Snip, snap, snout. This tale’s told out.
Jul 17, 2017 10:30:23 GMT -5
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Sadistic and The Anarchist like this
Post by Grimm on Jul 17, 2017 10:30:23 GMT -5
alternate title: Jimmy crack corn & I don't care
Once upon a time there were three professional wrestlers, who were to go up to the hilltop to make legends of themselves. The names of the three were…well, it doesn’t matter what their names were. Just know that they each hoped to become successful in their own ways. Title reigns galore – or one really long title reign. Impressive winning streaks. A fearsome reputation around the business.
Just your standard attempts at overcompensating for any number of personal flaws and shortcomings, really. You know how it is.
On the way up was a bridge over a deep, roaring stream they had to cross. The stream had started as a trickle eons ago after the glaciers had retreated and had slowly (but steadily) cut its way down through the fractures and weak points of the sandstone and wound its way…
Sorry. I digress.
Anyway…under the bridge lived a troll. Or the boogieman. Or the physical manifestation and protector of these woods. The description varied, but what everyone agreed on was that the presence under the bridge was known as Grimm. Long and lean, he stood guard with hair as flame and a beard that could make you weep. His eyes were the color and temperament of the oldest and deepest ice in the North. Grimm was an elemental force peculiar to Pure Class Wrestling and took a certain pride in watching and waiting. He saw no need to roam far and wide across the spheres of combat. He was content with this arena, and with these opponents.
So, first of all came the youngest member of the roster to cross the bridge. He (or she) was new to the business, an upstart, and wanted nothing more than to start a career off with an upset to end all upsets.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap!" went their shiny new wrestling boots across the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" whispered Grimm. You’d think he would roar out the question, but no. Despite his own record around these parts and the nature of the tales folks were eager to tell about him, Grimm conducted himself in a preternaturally calm, collected manner. Mostly. Thus, the whisper.
"Oh, it is only I, the newest wrestler here, and I'm going up to the hilltop to make a name for myself," said the rookie, with such a small voice.
"I don’t think so. Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Hangtown Horror. Hangtown, because that was where Grimm lived, and Horror because, well, he’d done horrible things to people.
"Oh, no! Pray don't take me. I'm too little and inexperienced, that I am," said the newbie. "Wait a bit ‘til a more established wrestler comes. He (or she) is more recognized in our little corner of the world, and will give you more of a challenge."
"Nice try. Off you go," said Grimm, as he delivered a spectacular headbutt (Oh, in the name of all that is good and decent, it’s Dead Reckoning!) and tossed the rookie off the side of the bridge into the chasm below. Grimm looked down into the Nothing and shrugged his shoulders. Then he climbed back down to take a nap, blanketed in moss, in the dark and the damp among the salamanders.
A little while after came the second wrestler to cross the bridge. This one was either, (a) a long-time member of Pure Class Wrestling still struggling their way up the ranks, or (b) a newer member who had come from another federation and was hoping for a successful run here in this land. It varied week to week, and truth be told did not really matter in the grand scheme of things.
“Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap,” went their weary footsteps over the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" said Grimm, a little louder than the first time.
"Oh, it's the more established-yet-not-quite-there wrestler, and I'm going up to the hilltop to solidify the legitimacy of my career," said this second foe, who hadn't such a small voice as the rookie.
"Well, then, now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Lord of Misrule. Lord of Misrule because he could really throw things off-kilter when he wanted to.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait ‘til the Man of the Hour comes. He's much more important and has a lot more buzz than I."
"Perhaps. But you’re not getting off that easily," said Grimm. He rocked the midcarder with a few stiff punches to the jaw before snapping off a sidekick to the sternum which sent him (or her) flying off the bridge. Grimm shook his head and resumed his attempt at that long overdue nap.
But just then up came the big Hot Shot. This wrestler had burst out of the starting gate all frothing and stamping to great acclaim. He (or she) was a rising star with a name on a great many influential lips. He (or she…okay, it’s a he) posed there on the bridge all edgy and unique. You know, nothing like all these other squares roaming the halls. He had that cool bit of scruff on the chin, tattoos hither and yon, and an outfit sporting the motifs of video games and comic books and all things nerdcore to the max.
“Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap!” went the bridge, for the ego and sense of self-satisfaction with this one was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared Grimm. More of a bellow, really, but you get the idea.
"It is I! The Game Changer," said the superstar, who had a bit of an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Okay. I suppose now I 'm coming to gobble you up," said Grimm, yet again (psst…it never ends).
“Well come along! I’ve got speed and I’ve got schemes.
I’ll wear you down with my ULTIMATE COMBOS.
I break you down and then I’ll crush you to bits -- all eight of them, hahaha!”
That was what the Game Changer said. But then his face twitched. The corner of his mouth drooped and a stream of drool trickled out. He appeared on the verge of pitching a fit, but then he started up again.
“My Underground title. The World title. Invitational tournament. Achievement unlocked. Power up. Living my legacy. Up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-select-start.”
“Reboot…reboot…reboot…”
Nothing more than gibberish, really. He’d become all glitchy and whatnot. Grimm stepped forward.
“Unfortunately for you, this is not a game.”
He rushed, leaped, wrapped his arm around the Game Changer’s neck, spun, and drove his head into the stones of the bridge with the Harvest. Grimm looked down with a cocked head and sighed. Then with his foot nudged the body off the bridge to join the rest of the wretches far down below. They’d wanted infamy and riches and power and fear and the world at their feet, but instead got nothing. Nothing but their doom.
At that, Grimm went back down beneath the bridge to await the next traveler. Because more would come.
There were always more.
Once upon a time there were three professional wrestlers, who were to go up to the hilltop to make legends of themselves. The names of the three were…well, it doesn’t matter what their names were. Just know that they each hoped to become successful in their own ways. Title reigns galore – or one really long title reign. Impressive winning streaks. A fearsome reputation around the business.
Just your standard attempts at overcompensating for any number of personal flaws and shortcomings, really. You know how it is.
On the way up was a bridge over a deep, roaring stream they had to cross. The stream had started as a trickle eons ago after the glaciers had retreated and had slowly (but steadily) cut its way down through the fractures and weak points of the sandstone and wound its way…
Sorry. I digress.
Anyway…under the bridge lived a troll. Or the boogieman. Or the physical manifestation and protector of these woods. The description varied, but what everyone agreed on was that the presence under the bridge was known as Grimm. Long and lean, he stood guard with hair as flame and a beard that could make you weep. His eyes were the color and temperament of the oldest and deepest ice in the North. Grimm was an elemental force peculiar to Pure Class Wrestling and took a certain pride in watching and waiting. He saw no need to roam far and wide across the spheres of combat. He was content with this arena, and with these opponents.
So, first of all came the youngest member of the roster to cross the bridge. He (or she) was new to the business, an upstart, and wanted nothing more than to start a career off with an upset to end all upsets.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap!" went their shiny new wrestling boots across the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" whispered Grimm. You’d think he would roar out the question, but no. Despite his own record around these parts and the nature of the tales folks were eager to tell about him, Grimm conducted himself in a preternaturally calm, collected manner. Mostly. Thus, the whisper.
"Oh, it is only I, the newest wrestler here, and I'm going up to the hilltop to make a name for myself," said the rookie, with such a small voice.
"I don’t think so. Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Hangtown Horror. Hangtown, because that was where Grimm lived, and Horror because, well, he’d done horrible things to people.
"Oh, no! Pray don't take me. I'm too little and inexperienced, that I am," said the newbie. "Wait a bit ‘til a more established wrestler comes. He (or she) is more recognized in our little corner of the world, and will give you more of a challenge."
"Nice try. Off you go," said Grimm, as he delivered a spectacular headbutt (Oh, in the name of all that is good and decent, it’s Dead Reckoning!) and tossed the rookie off the side of the bridge into the chasm below. Grimm looked down into the Nothing and shrugged his shoulders. Then he climbed back down to take a nap, blanketed in moss, in the dark and the damp among the salamanders.
A little while after came the second wrestler to cross the bridge. This one was either, (a) a long-time member of Pure Class Wrestling still struggling their way up the ranks, or (b) a newer member who had come from another federation and was hoping for a successful run here in this land. It varied week to week, and truth be told did not really matter in the grand scheme of things.
“Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap,” went their weary footsteps over the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" said Grimm, a little louder than the first time.
"Oh, it's the more established-yet-not-quite-there wrestler, and I'm going up to the hilltop to solidify the legitimacy of my career," said this second foe, who hadn't such a small voice as the rookie.
"Well, then, now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Lord of Misrule. Lord of Misrule because he could really throw things off-kilter when he wanted to.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait ‘til the Man of the Hour comes. He's much more important and has a lot more buzz than I."
"Perhaps. But you’re not getting off that easily," said Grimm. He rocked the midcarder with a few stiff punches to the jaw before snapping off a sidekick to the sternum which sent him (or her) flying off the bridge. Grimm shook his head and resumed his attempt at that long overdue nap.
But just then up came the big Hot Shot. This wrestler had burst out of the starting gate all frothing and stamping to great acclaim. He (or she) was a rising star with a name on a great many influential lips. He (or she…okay, it’s a he) posed there on the bridge all edgy and unique. You know, nothing like all these other squares roaming the halls. He had that cool bit of scruff on the chin, tattoos hither and yon, and an outfit sporting the motifs of video games and comic books and all things nerdcore to the max.
“Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap!” went the bridge, for the ego and sense of self-satisfaction with this one was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared Grimm. More of a bellow, really, but you get the idea.
"It is I! The Game Changer," said the superstar, who had a bit of an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Okay. I suppose now I 'm coming to gobble you up," said Grimm, yet again (psst…it never ends).
“Well come along! I’ve got speed and I’ve got schemes.
I’ll wear you down with my ULTIMATE COMBOS.
I break you down and then I’ll crush you to bits -- all eight of them, hahaha!”
That was what the Game Changer said. But then his face twitched. The corner of his mouth drooped and a stream of drool trickled out. He appeared on the verge of pitching a fit, but then he started up again.
“My Underground title. The World title. Invitational tournament. Achievement unlocked. Power up. Living my legacy. Up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-select-start.”
“Reboot…reboot…reboot…”
Nothing more than gibberish, really. He’d become all glitchy and whatnot. Grimm stepped forward.
“Unfortunately for you, this is not a game.”
He rushed, leaped, wrapped his arm around the Game Changer’s neck, spun, and drove his head into the stones of the bridge with the Harvest. Grimm looked down with a cocked head and sighed. Then with his foot nudged the body off the bridge to join the rest of the wretches far down below. They’d wanted infamy and riches and power and fear and the world at their feet, but instead got nothing. Nothing but their doom.
At that, Grimm went back down beneath the bridge to await the next traveler. Because more would come.
There were always more.
