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Oct 19, 2016 11:07:43 GMT -5
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Sadistic, Nathan Saniti, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Oct 19, 2016 11:07:43 GMT -5
The screen flickers. Roving bands of tracking lines slide up and down as the magnetic tape struggles to remain whole under the strain. A snake – that conqueror worm – emerges out of the static barrens, circles around, and grabs its tail by its own unhinged jaw. Its unblinking pit viper eyes stare straight ahead. Birth, death, rebirth. The seasons’ ebb and flow. There is nothing new under the sun. All is vanity.
The screen jumps under an eight bit glitch and Phinehas Dillinger looks back from a mirror. His eyes, blue as the first killing frost, reflect in the flaking silver. They narrow along with a drawn out breath.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown. And his crown is gone. Taken from him, as it was in the past. As it will be in the future. So for the moment, this brief shining moment, the weight, the expectations, are gone. And in this match, Grimm has nothing to lose, nothing to gain – save for the future of Pure Class Wrestling. The federation’s very soul is to be weighed and measured. But what is that to the Lord of Misrule or his whispering beard? It is neither here…or there. And you know what that means.
Oh, yes you do.
That means Trauma 200 (TWO HUNDRED!) will see Phinehas in his purest form in some time. Distilled. A concentrated dose of Grimm does the body very poorly, indeed. Because why not?
Just look at the lineup. There’s no love lost between most of them, teammates or not. No telling what will happen in and around that ring. Alliances tenuous at best. A mere formality under these new unproven dynamics.
But Phinehas and William – that’s nothing new.
Ruth takes Phinehas by the shoulders. Adjusting the finely wrought oak and leather belt around her brother’s waist, she starts to say something, but then just closes her eyes and hugs him. Granny stands by the front door, wringing her gnarled hands. She reaches into a pocket somewhere in her patchwork dress and produces a small burlap pouch. She reaches with the other hand into a different pocket and unveils a palm full of teeth. Granny drops them, molars and bicuspids and whatnot, into the pouch, one at a time, counting as she goes.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for a birth,
Five for rich,
Six for poor,
Seven for a witch,
I can tell you no more.
She pulls a string tight to close it and places it in Phinehas’s hands. Granny turns and shuffles away into the house. Phinehas stuffs the pouch into his own pocket and steps out onto the porch, then begins the walk into town.
(Re! Spect! Walk! What do you say?)
We do not speak of the path out of All Souls Hollow, other than to say there is no Indian summer this year. Phinehas can already watch his breath plume away into those darkening flame-tinted hills.
Hangtown proper appears to have been abandoned, as if the townsfolk have been raptured away. Phinehas had not heard the blast of the trumpet heralding the Second Coming, though, so the more likely scenario was that they had all rushed to witness the most devastating contest since the Dillinger Christmas Brawl.
Bad Omens Bookseller: closed in preparation for the day.
The Owl and Eel: closed.
The enormous Wicker Man standing sentry in the middle of town: bone dry.
Even The Rowdy Dwarf: empty. Phinehas waltzes in and helps himself to a pint of the black stuff. He waits for the cascade to settle before he downs it in 1…2…3…4 drinks, then licks the foam off his moustache and steps back out onto the road.
So much silence. A preternatural quiet broken only by the rumble of a train as it steams through Hangtown as fast as the coal fires will allow. The hush returns and Phinehas quiets his mind. He follows a string of lanterns and luminaries to the outskirts, then further on to a clearing where the tatters of a canvas tent ripple in the wind. A whippoorwill foretells someone’s doom.
Ah, here they all are. And he knows who else is in there waiting for him.
William Dillinger. Billy Sadistic. Brother, teammate, lifelong nemesis. Fighting each other over the decades, breaking bones and dropping concussions just because they can.
”Remember that time I paralyzed you?”
“Yeah.”
"That was awesome.”
And Phinehas knows all too well that dear William’s credo applies to every aspect of this sibling rivalry.
Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat.
In other words, who knows what Trauma 200 will bring? Grimm will freely admit he is confused by some of the others’ tactics. No one, friend or foe, can know the full implications of this match. Not Kelli Starr and Nathan Saniti with their dubsteppin’ voodoo powers. Not the pure unadulterated fabulousness of Dan Fierce. Not the pigheaded stubborn self-loathing of Rick Majors. And definitely not the [REDACTED] of poor ol’ [MYSTERY ENTRANT].
Because…have you seen the other team? Have you seen them??
Good Lord.
But if Phinehas Dillinger, if Grimm, the Abomination of Desolation, knows one thing, it is that none of this will matter, none of this will come to pass, if he does not step into that tent first. And so he does. The crowd parts and he walks to stand across from his googly-eyed hammerjacked brother, who stands up from the table. Phinehas takes a deep breath and inhales pumpkin, rhubarb, apple, and paw paw. He is in his element, and William knows it. Which is why he threatens to pelvic thrust the lot of them into oblivion (and it is only the Rule of Law that compels Phinehas to refrain from Sword of Heimdall-ing his brother right in his stupid pelvis).
Which is why he makes the expected boasts, the underhanded insults, and why he tosses out the half-truths and outright falsehoods.
Which is why, when the pie crust settles and they wipe the remains out of their eyes, he will have lost.
The screen jumps under an eight bit glitch and Phinehas Dillinger looks back from a mirror. His eyes, blue as the first killing frost, reflect in the flaking silver. They narrow along with a drawn out breath.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown. And his crown is gone. Taken from him, as it was in the past. As it will be in the future. So for the moment, this brief shining moment, the weight, the expectations, are gone. And in this match, Grimm has nothing to lose, nothing to gain – save for the future of Pure Class Wrestling. The federation’s very soul is to be weighed and measured. But what is that to the Lord of Misrule or his whispering beard? It is neither here…or there. And you know what that means.
Oh, yes you do.
That means Trauma 200 (TWO HUNDRED!) will see Phinehas in his purest form in some time. Distilled. A concentrated dose of Grimm does the body very poorly, indeed. Because why not?
Just look at the lineup. There’s no love lost between most of them, teammates or not. No telling what will happen in and around that ring. Alliances tenuous at best. A mere formality under these new unproven dynamics.
But Phinehas and William – that’s nothing new.
Ruth takes Phinehas by the shoulders. Adjusting the finely wrought oak and leather belt around her brother’s waist, she starts to say something, but then just closes her eyes and hugs him. Granny stands by the front door, wringing her gnarled hands. She reaches into a pocket somewhere in her patchwork dress and produces a small burlap pouch. She reaches with the other hand into a different pocket and unveils a palm full of teeth. Granny drops them, molars and bicuspids and whatnot, into the pouch, one at a time, counting as she goes.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for a birth,
Five for rich,
Six for poor,
Seven for a witch,
I can tell you no more.
She pulls a string tight to close it and places it in Phinehas’s hands. Granny turns and shuffles away into the house. Phinehas stuffs the pouch into his own pocket and steps out onto the porch, then begins the walk into town.
(Re! Spect! Walk! What do you say?)
We do not speak of the path out of All Souls Hollow, other than to say there is no Indian summer this year. Phinehas can already watch his breath plume away into those darkening flame-tinted hills.
Hangtown proper appears to have been abandoned, as if the townsfolk have been raptured away. Phinehas had not heard the blast of the trumpet heralding the Second Coming, though, so the more likely scenario was that they had all rushed to witness the most devastating contest since the Dillinger Christmas Brawl.
Bad Omens Bookseller: closed in preparation for the day.
The Owl and Eel: closed.
The enormous Wicker Man standing sentry in the middle of town: bone dry.
Even The Rowdy Dwarf: empty. Phinehas waltzes in and helps himself to a pint of the black stuff. He waits for the cascade to settle before he downs it in 1…2…3…4 drinks, then licks the foam off his moustache and steps back out onto the road.
So much silence. A preternatural quiet broken only by the rumble of a train as it steams through Hangtown as fast as the coal fires will allow. The hush returns and Phinehas quiets his mind. He follows a string of lanterns and luminaries to the outskirts, then further on to a clearing where the tatters of a canvas tent ripple in the wind. A whippoorwill foretells someone’s doom.
Ah, here they all are. And he knows who else is in there waiting for him.
William Dillinger. Billy Sadistic. Brother, teammate, lifelong nemesis. Fighting each other over the decades, breaking bones and dropping concussions just because they can.
”Remember that time I paralyzed you?”
“Yeah.”
"That was awesome.”
And Phinehas knows all too well that dear William’s credo applies to every aspect of this sibling rivalry.
Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat.
In other words, who knows what Trauma 200 will bring? Grimm will freely admit he is confused by some of the others’ tactics. No one, friend or foe, can know the full implications of this match. Not Kelli Starr and Nathan Saniti with their dubsteppin’ voodoo powers. Not the pure unadulterated fabulousness of Dan Fierce. Not the pigheaded stubborn self-loathing of Rick Majors. And definitely not the [REDACTED] of poor ol’ [MYSTERY ENTRANT].
Because…have you seen the other team? Have you seen them??
Good Lord.
But if Phinehas Dillinger, if Grimm, the Abomination of Desolation, knows one thing, it is that none of this will matter, none of this will come to pass, if he does not step into that tent first. And so he does. The crowd parts and he walks to stand across from his googly-eyed hammerjacked brother, who stands up from the table. Phinehas takes a deep breath and inhales pumpkin, rhubarb, apple, and paw paw. He is in his element, and William knows it. Which is why he threatens to pelvic thrust the lot of them into oblivion (and it is only the Rule of Law that compels Phinehas to refrain from Sword of Heimdall-ing his brother right in his stupid pelvis).
Which is why he makes the expected boasts, the underhanded insults, and why he tosses out the half-truths and outright falsehoods.
Which is why, when the pie crust settles and they wipe the remains out of their eyes, he will have lost.
