By Manuel Chavarria

Introductions _________________________________________________________________________

He walks into the bar. His face is blank. Emotionless. He's a rather large man. Doesn’t look like one of the derelicts that usually wander into this dive every so often. He sits down on the stool next to me.

"Anything I can get ye?" the bartender asks.

The man looks up at him. He cocks his head.

"Well?" the bartender asks.

"No," the man answers.

I take a sip from my mug. This is the worst scotch I've ever had. The man looks down at his hands, almost studying them. He lifts his head. He turns to me. I don't acknowledge him at first, but then my curiosity gets the better of me.

"May I help you?" I ask.

He stares at me a bit longer. "Clarice," he says.

My brow furrows. "Pardon?"

"Clarice," he says again. "I'm looking for Clarice."

I'm silent for a second or two. "Why are you looking for Clarice?"

He looks down at the bar, then back up at me. "I don't know."

I take a gulp from my mug. I knew a girl named Clarice once. We weren't what you'd call lovers, but when one of us needed a little release, we could go to the other. I don't know where she is now.

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".ereh fo tuo gnitteg ton er'uoY"

I gave my "captor" a quizzical look.

".rood eht dekcol ev'I"

The man certainly had a bizarre speech pattern. Maybe he was French. He pulled a dagger from his pocket. He threw it at Clarice's shoulder. The dagger cut through, and Clarice's blood sprayed against the wall behind her.

".em htiw gnimoc si eciralC"

The man grabbed Clarice.

"!toof tfel ym eta sivlE"

A flickering neon green light filled the room. The manand Clarice disappeared.

I took out a cigarette, put it in my mouth and lit it.

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I turn back to the man sitting next to me at the bar.

"Haven't seen 'er," I say.

The man stands up and walks out of the bar.

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Once outside the bar, the Ghost Rider shifted to his familiar, flame-skulled form. He had difficulty communicating with humans, especially without a host. He boarded his motorcycle and revved the engine. The tires set ablaze. He rode off.

The Ghost Rider knew the man at the bar was holding back. The man knew more than he was saying. What the Ghost Rider didn't know was the man's connection to Clarice. And, for that matter, who Clarice was.

It was 3:00 AM. Vengeance never sleeps.

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"I assume you've taken very detailed notes?"

"Yes, I have."

"Good. The subject never spotted you?"

"Never."

"Excellent."

"When do we begin observation?"

"Soon, Mr. Nacht. Very soon."

Nacht left the study. Judas Traveller walked to window on the wall behind his chair and stood, looking out.

"Good and evil," he said. "One and the same."

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Crime never sleeps either.

"You taste pretty good for a homeless bitch," the rapist said to the dead young woman beneath him. He stood up and backed away from the body. He chuckled. He didn't chuckle long.

A hand grabbed him by the neck from behind. It lifted him from the ground.

"I hope it was good," a voice said. The rapist was thrown into the alley wall. He groaned, then turned and looked up at his assailant. He looked up at the Ghost Rider.

"Yaaahhhh!!!" he cried.

The Ghost Rider lifted him up again, and looked directly at his face.

"Look into my eyes," the Ghost Rider said.

The rapist couldn't help but comply. The hellfire from the Penance Stare filled his soul. He felt the pain he'd inflicted on others. It burned. The rapist let out an almost inhuman scream.

He fell out of the Ghost Rider's hands, dead. Heart attack. The Ghost Rider looked down at him, pitiless. He turned and walked back to his motorcycle.

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New York City at night is an almost hellish place. And just like hell, New York has its fair share of demons. Case in point: the Demogoblin.

The Demogoblin let out a hiss as he sat perched atop the Empire State Building. He looked out over the city. The city he'd sworn to protect. The city he'd sworn to cleanse. Before he moved on to the next one, that is.

The Demogoblin looked down at the streets below. He saw the last thing he expected. A flaming skull. Not just a flaming skull, but the flaming skull. The Ghost Rider's flaming skull.

A sense of happiness seemed to well up in the Demogoblin as he realized what this meant. Ghost Rider had been in New Orleans. Now he's back in New York. The Demogoblin was happy to have an ally, a fellow crusader against sin, to work with. He let out a cackle. It echoed through the night.

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The Ghost Rider shot down the empty street, making his usual rounds. It was almost daybreak. Time for his "shift" to end. Suddenly, his motorcycle made an immediate stop, tossing him from it. He hit the ground rather roughly, sliding a couple of feet after landing. He jumped to his feet, preparing himself for an altercation. A neon green light flickered, filling the streets with its glow. The Ghost Rider looked around. Nothing. After a few seconds, the flicker stopped. Perplexed, he stood motionless for a moment. Then he walked over to his bike, mounted it, gunned the engine and sped off.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

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Ever since I came home from the bar, I've been thinking about Clarice. I could really use her right now.

What did that man want with her? Why did he ask me? How did he know I knew her?

I plop down in my chair. I should probably scrap this whole place. Most run-down flat in the city. I close my eyes. When I open them, I'm sitting in a bright white room. The walls glow. I'm almost blinded. I see a silhouette a god distance from where I am. I blink a couple of times. I'm back in my flat.

A neon green flicker fills the room. After a few moments, it stops.

Something's very, very wrong here.

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Judas Traveller continued to peer out the window in his study. He pondered. He knew his course of action. It was just a matter of when to start.

Traveller felt a presence behind him. He raised an eyebrow. He turned away from the window, and looked into the room. A neon green light flickered. Judas smiled.

"It's time," he said.

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Next Issue: Maybe we'll get a few answers. But there'll probably just be more questions…

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Author's Notes:

So there it is. My first issue of Ghost Rider. As you, the reader, can probably see, I'm not going for convention. I'm doing something else entirely. I hope you're intrigued enough to keep reading.

Some fans of Alex's run are probably wondering, "Where's Jean DeWolffe? Where's New Orleans?" I made the decision before I started writing that I would not be continuing Alex's plot lines. I don't like to finish someone else's work. I don't think it would be right, and I don't think I could really do it justice. I cleared this with Mark Bousquet when I pitched my ideas. This Ghost Rider's going to be more of a nomad, moving from town to town. Capable of taking on the form of either man or woman. No human identity. Just the Spirit of Vengeance, doing what it does.

-Manuel