The life of a touring stunt show was quite different from the life Johnny was used

to. There weren't hundreds of people that traveled with them, it was just Eugene and his

drivers and whatever venue they rented for the month provided the muscle for set up and

tear down. The days were spent practicing, and their off nights were dedicated to hell

raising. And one of the favorite past times of the group was racing.

Street racing was the obvious form of entertainment for the guys, but Eugene

introduced Johnny to a more refined form of racing. It was a bright Saturday in May,

1912, when Eugene took his young protege to his first boardtrack race.

"Oh wow, Eugene, look at all dem motorcycles," Johnny had rushed down to the

front of the stands excitedly and was leaning over the rail to look down at the track where

the racers were beginning to line up, "I ain't never seen so many. They sure look different

from th' ones we ride. Why their handlebars so low? And look, don't they gotta a

kickstarter? How they gonna start it without a kickstarter?"

"Them's racing motorcycles, they don't work the way ours do," Eugene chuckled

at the flood of questions, "You'll see how when dey start up in just a minute."

More motorcycles were coming out onto the track, larger street cycles like the

ones Johnny was used to. The riders had long ropes that they handed to the racers, who

all mounted up. Engine's growling, the street cycles took off, pulling the racers behind

them. They'd gotten halfway down the frontstretch when the boardtracker's engines

kicked in, starting with a massive roar before rocketing past their pull cycles.

The crowd in the stands cheered, waving pennets with the names of their favored

motorcycle brand scrawled across them. Johnny was enthralled. The noise, the

excitement, the sheer energy of it all.

"Hey Eugene!" Johnny had to yell to be heard over the roar of the engines, "How

do I get into these races?"

"You wanna race?" Eugene laughed, "You just gotta have a motorcycle son, just

gotta have a motorcycle."

"Well then I'm gonna make me a boardtrack motorcycle," Johnny stated

confidently, "I'm gonna get me a boardtrack motorcycle and race."

And Johnny did just that the next week, taking the money he had saved up over

his years working in the circus and going out to the nearest motorcycle dealership. It was

an Indian place, with dozens of shiny new motorcycles sitting around on the floor. His

old Pope cycle sitting outside suddenly seemed ancient and rusty.

"Hey Mister," Johnny located the owner of the dealership and ran up excitedly,

"Do you have any racing motorcycles?"

"Racing motorcycles?" The older man looked down at the teen with amusement,

"What does a boy your age want with a racing cycle?"

"Hey, I ain't a boy. I'm Fifteen," Johnny replied defiantly, "And I'm gonna be the

best board track racer there ever was."

The dealer smiled in amusement, "Oh really then. Well, I might just have

somethin' in the back storeroom for you." He walked towards the back of the dealership

to the rear store room where all the parts and pieces were kept, Johnny following right on

his heels.

Indian had taken several of the racing cycles from previous seasons that weren't

too banged up and sent them to a number of its dealerships, as some sort of crowd

enticement or something. But this dealership was doing brisk business all on its own, and

there wasn't any space for a special display. So there was just an old racing cycle sitting

in the storeroom gathering dust.

"Here son. Don't you tell nobody, but I got this special cycle sitting back here just

waiting for the right buyer."

"How much?" Johnny asked, running hands over the racer excitedly. It was even

more awe inspiring up close.

"Make you a deal, you finish the race this weekend, and you can have it for free,"

A young kid, he was more likely go down right out of the gate, but no reason to crush the

hopes of the youngster.

"Oh, wow. Really? Thanks Mister. Just you watch the race, I'll come in first!"

"I'll be sure to go," He smiled despite himself. The energy of the younger

generation was just so infectious, "Do you got somebody with an auto to get it home?"

"Nah, it's alright. I'll just ride it home," Johnny wheeled it to the front of the

shop, "HEY EUGENE. I NEED A TOW."

Eugene poked his head in through the front door of the dealership, an incredulous

look on his face, "Wait, you mean you really got it?"

"Yeah, look. It's a real racing cycle," Johnny bounced excitedly, "I won't let you

down Mister," he commented to the dealer, "Just you wait and see."

Eugene just rolled his eyes and fetched a rope so he could tow Johnny up to

speed, "Just don' die on the way back to the hotel, okay?"

The weekend rolled around and Johnny showed up at the racetrack nearly five

hours before the race started. Killing the engine of his cycle, he dismounted and walked it

through the main gate and out onto the track. In the center of the track, pickup trucks and

autos had already gathered, racing teams unloading their motorcycles and getting ready

for the race.

Looking around, Johnny spotted a man with a clipboard wearing a sweater with

the name of the track embroidered on it, "Hey Mister Race Official, I want to register to

race today."

The official looked down at him with a frown, "How old are you?"

"I'm 18," Johnny lied defiantly.

"Fine," The official rolled his eyes and sighed, "Since a couple a' teams couldn't

show today, I guess I got a space at th' start line for you. What's your name, son?"

"Johnny."

There was a long pause, "I need your last name, son."

Well, he hadn't quite anticipated that. Johnny didn't actually have a last name,

he'd always just been called Johnny, or Johnny the Demon Boy when he was on display.

Wait, that was it, "Demon. I'm Johnny Demon."

He received a very skeptical look, but the official wrote it down nontheless,

"Johnny Demon, racing with Indian. You'll be in position 13."

"Alright. Thanks," Johnny couldn't keep the massive grin off his face as he

walked down to the in field. He had made it.

The opening of the race was an incredible noise. The pull cycles with their

massive engines rolling up to the starting line, the crowd filling the stands roaring and

cheering and waving pennets, the pace car idling loudly waiting for them.

Johnny sat astride his year-old tattered Indian alongside all the other racers at the

start line, holding on tightly to the thick rope in his gloved hand as he quivered in

excitement. The pull cycles started forward with their racers trailing behind, slowly

speeding up until Johnny felt the Indian lurch to a start with a bang underneath him. They

shot past their pull cycles and roared around the track to the pace car, tapping the kill

switch and weaving to try and keep from shooting past that too.

The Pace car dropped off the track and the green flag waved, all the motorcycles

shooting up to full speed to battle for the lead.

Johnny was in his element. The noise of the engine, the feel of the wheels

rocketing over the uneven boards, even the narrow cycle underneath him. He wove

through slower racers, eyes narrow underneath his goggles as he concentrated. This was

far easier than hand standing on the handlebars or doing a flip in the air through a burning

ring. Here, it was all about speed and being faster than the other men by you. As the laps

flew by, Johnny inched closer and closer to the front of the pack, outstripping slower

racers. The white flag waved; one lap left in the race. Johnny fought for the front, and

when the checkered flag flew he hit the finish line.

To the shock of many involved, the first-timer had not only finished the race, but

taken third place. It wasn't first, but he had placed and he was getting a cut of the prize

money.

Eugene couldn't believe it when he met his young friend out behind the

grandstands. He'd seen the race from the stands, and he still couldn't believe it. "I don't

know how you pulled it off, but shit kid. You did it."

"Eugene. I want to do this for the rest of my life."

Johnny raced on and off whenever the Hell Driver show was in town at the same

time as the race, usually placing in the top three and bringing home a portion of the prize

money. Newspapers had started commented on the new talent in the racing world,

wondering who this Johnny Demon was and where he had come from. Soon, Eugene had

added his name to the billing for the Hell Drivers show, and the newspapers had a new

nickname for him. "Johnny Demon; the Hell Rider."

Even Indian had taken notice, and in 1916 asked Johnny if he'd like to ride for

them. But then the racing circuit was eclipsed by something larger. There was a war in

Europe, and it was quickly looking like America was going to get involved. They were

calling it the Great War and the World War. The Lusitania had been sunk, and Americans

were frothing over Germany's atrocities in Belgium. When the recruitment posters went

up, Johnny went in and signed up.

It was no surprise to anyone that a motorcycle racer and daredevil was chosen to

be a part of the Army's new Motorcycle brigades, delivering messages and transporting

the wounded off the battlefield. Johnny was given a motorcycle, a 1916 Indian with its

full fenders and a souped up suspension for going over the unpaved roads and torn up

battlefields of the front. In 1917 Johnny found himself on the front lines of Europe as part

of an Ambulance team, picking up the wounded in his sidecar and getting them back to

the medical tents for treatment. It was a nasty, dirty job.

Warfare was far worse than Johnny could ever have pictured. He wasn't the one

fighting, no, but he was viewing the effects close up. The men in his sidecar had blown

apart arms, blown up legs, intestines falling out, lungs frothing out their mouths from the

mustard gas. Many died in his sidecar. The ones that lived though, they nicknamed the

cycles that saved their lives. Motorcycles in Johnny's brigade were called Freedom and

Hope and Joy. Johnny's earned the name Grace.

Amoung all the chaos, Grace was his rock, his friend, and his confidant. She

stayed with him through thick and thin. She could blow a tire and still soldier on to that

next fight, to that next wounded man. She took bullets (which apparently couldn't

penetrate Johnny's tough skin, thank god), potholes, and morter fire with the same steady

drive. There were times when Johnny swore that Grace could about steer herself through

the battlefield. By the end of the war, he discovered that she could.

The supernatural community had a motto, and it could be best summed up as

"weird shit happens." And it was true. The high up muckedy-mucks would come up with

rules and laws about magic and energy only to have something come along and blatantly

blow them all away. So Johnny wasn't stunned when his motorcycle came to life, just a

little surprised. He was a gargoyle, after all. And weird shit happened.

After over a year in that hellhole, Johnny returned home back in 1919, stepping

off that boat in New York and back onto his home soil. Eugene and the boys were

waiting for him, along with every person in New York it seemed like.

"Well, Kid. You like your trip to Europe?" Two years apart and Eugene hadn't

changed a lick.

"It was hell," Johnny responded with a grin, "Come on, I got somebody ta

introduce you to. Her name's Gracie."

Now a handsome young man of 22, Johnny had it all. His blonde hair had

darkened from it's original bright yellow to a softer straw color, and all the stunt riding

over the years had given him a lean, muscular physique. He was the crowd favorite when

he returned to the board track circuit under sponsorship from Indian. When he won a

race, Johnny would always do a victory lap while hand standing on the handlebars,

making the crowds go wild. He never really stopped performing with Eugene, but that

became the side-job while racing became his main career. It was a life of glamour,

travelling all over the nation. Johnny had money to blow in the Speaks with his pals, and

everyone knew the special sound of Gracie's modified engine pulling up to the bar.

Sometimes, he'd even roll right inside the bar to do a burn out on the floor. The bartender

usually didn't appreciate it, but the patrons inside always hooted and hollered.

In those days, it was like the only way was up. Indian was billing him as one of

their top racers, giving him obscene amounts of money, and now had even offered to let

Johnny handle their world record motorcycle at the speed trials. It was the biggest honor

to be the one to handle the motorcycle that Indian hoped to set a land speed record with,

not many men got a chance to go over 150 mph in their lives.

Johnny stood on Daytona Beach in the dim early morning light, looking out over

the smooth expanse of sand. The brand new Indian was sitting next to him up on its

stand, gleaming and polished. But he didn't even need to start the warmup passes for

another hour and a half. No one else was there, the beach was deserted save for a few sea

birds flitting about.

Gracie pulled up next to him with a deep rumble, having followed her rider to the

beach, and nudged his leg.

"Well, you wanna see how fast you'll go?" Johnny asked his motorcycle with a

smile. He'd taken her out on the track before, but the sand was even smoother than the

boards, and of course it was totally flat for miles. There would never be a better time to

see what a living motorcycle could really do.

Johnny swung his leg over her and settled down into the dropped saddle, buckling

the strap on his helmet and pulling his goggles down securely over his eyes, "Let's hit it."

Sand flew as Gracie gunned her engine, racing tires spinning in the hardpack

before catching traction. Johnny hunkered down as close as he could get to the gas tank,

chin resting right between the handlebars. He could feel Gracie's engine slamming

through the gears, propelling them faster and faster. Distantly, Johnny remembered that

there was no speedometer and that he would have no way to actually know how fast they

were going. That thought lasted only a second though as the sand turned into a whtie blur

just below his feet. He had never been this fast before, he knew that much. They must've

been close to 200. No speedometer went this high anyway.

Just as Gracie's engine hit her highest note, the world suddenly seemed to

explode. There was a bright flash of light like a mortar had gone off right in his face, then

all Johnny could see was colors and images flying by too fast to comprehend. They were

flying forward with the same speed, but the ground was gone. It was like being in a

tunnel of light.

The light grew brighter until Johnny had to shut his eyes against the glare, then

suddenly the ground was back and the reapplication of such friction sent rider and

motorcycle ass over tires. Sand then sky then sand again as they tumbled and bounced

before skidding to a halt. The world went black.