Post by Grimm on Jan 13, 2016 14:37:59 GMT -5
”We here at Pure Class Wrestling understand the timing of all this was not ideal…”
“It was the worst. “
“Be that as it may, there are contractual obligations that come along with the esteem of being World Champion. Certain…expectations, if you will.”
The suit held up a hand as Phinehas tried to object.
“The federation knows full well that you have been in this seat before. We salute your abilities and we appreciate your loyalty. That being said, although this meeting may be nothing more than a formality for someone as experienced as yourself, it’s a formality that must be followed. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“It doesn’t change the fact I had to miss a very important engagement in Hangtown this year.”
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas had been otherwise engaged over the weekend surrounding Christmas Day. World Champion rights and privileges, and whatnot. Fortunately for the Dillingers, and for anyone foolhardy enough to look forward to their annual Yuletide brawl, Hangtown celebrated Old Christmas as well.
(What, Old Christmas? It seems not everyone was okay with the switch from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in the 18th century. They weren’t about to let the papacy tell them what day it was, so they kept those eleven days they’d ‘lost’. It just so happened that Old Christmas also fell on Epiphany and Twelfth Night. Funny how those things worked out sometimes.)
So the Brothers Gruesome simply moved the day of reckoning back a week-and-a-half. No harm done.
And yet.
Phinehas had instructed the bees not to mock Billy, but they had danced in celebration when the brothers had returned home. Phinehas at least had the decency to wait until Billy had left for town before tapping out a jig over the horse skulls beneath the floor boards.
The Hangtown Horrors put on their usual casual air, but the pay per view was too recent. The title exchange was still fresh in their minds. The bruising was too deep and too dark to allow the cavalier attitude with which past Christmas Tide brawls had been administered.
Make no mistake, they had gone through with it. What was Christmas, after all, if not a time for family traditions? A reminder of the old ways. And to the observer it appeared just as all those in years past. Very little of anything that could be described as actual wrestling. Mostly punching, and kicking, and biting, and choking, and the occasional headbutt. They’d cut a swath through the Candy Cane Forest. Desecrated the town’s manger scene. Used lingering Christmas light strands as makeshift garrotes. Nearly drowned one another in wassail bowls. Standard Dillinger fare, really.
But even as Phinehas rained down blows upon his brother, and as Billy in turn heaved him up in order to drive him through the middle of a gingerbread village, Phinehas knew. A brother always knew. The glint was missing from Billy’s eyes. Even as he swept the Crimson Demon’s legs out from under him and knocked him into the blackened crust that was once a snowman, the Phenom seemed distracted. It was as if his heart was somewhere else.
~~~~~~~~~
”As you know, Mr. Dillinger, the PCW World Championship is the crown jewel of wrestling championships. This is one of the hardest championships to get a shot at, but the most fulfilling championship to win. Winning this prestigious title not only cements your place in PCW history, but shows the world that you are the best this sport has to offer.”
“Now you’re just regurgitating press releases. Have some dignity, for goodness sake.”
As if the man behind the very impressive mahogany desk had not heard him, he produced a stack of papers from a drawer and pushed them towards the Lord of Misrule.
“I’ve marked the spots where we require your signature. You should probably get started, as I expect you’ll want to start preparing for your match with Mr. Saniti soon.”
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas climbed out of a pit, took a pinch of Yule ash, and inhaled. Granny always said it would do you good.
Anyway.
Mr. Saniti. Nathan Saniti. N. Saniti. Tag team champion, magician, wizard, what-have-you. These days it was anyone’s guess as to who (or what) exactly Grimm would be facing at Trauma 185.
That being said, it was clearly N. Saniti who had completed his collection of deadly sins. Too bad, because Grimm bewailed his manifold sins and wickedness almost every day. All those thoughts, words, and deeds going to waste now. He’d nearly completed his transformation, too, seemingly, though what he was transforming into was anyone’s guess
As it were, the last few times Grimm had seen him, Saniti had radiated a clean and beautiful rage. He’d raged against not only the dying of the light, but anyone and everyone who had crossed his path. It went without saying that recent events involving Kelli Starr played a part. He loved her, he loved her not. She loved him, she loved him not. The Black Hand, well…
Grimm couldn’t help but wonder whether the mask had also played a part in this. You’d think The Stranger would have more insight into the mechanizations behind the Infiniti Council, but, alas, there you have it. Just whistle a discordant tune and be about your business, Stranger.
Pins and needles, tokens and worms.
Phinehas and Billy had worked their way to the center of town, where the Burning of the Greens was held. Those totems of pagan abundance were piled along with garlands, mistletoe, and holly and set alight, as tossing the greenery out as mere garbage was bad luck. The brothers fought ‘round the blaze in a shamanic midwinter donnybrook as a way to insure the sun would continue to rise. Or they fought to purge the town’s sins – a purging through blood and fire. Or they fought to insure Hangtown existed for another year. Or maybe they fought to cleanse the last few drops of bad blood lingering from the pay per view. Whatever the reasoning behind it all, it was nothing a good beating with a stout hazel stick (or a shovel, if you preferred) couldn’t fix.
Though, as the fight continued into the night and their breath came in gasps of frozen plumes, Phinehas found himself wondering what his brother expected of him these days. And even if N. Saniti’s attitude toward Sadistic and Kelli was clear, how did that color his view of Grimm?
The federation was different now, here after the holiday break and the Icey awards and the changing of the guard. It was a different era. With different superstars. Grimm had walked out onto the porch that morning and taken a deep breath, exhaled, then sniffed. There was a change in the air. He could not yet pinpoint all the ways in which things had changed.
~~~~~~~~~
In a world of madmen, drunks, and bastards of every shape and form, you were either a monster, a victim, or a witness. It was this World that Grimm now navigated as Champion. He stood, once again, as evidence for the wisdom behind his philosophies. Grimm put no opponent on a pedestal, neither did he cast anyone into the gutter. His method was deliberate. Simple. Drastic. Titles and accolades took care of themselves as long as one persevered and fought the good fight. Grimm had confirmed his own testimony that precision beat power. Timing beat speed. Look at the pile of broken bodies and ruined dreams behind him if you doubt this.
Look upon his work and despair.
“It was the worst. “
“Be that as it may, there are contractual obligations that come along with the esteem of being World Champion. Certain…expectations, if you will.”
The suit held up a hand as Phinehas tried to object.
“The federation knows full well that you have been in this seat before. We salute your abilities and we appreciate your loyalty. That being said, although this meeting may be nothing more than a formality for someone as experienced as yourself, it’s a formality that must be followed. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“It doesn’t change the fact I had to miss a very important engagement in Hangtown this year.”
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas had been otherwise engaged over the weekend surrounding Christmas Day. World Champion rights and privileges, and whatnot. Fortunately for the Dillingers, and for anyone foolhardy enough to look forward to their annual Yuletide brawl, Hangtown celebrated Old Christmas as well.
(What, Old Christmas? It seems not everyone was okay with the switch from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in the 18th century. They weren’t about to let the papacy tell them what day it was, so they kept those eleven days they’d ‘lost’. It just so happened that Old Christmas also fell on Epiphany and Twelfth Night. Funny how those things worked out sometimes.)
So the Brothers Gruesome simply moved the day of reckoning back a week-and-a-half. No harm done.
And yet.
Phinehas had instructed the bees not to mock Billy, but they had danced in celebration when the brothers had returned home. Phinehas at least had the decency to wait until Billy had left for town before tapping out a jig over the horse skulls beneath the floor boards.
The Hangtown Horrors put on their usual casual air, but the pay per view was too recent. The title exchange was still fresh in their minds. The bruising was too deep and too dark to allow the cavalier attitude with which past Christmas Tide brawls had been administered.
Make no mistake, they had gone through with it. What was Christmas, after all, if not a time for family traditions? A reminder of the old ways. And to the observer it appeared just as all those in years past. Very little of anything that could be described as actual wrestling. Mostly punching, and kicking, and biting, and choking, and the occasional headbutt. They’d cut a swath through the Candy Cane Forest. Desecrated the town’s manger scene. Used lingering Christmas light strands as makeshift garrotes. Nearly drowned one another in wassail bowls. Standard Dillinger fare, really.
But even as Phinehas rained down blows upon his brother, and as Billy in turn heaved him up in order to drive him through the middle of a gingerbread village, Phinehas knew. A brother always knew. The glint was missing from Billy’s eyes. Even as he swept the Crimson Demon’s legs out from under him and knocked him into the blackened crust that was once a snowman, the Phenom seemed distracted. It was as if his heart was somewhere else.
~~~~~~~~~
”As you know, Mr. Dillinger, the PCW World Championship is the crown jewel of wrestling championships. This is one of the hardest championships to get a shot at, but the most fulfilling championship to win. Winning this prestigious title not only cements your place in PCW history, but shows the world that you are the best this sport has to offer.”
“Now you’re just regurgitating press releases. Have some dignity, for goodness sake.”
As if the man behind the very impressive mahogany desk had not heard him, he produced a stack of papers from a drawer and pushed them towards the Lord of Misrule.
“I’ve marked the spots where we require your signature. You should probably get started, as I expect you’ll want to start preparing for your match with Mr. Saniti soon.”
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas climbed out of a pit, took a pinch of Yule ash, and inhaled. Granny always said it would do you good.
Anyway.
Mr. Saniti. Nathan Saniti. N. Saniti. Tag team champion, magician, wizard, what-have-you. These days it was anyone’s guess as to who (or what) exactly Grimm would be facing at Trauma 185.
That being said, it was clearly N. Saniti who had completed his collection of deadly sins. Too bad, because Grimm bewailed his manifold sins and wickedness almost every day. All those thoughts, words, and deeds going to waste now. He’d nearly completed his transformation, too, seemingly, though what he was transforming into was anyone’s guess
As it were, the last few times Grimm had seen him, Saniti had radiated a clean and beautiful rage. He’d raged against not only the dying of the light, but anyone and everyone who had crossed his path. It went without saying that recent events involving Kelli Starr played a part. He loved her, he loved her not. She loved him, she loved him not. The Black Hand, well…
Grimm couldn’t help but wonder whether the mask had also played a part in this. You’d think The Stranger would have more insight into the mechanizations behind the Infiniti Council, but, alas, there you have it. Just whistle a discordant tune and be about your business, Stranger.
Pins and needles, tokens and worms.
Phinehas and Billy had worked their way to the center of town, where the Burning of the Greens was held. Those totems of pagan abundance were piled along with garlands, mistletoe, and holly and set alight, as tossing the greenery out as mere garbage was bad luck. The brothers fought ‘round the blaze in a shamanic midwinter donnybrook as a way to insure the sun would continue to rise. Or they fought to purge the town’s sins – a purging through blood and fire. Or they fought to insure Hangtown existed for another year. Or maybe they fought to cleanse the last few drops of bad blood lingering from the pay per view. Whatever the reasoning behind it all, it was nothing a good beating with a stout hazel stick (or a shovel, if you preferred) couldn’t fix.
Though, as the fight continued into the night and their breath came in gasps of frozen plumes, Phinehas found himself wondering what his brother expected of him these days. And even if N. Saniti’s attitude toward Sadistic and Kelli was clear, how did that color his view of Grimm?
The federation was different now, here after the holiday break and the Icey awards and the changing of the guard. It was a different era. With different superstars. Grimm had walked out onto the porch that morning and taken a deep breath, exhaled, then sniffed. There was a change in the air. He could not yet pinpoint all the ways in which things had changed.
~~~~~~~~~
In a world of madmen, drunks, and bastards of every shape and form, you were either a monster, a victim, or a witness. It was this World that Grimm now navigated as Champion. He stood, once again, as evidence for the wisdom behind his philosophies. Grimm put no opponent on a pedestal, neither did he cast anyone into the gutter. His method was deliberate. Simple. Drastic. Titles and accolades took care of themselves as long as one persevered and fought the good fight. Grimm had confirmed his own testimony that precision beat power. Timing beat speed. Look at the pile of broken bodies and ruined dreams behind him if you doubt this.
Look upon his work and despair.
