Post by Stace Matthews on Nov 1, 2017 10:00:16 GMT -5
It was easy to figure out why he was there; how and when he had arrived were in question, but there he stood. In the decaying heart, under the sole street lamp of Hangtown; in the middle of the main intersection, where two broken roads section off weary, deeply-scarred buildings with hollow windows and darkened doors. Barely standing, the structures worn by time seemingly glared down on the unwelcome madman clad in black. Without the slightest breeze, his cigarette smoke clung tightly to the stale air above him.
As if without control or, what could only be described as such, “GRIMM!” He yelled with all of his voice, piercing deep into the darkness.
With the exception of the entire town falling in on him where he stood, Vivacious was hardly pressured because his calling out the very keeper, the bearded caretaker of this dilapidated settlement went unanswered and so, he did so, again.
“Phinehas,” he again shouted into the crushing void, without any intention of doing so, “FUCKING Dillinger!”
Then, as if this shit was just out of thin air or he was really fucked up when this shit went down, a five-gallon tank full of gasoline appears in his left hand. He wasn't startled, it was as if he willed it or expected it to just be.
Completely gone, there was no control over him, as he went splashing the bases of the dry, old wood dwellings and businesses. For a five-gallon bucket, it seemed bottomless, he sloshed and splashed down every single road. He soaked every single building before returning to the heart of town to pace in circles several times before returning to the center of aforementioned intersection.
Reaching in his inner, left-side jacket pocket, he retrieves his Marlboro Reds and favorite “FU” Zippo.
“Alright, Rusty-Beard,” he just said, without thought or filter or will, “maybe this will bring you out.”
Precariously, with no regard to himself or others, he drew a cigarette from the pack and lit up standing in the stagnant stench of must and gasoline, the fumes would have been breathtaking and, in reality, instantly ignited.
He has time, however.
Time to smoke the entire cigarette before, now here is where it gets good, because he flipped it straight out in front of him igniting the entire town in a scorching, blinding red and orange.
He went into the man's home, called him out, continued to add to the tension and now, right in the center, it was going to burn down on top of him. The flames whirled and twisted, spun and flipped, as the buildings crashed down, burying him in all that he had done, the flames took form.
A flaming red beard, flaming red anger, everything that every man before him ever feared shined brightly through locked flaming red eyes. It was the shepherd of the torched town protecting his flock, chasing the big bad wolf all the way back to Hell.
“Fuck!” Vivacious sat straight up out of a dead sleep, smacking and slapping himself in an attempt to put out the flames, “fuck, I am burning!”
His wife was awoken from her slumber by his outburst, confused and trying to help her husband as he thrashed about.
“I am on fire!”
“Baby,” she attempted to calm him, “you are fine.”
Looking up, Vivacious locked his eyes on the pumpkin he had received at Deadly Intentions. The pumpkin and blade were undisturbed, exactly the way he had received it.
Starring him back in the face, the ominous message that threatened to scratch his very existence from Pure Class Wrestling.
“You had another nightmare, Baby,” Stace continued to console her husband.
“It will be over soon enough,” he mumbled, laying back down onto his pillow.
Soon enough.
As if without control or, what could only be described as such, “GRIMM!” He yelled with all of his voice, piercing deep into the darkness.
With the exception of the entire town falling in on him where he stood, Vivacious was hardly pressured because his calling out the very keeper, the bearded caretaker of this dilapidated settlement went unanswered and so, he did so, again.
“Phinehas,” he again shouted into the crushing void, without any intention of doing so, “FUCKING Dillinger!”
Then, as if this shit was just out of thin air or he was really fucked up when this shit went down, a five-gallon tank full of gasoline appears in his left hand. He wasn't startled, it was as if he willed it or expected it to just be.
Completely gone, there was no control over him, as he went splashing the bases of the dry, old wood dwellings and businesses. For a five-gallon bucket, it seemed bottomless, he sloshed and splashed down every single road. He soaked every single building before returning to the heart of town to pace in circles several times before returning to the center of aforementioned intersection.
Reaching in his inner, left-side jacket pocket, he retrieves his Marlboro Reds and favorite “FU” Zippo.
“Alright, Rusty-Beard,” he just said, without thought or filter or will, “maybe this will bring you out.”
Precariously, with no regard to himself or others, he drew a cigarette from the pack and lit up standing in the stagnant stench of must and gasoline, the fumes would have been breathtaking and, in reality, instantly ignited.
He has time, however.
Time to smoke the entire cigarette before, now here is where it gets good, because he flipped it straight out in front of him igniting the entire town in a scorching, blinding red and orange.
He went into the man's home, called him out, continued to add to the tension and now, right in the center, it was going to burn down on top of him. The flames whirled and twisted, spun and flipped, as the buildings crashed down, burying him in all that he had done, the flames took form.
A flaming red beard, flaming red anger, everything that every man before him ever feared shined brightly through locked flaming red eyes. It was the shepherd of the torched town protecting his flock, chasing the big bad wolf all the way back to Hell.
“Fuck!” Vivacious sat straight up out of a dead sleep, smacking and slapping himself in an attempt to put out the flames, “fuck, I am burning!”
His wife was awoken from her slumber by his outburst, confused and trying to help her husband as he thrashed about.
“I am on fire!”
“Baby,” she attempted to calm him, “you are fine.”
Looking up, Vivacious locked his eyes on the pumpkin he had received at Deadly Intentions. The pumpkin and blade were undisturbed, exactly the way he had received it.
Starring him back in the face, the ominous message that threatened to scratch his very existence from Pure Class Wrestling.
“You had another nightmare, Baby,” Stace continued to console her husband.
“It will be over soon enough,” he mumbled, laying back down onto his pillow.
Soon enough.