Superior Ghost Rider. Chapter 6, 7, 8. Doctor Strange

What’s the first thing to do when you arrive in a big city? Burn the stolen car.

John tossed a match into the gas tank and headed for the bus stop.

[I hate public transport, but I'd rather put up with it than risk a patrol officer stopping the car for a document check.]

The Guinness World Record holder and Hollywood stuntman, once featured in magazines, stepped off near Manhattan… and nothing happened. No one pointed at him, no one approached for an autograph. People just went about their business, paying him no attention.

[That’s what I love about New York.] John bought himself a hot dog with a smile. [Nobody gives a damn about anyone here.]

He enjoyed the city noise as he walked to Prime Agency—a place that, according to the radio ads, could get you a premium-class car with a driver in just twenty minutes.

John pushed open the glass door marked with a large "P." Glamorous tables, leather sofas. A pretty girl at the reception desk looked up from her computer and smiled at the client—until she got a better look at him. Her smile quickly faded.

John was a traveler and dressed accordingly. Boots grayed with dirt, worn jeans, a leather jacket dusted with sand.

"I need a car with a driver," he said. "The best offer you've got."

"Sir…" The girl spoke cautiously, as if to a lunatic. "I think you might be in the wrong place."

"I'm exactly where I need to be." John opened his bag, packed to the brim with cash. "I'm paying in cash."

The girl nearly face-planted into the bag but caught herself just in time.

"I-I’ll get the senior manager!" she squeaked and ran off into the office.

A minute later, John was sitting in a private office, treated like a VIP client while the manager poured cognac into his coffee.

Flipping through the catalog, John immediately dismissed the ultra-innovative Starkmobiles—no need to fund the guy who's hunting you. Besides, his soul always gravitated toward the classics.

"This one." John tapped his finger on a Rolls-Royce.

"Excellent choice!" The manager's smile widened at the sight of the price tag. "Just one formality left. I need your documents to fill out the paperwork—a driver’s license will do."

"Of course." John placed five hundred-dollar bills on the table.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. X," the manager said, pocketing the money. "I’ll have the car prepared right away."

"The sooner, the better." John placed another hundred on the table.

///

John leaned back in the Rolls-Royce’s rear seat, watching the cityscape flash by.

Some might ask: why would the Ghost Rider hire a car with a driver?

[Because I can.] He stretched his legs onto the adjacent seat and poured himself some cognac from the minibar. [Does any other reason matter?]

"Harry!"

"Yes, sir?" The well-dressed elderly driver in a chauffeur’s cap glanced in the rearview mirror. "Have you chosen a destination?"

"Yeah. Know a decent barbershop?" John ran a hand over his week-old stubble. "I have a doctor’s appointment—I can’t look like a hobo."

"Quite right." Harry turned his eyes back to the road. "I’ll call Richmond to clear a spot in the queue."

///

John examined his smooth face, stylish haircut, and well-groomed nails in the car’s mirror.

[No longer looks like a thug. Now looks like a cleaned-up thug.]

"Where to next, sir?"

"I need a new outfit." John brushed sand off his jacket. "And the old clothes—just toss them."

"Indeed," Harry pressed the gas pedal. "I take it you want the finest boutique?"

"I don’t do small-time," John smirked.

"I’d recommend getting a tailored suit. Only custom-made clothing truly fits perfectly."

"How long would that take?"

"Around a month."

"I don’t have that kind of time."

"Somehow, I suspected as much."

///

John examined the bag of new clothes in the car: a black suit, a white shirt, polished shoes, and a red tie.

[Style is everything.]

"Where to next, sir?"

"First, a fine dining restaurant. Haven’t had a proper meal in ages." John ran a hand over his stomach, tired of road food. "Then a sauna, with a massage… if you catch my drift."

"I understand, sir," Harry nodded slowly. "Madame Go’s baths and her girls will fulfill all your desires."

///

Twilight settled over New York. John lounged comfortably in the back seat, sipping twenty-year-old cognac with one hand and inspecting his nearly empty bag of cash with the other.

In eight hours, he had burned through a hundred thousand dollars. Clothes, women, restaurants—it was all expensive, but still five times cheaper than what he had actually spent.

John saw no reason to be frugal.

Carrying around a bag of money was a constant risk and inconvenience.

Bank deposits? Impossible. The IRS would quickly notice unemployed Jonathan Blaze suddenly acquiring massive sums and freeze his account.

Stashing money? Pointless. He never stayed in one city for more than a couple of days to avoid attracting government attention.

[That leaves only one option—spending it like there’s no tomorrow. Which might not be far from the truth.]

John had left generous tips all day and made large donations to shelters—places that needed the money far more than a dead man walking.

He emptied the bag of all the twenties—the perfect banknote, accepted even in the smallest villages—and counted out fifteen hundred dollars. Enough for travel without overstuffing his pockets.

[If I ever need cash, there’s always the classic method—rob the thieves.]

"Harry, pull over."

"Yes, sir." The driver smoothly parked. "Shall I wait here or come with you?"

"No, Harry, you’re free to go." John stepped out and walked over to the driver’s window. "There’s a bag on the back seat with about a thousand bucks in it—that’s your tip."

"Very generous, sir." Harry’s face remained unchanged—by now, he was used to his client’s eccentricities. "I don’t mean to be intrusive, but company policy requires me to ask at the end of every ride—will you be using our services again?"

"If I survive the year," John smirked and headed for the Sanctum Sanctorum.

The Rolls-Royce disappeared down the street. John was alone again—with his demons. If he couldn’t strike a deal with the Doctor, he was royally screwed.

[Pull yourself together, John!] He adjusted his new haircut. [I’ve spent the whole day preparing for this conversation.]

The Sanctum Sanctorum stood out among the glass skyscrapers, like a relic from another era. A three-story red brick house with a steep tiled roof—too old to belong here, yet too alive to be forgotten. Its darkened facade held secrets, its massive door kept out unwanted guests, and its round window, like an all-seeing eye, gleamed with stained glass, as if watching the street. The house didn’t just exist in New York—it hovered on the edge of realities, ready to vanish the moment you looked away.

John popped a mint gum into his mouth and knocked on the door.

The moment it opened, sound spilled through the magical wards—lively voices, clinking glasses, women’s laughter…

[Doc threw a party?]

"Mr. Blaze," greeted an Asian man in traditional robes. "How may I assist you?"

"Hey, Wong," John grinned at the Sorcerer Supreme’s assistant. "What’s going on?"

"Tonight is an astronomical event known as the Valerian Millennium," he stated, as if that explained everything. "The alignment of the stars is best observed from New York. Master Stephen has invited the world’s greatest sorcerers to witness it from his observatory."

"Guess my invitation got lost in the mail." John stepped forward.

"Master Stephen didn’t warn us about the Ghost Rider," Wong blocked the path, assuming a kung fu stance. "You should leave."

"Want a taste of the Penance Stare?" John's eyes flared with fire.

Wong quickly shut his eyes, covered them with his hands, and even turned his head away. The bastard knew—no kung fu technique could protect him from the Penance Stare.

"Tell your master I want to talk." John patted him on the shoulder and stepped deeper into the banquet hall.

[I shouldn’t have pulled that trick. Turning the transformation on and off so fast still burns my eyes. And Wong didn’t deserve that. But I couldn’t help myself. It pisses me off that I wasn’t invited to the big magic party!]

The air was thick with the scent of angel’s trumpet, mixed with something spicy and bitter—John lacked the alchemical knowledge to pinpoint what exactly was tickling his nose. There were no lights, only candles, their flickering flames imbued with dragon fire magic. Strange clearly wanted to impress his guests.

Archmages and sorceresses lounged in armchairs with glasses of elven wine, discussing the tectonics of magical currents, the rising prices of alchemical ingredients, and the latest political squabbles involving the new king of the dwarves.

John winked at the Scarlet Witch—she smiled shyly before returning to her conversation with Doctor Voodoo about sacrificial rituals.

[Morbid girl.]

John nearly choked on his gum when he spotted a figure in iron armor and a green cloak among the guests.

[Doctor Doom?! Strange invited a damn supervillain but not me?!]

A fiery rage climbed through his bones. John forced himself to focus on the other guests—and then he saw him. A blond young man in a red suit, shirtless, displaying a hellstar-shaped scar. Daimon Hellstrom, son of a human woman and a demon. He claimed his father was Satan himself—the one from the nine hundred and ninety-ninth circle of Hell who forged the Cross of Zarathos—but John doubted it. More likely, his mother was a Satanist, and she got knocked up by some lowly imp. Not that it mattered.

[Daimon… That bastard sold me a fake soul-saving scroll! And now he’s standing there grinning like nothing happened. Guess I’ll go improve my mood.]

"And then this huge archdemon steps out!" Daimon was showing off to two young sorceresses. "Teeth this big! Claws like swords! My entire group ran—but not me!"

The girls listened with polite expressions, but their eyes betrayed boredom. Daimon, as always, didn’t notice.

"I summoned my family’s trident on the spot!" The hybrid made a dramatic gesture. "Blasted him with hellfire—boom! The archdemon ran for his life!"

"Yo, Daimon!" A voice like thunder. A heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

"Holy—!" The hellspawn hero flinched and turned cautiously to see a grinning face.

"Relax, hell princess, I’m not here for your soul." John tightened his grip. "Just for my money."

"Oh… hey, John. Didn’t know you were invited too."

"The Doc made sure to invite his guest of honor first," John lied without blinking. "I’m surprised they let in a scammer like you."

"Excuse me, ladies," Daimon quickly retreated from the girls, who were finally starting to show interest in the conversation. "A gentleman’s matter requires privacy."

They moved to a secluded corner, away from prying ears.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Daimon hissed. "You’re ruining my business!"

"I’d love to ruin something else," John clenched his fist. "When are you giving me back the money for that useless scroll?"

"Useless?" The hellish merchant blinked. "The scroll didn’t free you from Zarathos?"

"No." John raised his hand, showing the Cross still hanging from his wrist.

"Oh, damn," Daimon scratched his scar. "Look, I’m not a scammer. I was sure the scroll would work. I can swear—come on, you know a demon or hybrid’s oath can’t be a lie."

"Oaths mean nothing. You could’ve erased your own memory after the deal." As a seasoned demonologist, John waved off the so-called 'foolproof method.' "Alright. Let’s say—just say—I believe you. Where did you get that scroll?"

"I traded for it with Lord Dormammu," he mouthed the last words silently, careful not to anger their host.

[So Daimon’s already dug himself so deep into hell that he’s dealing with Dormammu. I’ll keep that in mind… if I even have a future to plan for.]

"Mister Blaze," Wong announced, his face unreadable as he approached. "Master Strange is ready to see you."

"Not saying goodbye, Daimon," John clapped him on the shoulder. "We’ll have a nice chat later about how you’re gonna pay me back."

Wong led him to the other end of the banquet hall. Away from the guests, near the fireplace, Doctor Strange sat behind an armchair. For the occasion, he wore a black suit but kept his enchanted cloak and the amulet with its unblinking emerald eye—always watching, always warning its master of danger. A true Sorcerer Supreme. Stylish, yet ever prepared.

"Welcome, John," the mage tore his gaze from the flames and studied his guest. "You’re looking well. Living off dirty money treating you nicely?"

"Can’t complain." John dropped into the chair across from him.

"Intimidating Wong just to sneak in—not the best way to impress me," Strange chided, though a slight smile quickly returned. "I assume you have a very good reason for interrupting me."

"You assume correctly," John nodded, loosening his tie. "How about a drink? We are at a party."

"Of course." Stephen said something in an unfamiliar language to Wong. "Now, your choice, John. My collection spans the entire universe—surely even a seasoned magical traveler like yourself can find something to his taste."

"I’ll have whatever that big guy’s having." John pointed.

"Dwarven ale," Wong identified it before heading off.

Stephen smirked slightly, as if he’d expected that exact response.

[God, his smug, all-knowing attitude pisses me off.]

"So, what does the Ghost Rider need?" the mage took a glass of thick, blue liquid from a tray. "Shouldn’t you be preparing for your own funeral?"

"Heh, changed my mind about dying." John sprawled comfortably in his chair, taking a sip of his beer. "Decided to live as long as possible—and you’re gonna help me do that."

"Fascinating outlook," Stephen arched a brow. "The disintegration of a soul isn’t something that can be cured. Speaking as a doctor."

"Yeah, I know, but thanks for your expert opinion," John grinned. "I don’t need you, Steve. I just need access to your library."

“I just need access to your library.”

"Absolutely not!" Strange set down his empty glass. "The Sorcerer Supreme’s library has been gathered over millennia. It holds knowledge I’ve sworn to protect. I cannot allow an outsider in—especially a Ghost Rider. Zarathos’ flame is uncontrollable."

"So there’s no way I can convince you I won’t lose my mind in there?"

"None."

"Oh, Steve, I really didn’t want to go there, but—you owe me. And I mean big time. Library access is just a fraction of the debt. Your descendants will still be repaying me."

"Bold claim," Strange gave him a bored look. "And what exactly could a dropout magician have done for the Sorcerer Supreme?"

"I'm doing your damn job!" John slammed his beer mug onto the table. "The Sorcerer Supreme is supposed to protect people from magical threats—especially demons! Where the hell were you when Mephisto killed my father?! Throwing another damn party?!"

The guests turned their attention to him, but John didn’t care. He’d been waiting a long time to say this to the arrogant prick.

"Mephisto took my soul! And what did you do, Supreme Shithead?! Nothing! I had to fight the devil myself! I beat Mephisto and drove him off this planet forever! I have spent years wiping out demons! So yeah, Steve, you owe me! Your whole damn organization owes me!"

"Enough!" Stephen rose from his chair. A thick magical aura radiated from him, instantly snuffing out Zarathos’ flames on John’s bones. "Considering your impending demise, I’ll overlook your insolence. Now leave."

"I'm not going anywhere!" John stood up sharply, locking eyes with him. "You owe me!"

"No one owes you anything, Ghost Rider," Strange spoke slowly, drawing out every word. "Every so-called ‘heroic deed’ you’ve done was for yourself. And every misfortune that’s befallen you—you brought on yourself. You should have never picked up Zarathos' Cross."

A murmur spread through the hall. Every guest was fixated on the argument. John glanced at them, but they immediately turned away as if he were a leper.

"Don’t bother looking for support," Stephen read his expression correctly. "No favors or smooth-talking will help you. Every sorcerer and witch here knows you have one foot in the grave. No one will help you. Neither will I. Now leave."

"Mister Blaze," Wong placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Your presence here is no longer welcome."

"Gladly! Too many shitheads in this place anyway!" John shrugged off his hand and headed for the exit in dead silence. Then, he abruptly stopped and turned to the crowd.

"One of you is dealing with Dormammu."

The name of one of the Hell’s lower circle kings sent a visible ripple of tension through the room.

"All the most powerful sorcerers on Earth, gathered in one place. How convenient. All it takes is one portal, and Dormammu crushes every last one of his enemies in a single move." John smirked. "Enjoy your party."

///

John walked through the city at night, the drizzle pattering against his skull. Just what he needed to cool off the searing heat.

Half the guests had rushed out of Strange’s house right after him.

[Heh. Ruining a party with just a few words—not bad. But it’s not what I wanted.]

He hadn't expected Strange to wave a magic wand and stop his soul from burning away. But he had counted on getting access to the Sorcerer Supreme’s library—the greatest repository of magical knowledge on Earth. There was no cure there, of course, but there could’ve been clues about where to look. Or, in the best-case scenario, a ritual to extend his life by at least another year.

After tonight’s fiasco, all those plans had collapsed.

[Stupid bastard!] He kicked an empty beer can.

The ringing of a nearby phone booth pulled him out of his thoughts.

Who the hell still uses a street phone in the smartphone era?

Sarcasm quickly gave way to cold logic.

John was standing alone in the middle of the street, and then a phone started ringing.

Coincidence? Hell no.

"...Yeah?" He picked up the receiver.

"Mr. Blaze, I witnessed your argument," said a mechanical voice on the other end. "This is Doctor Doom."

John’s heart pounded faster.

[Yes! A real technomage. The ruler of Latveria. A man who has brought the entire Marvel universe to its knees more than once. Please, tell me you can help. I’ll circle all of Hell in your honor!]

"I’ve seen enough tonight to make a precise conclusion—manipulating you is pointless," Doom continued. "So I’ll be direct. I don’t know how to cure soul decay, but I’m willing to search for a cure."

[One of the smartest men in the universe is willing to think about my problem—that’s already huge.]

"What do you want in return?" John asked, keeping his voice steady.

"You will kill Strange and bring me the Eye of Agamotto."

[Kill an asshole and get a cure for it? Steve doesn’t even qualify as ‘innocent’ on Zarathos’ scale. This isn’t even a question.]

"No," John said firmly. "Strange is an arrogant bastard and a snob, but he does do his job. Without him, we’d already be serving Dormammu."

"Then that leaves the other fifty percent."

"...What?"

"Before this call, I ran a mathematical calculation. The probability of you accepting my offer was fifty percent. The same as the probability of you refusing."

John wanted to ask if Doom used math to make every decision, but the line had already gone dead.

[I just turned down the last person who could have actually helped me. Was that the right call?]

He doubted it.

John sank to the filthy floor of the phone booth, burying his face in his hands.

[Now I’m truly alone. Earth doesn’t want me. Hell will kill me the second I show up.]

The rain picked up, drumming against the glass.

A thunderclap split the sky, followed by a blinding bolt of lightning.

[It’s a desperate idea… but it might work.]

John looked up at the raging storm, a tired smile creeping onto his lips.

[As they say in church: you are never alone—God is always with you.]