Someplace bright

"What the he-?!"

"Careful with your choice of words, young man. Humans. Always such a sense of the appropriate."

"What's the meaning of this?"

"Hold on. Just simmer down, Spirit."

Four characters stand in an eerie white void, completely absent of floor, dimensions, horizons or anything of the sort. Nothing supports them, but they seem to stand as they would normally in a kitchen or on a street corner. And it is completely silent. Silent, that is, aside from the angry questioning of two very confused individuals, and the call to order of the one responsible for explaining the situation. Things are very tense.

Stranger still is that the two who have been brought unwillingly to this place stand in the same spot. Corey Jobe, resides, somehow, within the form of the Spectre, both taking on a transluscent form. And both of them are very angry.

"Don't play games with me! I demand to know who you are, and where I have been taken!," shouts the ghastly white form of the Spectre, age old Spirit of Vengeance, and more-or-less modern superhero.

"What? Forget that! How am I inside this freaking weirdo? And why? Get me out of here right now! I'm going to kill you...murderer!"

"I did not..."

"Just hold on for a second. All will be explained," intercedes the voice of their host, making a hopeless attempt to placate his new guests.

Tension between these beings is justly deserved. Their story started with a man named Shawn Jobe. Shawn was muscled into murdering an innocent man by a powerful gangster named Mike Minzitti. Shawn did so, only to protect his younger brother Corey from harm. But the Spectre, whose mission is only to seek out, and punish those who take innocent life, killed Shawn for his sin. Corey found his brother dead in the hands of the Spectre, and rushed to attack him, in a rage after his brothers death. Upon contact between the two, Corey, and the Wrath of God, were instantly transported to this formless white realm. And of course, neither are happy about it.

"Why? Why did you kill my brother? I"ll kill you!," shouts the young Corey in blind rage, twisting and struggling to pull himself from within the see-through green cloak of the ghost who surrounds him.

"Your kin took the life of an innocent man. It is my job to exact vengeance on sinners."

"You're a sinner, you d-!"

"Stop," whispers the figure before them with a boom that echoes throughout the void. The Spectre's face remains impassive, while Corey reaches up to cover his ears with his hands, though it does him no good. "As I said before, your present situation will be explained, but I must be allowed to speak.

That's not about to stop the arguing from the two strangers in this place. But at least Corey Jobe's anger subsides enough that curiosity can peek through. "Oh yeah? And who are you? God? Is that it? I'm dead? Good job, freak. You murdered me and my brother. Proud of yourself?"

"No, this is not Him. I would know God."

"Oh, would you now?"

"Corey Jobe. If it is condemnation of the Spirit of Vengeance that you seek, I'm not sure that I can offer that. But depending on how you look at it, you may be providing a punishment of sorts. But I advise the two of you not to raise tensions any higher than they are. After all, you're going to be becoming very close in the

Atlanta, Georgia
A Tiny Basement

"Oh, it's going to be a busy day, Six. Busy, busy, busy!"

It's dark in the small, mouldy basement room. If one were to walk down the stairs, assuming they could get past the stench, the only visible sight would be a weary, focused, but unnervingly happy man sitting at his desk working on something, with only a dim lamp to provide light. The man is tall, and very gangly. His skinny-ness, as well as yellow teeth, and shaggy red hair, unevenly trimmed shows that he is not well taken care of. Wrinkles on the forehead, and bags under the eyes, suggest an age of early to mid- forties. And that of course, is all that can be seen, because it is, quite dark. Which is probably for the better.

If one were to turn on the lights, the scene would only get more depressing. A wet, leaky stone room, holding up various posters and a bulletin-board. The posters have various symbols on them, most frequent, and noticeable, are the swastika, and the pentagram. And on the billboard, are countless postings from newspapers. And the number six, is painted anywhere a poster doesn't hang. And then there's the closet.

A small, mediocre, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary closet. It's the last place, that anyone who makes it into this dank, smelly basement would want to go. Behind the tiny closet doors, lie the bodies of four young members of the St. John's Presbyterian Church youth group. All shot through the heart, and left to be found someday.

Someplace bright

"Since our young friend, Mr. Jobe here is going to have the most difficult time wrapping his head around all this, why don't we start off at the beginning. That is to say, I'd like to tell him a bit about you, Spectre," states the surprisingly pleasant host to his still bewildered guests.

"First off, this apparition before you is known as the Spectre. He is the Spirit of Vengeance. And whether you believe it or not, he is an agent of God."

His confidence bolstered by his anger, Corey was not about to let some other-dimensional freak like the speaker before him, curb his hate for the murderer who right now was a part of him. And, as with most people, anger generates both disbelief, and sarcasm. "Agent of God. That's about as good a reason as any to give up on sunday school."

Luckily, the man in charge of this eerie white sector had no patience to test. If he was able to wether the argument between the wrath of god, and this mourning boy, he could certainly withstand the snappishness of a fourteen year-old. The story continued without missing a beat. "If you remember anything from sunday school, it's that God is a loving, forgiving entity. But people are prone to do evil. It's in their nature, as evil is directly connected to pleasure. An example needed to be provided to show that, as you say it, "crime does not pay." And thus, the Spectre was cast down from the heavens, to Earth, to help the innocent, and punish the wicked. And so, for the past thousand or so years, the Spectre entity has done just this. But, for a purpose so direct, which lacks any certain specifics, an anchor needed to be provided, to help the Spirit of Vengeance maintain perspective."

"This anchor was found in the form of a human soul. The Spectre, you see, was not human, merely a force. And how could this force operate correctly without an understanding of the human world in which he was to exist. Since the Spectre's descent into the human world, he has always been bonded to the form of a human soul who seeks vengeance. Most recently, this human soul was that of Jim Corrigan."

No one, be they man, woman, or something not even human, likes a story being told from what they consider a lop-sided point of view. This rule applies even to the Spirit of Vengeance. The transparent white ghost bristles within his flowing green cloak. Does this nameless being, who for some reason the Spectre can't identify, presume to tell his story with no actual knowledge of the Spectre's mission? How dare he be referred to as a simple weapon. The questions mount with the spirit's mind, until he can take it no longer. Who is this person, and how does he know of the spirit's history? And why can he not get this boy out of his form?

"Stop!," the spirit commands. "You've gone far enough. I demand to know who you are, and how you know so much about me! I also object to your filling this child's head with such an uneducated view of my history. Since I don't know your identity, I have no reason to regard your opinions on my purpose as fact, and neither does the boy. Who are you to label me as simply a force, a weapon, that needs a human to properly pull the trigger? I have been gifted by God with perfect understading and clarity into the world of men. My embodiement of human souls was nothing more than a mechanical need. Something I have outgrown."

Corey Jobe does not pretend to even understand what these two are rambling about. Good and evil, and human hosts. And because he doesn't understand it, or care, he's content to be silent until some answers are given about his brother's death. That is, he would be silent, if his fellow stranger in this place would be silent as well. "Understanding of humans? Perfect clarity? You arrogant-"

"Arrogance is a human trait, boy. I am not human, thus arrogance is a factor impossible to me."

"Or more, it was, Spectre," says the narrator, speaking up again, and choosing to deal with this interruption. "I think my side of the story is more educated than yours would be. Everyone likes to polish their image a bit when telling stories of themselves. You are no exception. Now you would have never done this before of course, but you've never been free of you human host before either. You say you've outgrown your need for a human anchor. I say you've just changed. Think about it. You find yourself with a slight, though increasing, sense of satisfaction after you take the life of a sinner now, don't you? You're more human than ever."

"No. If you knew me it all, you'd know that satisfaction, as well as any other feelings of joy are alien to me."

A truly wise being knows when to argue, and when to ignore. This nameless one before them is nothing if not wise. "I am hurt that you don't know me, Spectre. Although, it has been a while. You're questioning for my name is useless. I have none. You are right of course. You are more than just a force or a tool, although what it is you truly are, I don't think even you understand.

"But whereas you are not a nameless force, I am. Like many others that you, or those like you, have met. Chaos. Infinite. There are many characters out there in the universe who's existence is only connected to one idea, or one goal. Most of these are, to some extent, nothing more than mere creations of the mind. They exist because some underdeveloped mind in some culture, in some far reach of the multiverse could not understand what it could not put a face on. And there are others, who were created in a bit more planned manner, simply to accomplish one task. I am one such being. And I was created at the very second you were. I am the one who bound you to a human soul all those centuries ago in Egypt, just as I bound you to Jim Corrigan. I am, quite basically, your supervisor. I have watched every move you've made, and reported it to "The Boss." And when He has a certain task for you to accompish, I would give you the command. God's mouth too your ear really."

"I'm also the one who sticks it to you when you start to screw up. Which brings me to "why I've called you all here today."

Atlanta, Georgia
A Tiny Basement

The crazy man sits alone in his dark basement room. If you stood next to him, though it's impossible to guess why you would, all you'd here was humming, while polishing a long black rifle. Amos Chank, the crazy man who up to this point went without a name, seems to be happily humming the tune to "Batman: The Animated Series." An interesting contradiction, considering the violent emotional scene, one of the many such scenes constantly repeated in the crazy man's head.

"Amos...Amos!," barked a very angry Reverend Chank. Zachariah Chank was a tall robust, sandy-haired man. He had been raised poor in the harsh midwest of the United States. Zachariah was a strong, proud, righteous, man, who had raised himself up from poverty to become a popular Lutheran minister in small Creighton, Georgia. He was also Amos' father. "I thought I'd find you up here, hiding in your room. I try so hard to teach you to be a man, to not hide. But you run away crying whenever someone so much as gives you a hard look."

"I-I'm sorry, Dad. I just thought that, you know, you'd be mad-"

"Your darn right I'm mad! I'm talking to some very important friends of mine from the church, when what does Ms. Sother's bring up? Her little boy got some dirty magazine, and she found it. And apparently, he says you gave it to him. How dare you?! Do you know how hard I work to make us look like good, respectable people? I'm the reverend for chris'akes! And to here that my boy's spreading that kind of trash around? To hear that my son's influencing good, christian boys! You know what that kind of filth leads to? Do you?!"

Amos couldn't hold back the tears, even for his dad. He had heard this so many times, and he knew what followed. "The devil, dad! I know! But..But Dad, I'm sorry...I-"

"No....No you're not. But you're gonna be." And Reverend Chank walked towards his boy, as his hand slid down to his belt...

And while the terrible image before him replayed itself for the millionth time in Amos Chank's head, he hummed the tune to "Batman." He continued to hum blissfully, as he picked up his gun, slid on his poncho, and kissed the red spray-paint six on his doorway. It was time for Amos to go out.

Someplace bright

"Jim Corrigan is no longer with the Spectre. After decades of servitude, he was granted his final rest. But the Spectre is not. This may be to some change in his initial programming, or perhaps there is still a role for him to play. In any case, one witht he power of the Spectre can not be allowed to run wild. Limits must be set in place, as they were before. You, Corey Jobe, are those limits. From this day forth, your human soul is bonded to that of the Spirit of Vengeance."

"No! I can not allow you to do this, whether you are who you claim or not! Whether I need a host or not is a matter of your opinion, but even that is irrelevant. The last man I was bonded to was an adult, and a policeman. He had seen and experienced the types of things cold-blooded murders could do to people. He was suited to share my existence. I see that you have the power to bond me to this boy, but I beg you, don't bring him into my world! He is young, and doesn't deserve to have his innocence shattered by the existence I lead."

"I think you speak quickly of your new existence-mate, here. He has seen and experienced more than you give him credit for, but he still remains almost sinless, and retains this innocence you surprisingly seek to protect. I am surprised that, considering your line of work, you would worry about something so intangible."

Souls, hosts, innocence, right and wrong, good and evil....all this cosmic nonsense had reached it's end for Corey Jobe. Not twenty minutes ago, The Spectre had killed his brother. His brother, who was only trying to protect him, was choked to death by this crazy white freak in the green cape. And now he was supposed to spend eternity tied to this cold murderer for the sake of perspective? He was now poor, homeless, and more alone in the world than ever, and two "agents of God" were standing before him debating philosophy, completely ignoring he was there. And Corey had. Had. Enough.

"Shut up! Just shut up! I hate both of your freaking self-righteous idiots! You keep talking about roles, and missions, and purposes, and my role, and I just have to go along with it! This sicko is some blessed angel? He killed my brother! He's nothing but a psychotic! And now, some other freaking moron, who thinks he's some kind of angel, wants me to spend my life tied to this guy, and for WHAT?! Some freak god? Don't I get a choice in this? I have a life back there. I don't know who you are, but you think you have the right to just make me spend the rest of my days with this psychotic, all for what? The greater good of the universe? No! I don't buy any of this, and you can both just up and die! Do whatever you want, but I don't have to be a part of it! Just leave me alone!"

The stranger just stands. Quiet Impassive. No words come from his lips, and no expression is portrayed on his face. But the Spectre closes his eyes, unseen though they are in shadow, and feels, in the depths of his soul, regret for this boy. He knows exactly how unfair this is. The boy's days of truly living have been stolen from him. But, still unseen, his eyes snap open and his head jerks, just slightly, at a dim beckoning in the back of his brain.

"You see, Spirit? He is a perfect companion for you. You are old, stoic, dedicated to your motion, and he is young, a pure embodiement of emotion, completely unaware, and uncaring of the role he has been given. And, the juiciest tidbit of all. He hates you for being the very killer you seek to condemn. But, there is nothing more I can do for you here. You feel the call already, don't you Spectre? Innocent blood has been spilt, and more is soon to be. Spectre. Corey. You have overstayed your welcome, and have much to do back in your world. Go home."

And with that, the two figures fade away into the bright, white light surrounding them, as their journey togethor truly starts. The figure who had bonded them togethor, and explained their situation, watches them leave. He lingers for a minute, staring at the space in which they stood. He then turns and walks over to his friend.

The entire time, a fellow stranger sat with the company, completely visible. But as he made little movement, and no sound, he was simply overlooked in the storm of confusion and rage. He stands, as his more eloquent partner pats him on the shoulder.

"I feel we have made a good decision with those two," says the one to the other.

"We have indeed," replies the other to the one.

Spirited Writings

I hope you all enjoyed my second issue of the new Spectre series. I'm already having a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you like reading it. Again, send me some feedback. I'd love to know what I can improve. (I also like to hear what I'm doing splendidly.) Contact me at jonah_rite@hotmail.com. We've been doing a lot of talking in the past two issues, and in #3 we'll see some action, I promise.

I'd also like to thank Mike Hintze, the current writer on JSA. I kind of threw him a curveball when my first issue came out, and he's been a real big help to me in smoothing out the cracks between our individual titles. Trust me, I won't ignore what he's done with the Spectre.

Next Issue: Things continue to boil up between Spectre and Corey, but there isn't a lot of time for discussion, because it's time for the Spectre to take on Amos Chank, which will be tougher than it would seem. All action this time folks! See you in 30!