Chapter 6. Sir

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.

///

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

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.