Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. Ghost Rider belongs to Marvel Comics and Sony Pictures and possibly others. The Rock (1996) belongs to Don Simpson, Jerry Bruckheimer and probably a whole lot of other people/companies. Daredevil belongs to Marvel Comics and probably a lot of other people as well. I don't own them and I won't make any money from this. I'm just seeing what they can do when I mush them all together. Please, no suing.
Author's note: This is primarily a crossover between the Ghost Rider movie, comic and novelization with a character and some background from the 1996 movie The Rock. Daredevil appears only briefly and as more of a background event then as a character, so if Daredevil's who you're interested in there won't be enough of him in here to matter.
I will be borrowing heavily from the Ghost Rider Comics for villains and situations as well as the two movies.
Warning: I use British/Canadian spelling so some words (like sulphur/sulfer) may seem odd but they are spelled correctly.
Written for NaNoWriMo 2007.
Rating: T for violence and maybe some swearing.
Summary: Six months have passed and Johnny Blaze heads back to Fort Worth just as the FBI come in to help with the sulphur death cases. Enter Special Agent Stanley Goodspeed, Chemical Weapon's Expert and a dead ringer for a certain hot headed motorcyclist. Crossover Ghost Rider/The Rock.
Between a Rock and the Hot Place
Started November 1st, 2007
Everyone fears and courts his own demon.
-- Mason Cooley
Lonny Hopper ran, breaths harshly panting a stitch in his side and no intention of stopping.
It just wasn't fair. That old gas station was practically out in the middle of nowhere. At worst he should have been looking at a poor haul from robbing the place, not...
The sound of a motorcycle engine gunned behind him and he zigzagged around a couple of rocks before tripping over a third one and ended up sliding through the cactus infested sand into a dry creek bed. By some miracle he landed on his feet and ignoring his now prickling backside he staggered along the hard cracked ground.
Damn it, it was supposed to be a simple job. Just go in, wave a gun around and make off with enough cash for his next fix. Instead the dumb assed idiot behind the cash register had to start waving around his own gun and then... well really it was just self defence, it wasn't his fault.
The motorbike roared again, the rider obviously running parallel to Lonny's run along the old creek bed.
Even then it would have been fine, but no, no that damn motorcyclist just had to come in right then and there and try to pay for his gas. Lonny knew that it had been a bad idea to rob the place while someone was outside gassing up but it was just supposed to take a couple of minutes and the weekend warrior outside should have been busy for at least that long, if not longer.
It was such a simple plan; he didn't know how it had all gone to hell.
"Enough!" A harsh voice growled out, the sound of it in even that one word bringing to mind some powerful predator mixed with the crackle of fire and the sound of claws through flesh.
And a length of burning chain wrapped around Lonny's neck, choking him even as he attempted to pull the impossible length of joined metal away from his throat. Gasping exclamations of pain followed as the flames, instead of burning, were cold enough to cause instant frost bite.
With a quick yank the killer was pulled up the bank of the dry creek and into the painful grip of something even colder.
It was such a simple plan, even after he'd shot the clerk, the old man who ran the even older gas station. It should have still been a simple plan even when the guy in metal studded black leather that'd been filling up walked in before he should have. Instead as Lonny levelled his gun at the unfortunate witness the biker gave an angry growl before he started to laugh...
Lonny thought that the guy must have been flaked out on something himself. After all he had a gun in his face, with a body on the floor and he was laughing. Then it must have finally dawned on him that he was next because he began to shake. A malicious little smile had started to form on Lonny's face when the guy just, and this was the one thing he still couldn't quite believe. The guy just burst into flames.
And he was still laughing.
Lonny stared into the empty eye sockets of the burning...skeleton that held him in his grasp and felt like laughing himself. There was no way that this was real, no way that that guy had burned away all his flesh and could still stand. No way that some everyday slob on a bike could suddenly turn into a demon from hell. There was no such thing. The only demon's were the ones in his head and if he could just get to his next fix then even those ones couldn't get to him.
Unless of course none of this was real, yeah that made sense. It was just a bad trip.
The apparition growled again and pulled him closer and Lonny realized that what ever bad trip he was on it was about to get much, much worse.
Damn, he wished he still had the gun. Not that he was sure what good it would do, seeing as he'd already emptied the thing into the being in front of him and it hadn't even grunted at the impact of hot lead hitting its body.
Maybe throwing the old pistol at him hadn't been the smartest thing he'd ever done but just what good was an empty gun anyway?
As the monster in front of him pulled him in closer Lonny felt his bladder give way. The smell of piss managing for a moment to cut into the stench of brimstone that poured off of the being in front of him. One of the springs in his so called mind finally snapped from the current over load and he started to babble. "Just a bad trip, just a bad trip, just a bad trip, just a ba...
The burning...thing gave him a shake, shutting him up as well as making sure that he'd captured his full attention and then it passed judgement.
"No, man no, it's just a bad trip," Lonny said, before the ghastly rider pulled him just a little bit closer and he learned what a bad trip really was. The things eye sockets seemed to pull at him, dragging him into their darkness. And then he was falling. He landed, hard and looked up to see the first person he'd beaten badly enough to send to the hospital and he hit him and hit him, and he felt each and every blow. Then he fell again and was holding down, and being held down as he got lucky, was raped, violated, and sickness welled up in his stomach and he fell again and again and again, each time visiting something horrible he had done, and each time it was worse.
And each time the pain became worse until he felt crippled in both body and mind and screamed until he was sure he couldn't scream anymore.
And even through the pain and the sounds of his cries he heard that horrible growling voice.
"Your soul is stained by the blood of the innocent. Feel their pain..."
And then he was endlessly falling, events happening faster and faster as he was endlessly being beaten, raped, stabbed, shot, bludgeoned. Anything and everything he had ever done was being done to him but it had to end eventually, didn't it?
"...A hundred fold."
And Lonny screamed. And he knew now he would never stop screaming.
Johnny Blaze dropped the quivering, keening pile of refuse know as Lonny Hopper into a pile on the floor of the gas stations small grocery store and went to check on the owner even though he was sure the man was dead. The bullet hole dead centre in his chest made it unlikely that he had survived the shot. Johnny knelt down beside him anyway and made a quick check at the man's throat while placing a hand on his stomach below the wound to verify that the poor soul had neither breath nor pulse. With a shake of his head he pulled back from the body and sighed at the loss. Not for the first time he was disturbed that all those First Aid courses he had taken over the years were now mostly being used to verify that someone was dead and beyond help rather that being used to patch someone up while they waited for more experienced help to save them.
With another little shake of his head Johnny stood up and looked around for the video camera that most of these stores had to deter robberies. He gave a little humph when he realized that the shop didn't appear to have one, probably the reason the pile of trash lying on the floor and still attempting to scream through a throat that must by now have been shredded to ribbons had decided to rob it.
Well, it was one less thing to worry about. He'd never felt good when he'd had to take one of those tapes, but he knew he'd feel even worse if he'd ended up at a police station being questioned about what someone might see on one of those tapes when his alter ego stepped in to punish the guilty.
Johnny turned towards the door to leave; he took one step towards it then suddenly gave his forehead a whack with the palm of his right hand. As he turned back towards the checkout counter he fished his wallet out of his back pocket and making sure to only touch the edges of the bills, something he always did, he quickly counted out the money to pay for the gas he'd just filled his bike with.
True, there wasn't anyone here to take the money and it was likely that the only one who would have cared about the money was now lying dead on the floor but it was possible that there were other owners or that the man had family or heirs and what little there was would belong to them, even the gas in Johnny's tank if he didn't pay for it.
He left the full amount, plus a small tip as he wasn't going to go around the counter and attempt to make change. Then he weighed the money down with a jar of liquorice that sat on the counter in an attempt to tempt the impulse buyer, making sure to not get his fingerprints on it. Just like the video tapes the last thing he needed was to leave any physical evidence that might end with him in lock up.
Because that had just gone so well last time.
Keeping that in mind he pulled out an old cloth he kept in his coat pocket and wiped down the inside and outside door handles on his way out. Using the same cloth he pulled the receiver off of the payphone attached to the outside of the building and punched in the numbers 911. He waited until one of the 911 operators came on the line and then let go of the handset, letting it bang against the building. He could still hear her voice, tinny over the distance as he gave the gas pump nozzle and controls a quick once over with his cloth before getting on his bike.
He definitely needed to cut back on all the CSI reruns he kept watching. They were making him even more paranoid then usual.
Grace purred to life as he kick started the engine and he pointed her front tire towards their next destination.
"Time to head home." He told her, not sure he was ready himself to head back to Fort Worth and the loft he still kept there but certain that after six months on the road that his sanity demanded that he at least make a pit stop at his old home and attempt to weave a few of the strands of his old life back into his current one. He wouldn't be staying more than a few weeks at the most. Because despite what he'd just said to Grace he knew he could never really go home. Strange how different being on the road felt when you knew that.
"Ah, enough introspection," and Johnny opened up the throttle and making sure to not leave any tread marks he pulled away from the station and hit the open road, heading for home.