayed no one but themselves, and that was my failure,” the chief lowered his gaze in sadness. “If they turned from their rightful path, than it is I who is to blame. Spare them, allow them to make amends. They would not ask this for themselves for they do not truly understand yet the pact they have made, but I ask it for them-for their mothers and sisters, for their brothers and future wives.”
Carter Slade wanted to relent, wanted to show mercy, to prove he was still capable of it. Carter Slade wanted to repay the tribe’s generosity, to spare the young men a fate he knew only too well of. Carter Slade wanted to lay a comforting hand upon Silvercloud’s shoulder, to assure him that he’d never allow anything to happen to his boys. But the demon that possessed him, this demon that Carter Slade became-the Phantom, the Ghost Rider-he would never allow it.
“Years ago, your tribe showed me a kindness,” spoke the Rider. “Chief Flaming Star took me in during the day, sheltered me, provided for me,” he patted the side of his steed’s neck. “He gave me Banshee here, and that is a charitableness I shall not forget. But it’s something I’ve learned-you can’t barter with the Devil and win. Gather them,” he ordered, “tell them it is time.”
Present Day-
Johnny surveyed the scenery with one sweeping gaze, the wide expanse of the desert stretching out as far as the horizon in tedious, barren sameness. Grit filled his eyes and mouth as he rubbed a gloved hand across his face. Visions of the past held reign within his haunted head; he’d been chasing them for days, he barely knew his own dreams from world around him anymore. He’d been running, and he’d run here. Something had drawn him to this place.
He glanced up at the sign: “Welcome to Sunny Copper Head, Arizona, Population 565 and Growing!” The last part had been crossed out with red spray paint to read: “Population, Who Cares?” and “And Going Nowhere.” An out-dated and not altogether ethnically sensitive portrait of a smiling Indian maid held out her hands in greeting while her red-skinned warrior consort held his tomahawk high against the sun in the most unthreatening manner possible.
Something stirred in him-a memory? He’d been running a while now. It was time to stop. It was time to face what was coming.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town-
The wind rattled against the window pane, kicking up dirt and grit from the surrounding desert, grinding it into every surface. The screen door in the kitchen gently battering on its frame, blowing open and shut about an inch or so on its bent hinges, the catch of the tin doorhandle softly clack-clack-clacking against the lip of its cradle. It wasn’t locked. Who would want to break into a crappy little hole like the beat-up, run-down old ranch house anyways?
In the bedroom, the young woman slept uneasily, tossing and turning until the covers were irrevocably twisted about her waist. A fan slowly revolved at the foot of the bed, cooling the exposed sole of her foot and not much else, its steady, bland rhythm providing no comfort. Sweat slickened her skin, drenching the thin t-shirt she wore and the sheet below her. She gasped and thrashed her body onto its back as the wind began to howl mournfully, a thousand damned souls all screaming at once. The full moon cast strange and perilous visions into the darkness and the shadows moved in the stillness of their own impetus.
The man in black materialized within the gloom, a spectre born of the darkness itself. Leaning on his cane, the apparition bent over her prone form, close to her ear; the distorted shape he cast against the wall not that of a human at all but the stuff of nightmares. She smelt, she felt the fire on his breath as he whispered. “The Rider will come to you, and you will know him. And then, you will help me bring him to heel. And if you cannot do that, you will kill him.”
“Yes,” the young woman replied, her voice flat and trance-like, “my Master.” He leaned over then and kissed her upon the lips; she breathed him in as if he were smoke.
1.
The deceptively cheerful bell over the door chimed as the stranger strode in, tugging at the brim on his cowboy hat in friendly salutation. He paused to study the wooden cigar store Indian that stood crookedly on warped floor planks, meet its majestic glare, and moved on to the jukebox. Plucking a coin from his jeans’ pocket and flipping it once in the air, he slid it in, the mellow strains of ‘Leave Yesterday Behind’ played smoothly from the tinny speakers as he sidled up onto a stool in front of the bar, away from the rowdy locals playing pool at the shabby old table to his left.
He spared them a small but wary glance, leaning his elbows against the wooden surface before him, rubbing the sand and sleep from his eyes. Linda Littletrees could tell the man’d been on the road a while--he looked tired, worn down to the bone; day and night, their hours no longer kept his counsel and all was focused on the twilight horizon ever before him.
The grime that coated the windows of Grant’s Dimestore, Drugstore and Barroom was so thick, it dimmed the light inside the dingy little room, filtering the sunlight through layers of accumulated grunge. But it couldn’t diffuse the sparkle of Linda’s brightest smile as she strolled on up to the counter; her teeth were a soft white contrasted against her bronze skin and the dusky rose of her lips. “Well howdy there, handsome,” she greeted. “You look like you could use a nice strong cup of coffee.”
“Good God, darlin’, jus’ get the poor guy a cold one,” a portly, aging American Indian man said as he sauntered out from the backroom kitchen, wiping his hands on his sleeveless undershirt and taking a seat at the end of the bar, on a stool closest to the unsteady ledge that held a small color TV. “There’re still a few in the cooler out back.”
“Oh uh, no,” the stranger spoke, displaying a lazy Texas drawl, removing his hat and setting it down on the counter beside him “no beer thanks; don’t like the alcohol. If you have something else, preferably without caffeine, if that’s okay-It’s bad for the blood pressure,” he added quickly. His kind, sort of languid eyes reminded Linda of the turquoise jewelry her mother used to make and sell on the reservation, his eyebrows and hair dark like a raven’s feathers against the wan skin of his slender face. Well, hello tall, dark and good-lookin’, thought Linda as he removed his leather jacket, exposing a lithe, finely muscled build.
“I have just the thing,” she grinned, slapping her hand gently on the edge of the bar. “I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade not an hour ago, squeezed the lemons myself-my secret recipe. It’s been chilling in the fridge-just the thing for a parched throat. I’ll get you a glass, and I’ll throw in one of my renowned egg salad sandwiches, just for you,” she winked at him.
Without taking his eyes from the TV screen, the stout man in the tanktop jerked his thumb towards a dusty free-standing shelf near a disused magazine rack. “I'll give ya a buck off the Pepto-Bismol,” he grunted, and the boys snickering around the pool table burst out in a raucous round of laughter.
Linda screwed her face up tight and scowled at him, looking for all the world like she just might box the ears of a man at least two times her senior; instead, she whipped a dishcloth at his plump thigh. He hardly even blinked, but then glanced around furtively as she disappeared into the kitchen and, when he was sure she could no longer see him, reached out and changed the station on the TV set.
The news flickered onto the small screen and the stranger’s eyes were dragged away from Linda’s aesthetically pleasing retreating figure to the television. The anchor’s painted on smile was nearly stationary as she spoke: “And in entertainment news…in light of new information received by… extreme stunt performer and enthusiast John Blaze is no longer wanted for questioning in the murder of his chief crewman, Daniel McLaughlin…a railway worker, whose death Blaze had previously been taken into custody in regard to. Though the police have not issued a formal statement, it is believed that the slayings were the work of an obsessed fan who…Blaze was unavailable for comment…denied reports yesterday that he is missing…”
The stranger closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh; if it was true that your life flashed before your eyes in the face of tragedy, Johnny Blaze was sure that the fate of a celebrity, even a minor one, was a much more surreal one-to watch it all play out in third person on the television. He could only thank goodness for small favors, such as the picture accompanying the report depicting him with his helmet obscuring most of his face. He remembered that photo, the day it had been taken-he’d been talking to Mack just moments before, assuring him that everything was going to be fine. Mack. Oh, Mack. ‘If onlys’ gave you just two things, Barton Blaze would have told him: jack and squat. But, sometimes, they were all you had.
“Russell, godammit!” huffed Linda, snapping Johnny’s attention back to the present. She was balancing a tray on one arm, holding a pitcher with that hand as she stretched the other to change the channel back to the first program. “There’s but one thing I ask for in return for working this job, and it ain’t the rotten pay-do not interrupt my stories!”
“You don’t speak Spanish,” the heavyset man, Russell, observed impassively.
“What’s your point?” she shrugged the tray onto the bar, sliding a plate with a sandwich, a pickle and some chips over to Johnny, placing a glass beside it. She poured the lemonade from the jug, flashing Johnny a flirtatious smile.
“It’s in Spanish,” replied Russell stolidly, pointing matter-of-factly at the chittering figures on the TV.
“Some things are just universal,” Linda insisted, shrugging.
“Like soap operas?” Russell asked blankly, scratching his sweat-dampened chins.
“Like the international language of emotion!” she scoffed. “Such passion and spectacle! I cut off the crusts for you,” she pointed out to Johnny, and he thanked her with a grin. “I don’t do that for everyone, you know. D’you want some tomato paste with that?” she asked as Johnny took his first bite of the Wonder Bread and mushed egg concoction.
“It’s an egg salad sandwich,” Russell commented.
“Yes, thank you, Russell,” she said peevishly, setting the ketchup bottle down on the bar. “Are you just going to sit around all day and state facts? Ooh, look at her!” she said suddenly, gesturing delightedly as an actress came into the picture, the busy print of her tawdry dress only slightly louder than her wailing vocalization. “She’s my favorite-she makes me laugh! I call her Consuela but I have no idea what her real name is.” She cocked her head to the side. “She just looks like a Consuela.”
As she glanced away to chuckle at the outrageous drama on television, Johnny spared a look and saw out of the corner of his eye the boys around the pool table mugging, snorting with laughter as they puckered their mouths and crossed their eyes. He frowned a little, keeping his glare on them as he raised the glass to his lips; he nearly gagged as the lemonade passed over his tongue, suppressing a choke into a small cough. “It’s good,” he assured her in a strained voice, pleased by the proud smile that crossed her mouth. “It’s real good.”
Boisterous guffawing from the pool table hooligans, and Johnny was relieved to see Linda remain blithely oblivious. “Weekend regulars,” she told Johnny in a dismissive undertone, shrugging her shoulders. “No self respecting roadhouse would even let them past the door, and they got kicked off the reservation for littering and harassing the tourists, so they come in here. Don’t know what they think will change from week to week round this place, especially since Russell stopped stocking those girly magazines. So, is that where you’re headed, San Carlos-the reservation?”
Johnny was quiet a moment as he considered his answer, chewing on a bite of his sandwich contemplatively. The song had ended a little while ago and even the pool table regulars fell silent awaiting his response. His eyes went all far away and just when Linda thought that maybe he just wanted to be left alone, he replied, “Thought I’d go out to Salt River Canyon for a day, but it’s not where I’m headed, no.”
“Didn’t take you for a fisherman,” she observed, giving him the once over, sizing him up and cocking an eyebrow in approval.
“Oh I’m-I’m not,” he asserted in his easygoing way. She snorted a laugh when he told her, “Couldn’t ever bring myself to eat a fish called a crappie anyways. No, I just-I like the peace.” She nodded-not in a courteous but disinterested way, not the way you do when you’re making polite chit chat, but in a way that made him truly believe that she understood. But she couldn’t, could she? He cleared his throat. “Actually, I was wondering if you knew a place I could stay; just for a couple of days, it doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a roof over my head and preferably something not altogether unpleasant under my butt.”
“You’re not one of those ‘see the real America, take a crappy back road’ types, are you?” she teased him. “No,” she put up a hand to stop him responding, “I know you’re not. It’s just, we don’t get many visitors nowadays passing through Copper Head, Population Who Cares-trust me, it says so on the sign. Tell ya what though, I got a room I can rent ya. It’s nothing fancy, there’s no a/c but we’ve got satellite TV and I make a mean breakfast.”
“You pretty much sold me with the satellite television,” grinned Johnny easily, raising his arms as if in surrender.
“I’m Linda, by the way,” she introduced as she leaned over the counter, her hand extended; he took it in his, palm to palm, fingers curled around the almost baby-softness of her skin, and shook her hand firmly. “Linda Littletrees, at your service.”
He hesitated and, though he hated to do it, he justified a lie by assuring himself that it would keep her safe, “I’m...Daniel.” He looked to the bottle resting beside his hand upon the bar. “Ketch...” Oh, that was too cheesy; would she buy it? “Ketch. Daniel Ketch.” To his relief, she smiled cheerily and he forgot himself for a instant and took a deep, contented gulp from his glass, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he resisted the urge to heave. “It’s good,” he declared once more, forcing a smile.
“Want a refill?” she asked expectantly, eagerly holding out the pitcher.
“No! Thanks but, uh,” he coughed, holding out his hand in what he hoped did not look as much like a desperate gesture as it felt, “I think I’ll have a can of pop now, if you’ve got one.”
TBC
Go to chapter 2
Peace, Ghani