Post by Grimm on Nov 10, 2017 8:20:00 GMT -5
Due to time constraints, the following was cut from the most recent broadcast of PCW Trauma.
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Lights dim and the PCW-Tron goes black. With the sound of a sharp nib scratching along a ragged sheet of parchment, a sepia-toned cursive scrawls grimm across the screen. The name flickers, wavering in and out of focus with the occasional tracking glitch as if projected from an old forgotten film canister uncovered on the bottom shelf in the cellar.
And then…that music. Sparse percussion taps out through the arena before being joined by what can be described almost as a distorted rendition of that familiar tune calling up the dead-eyed killer from the abyss. And much like the heralding of the cold pitiless creature devouring all in its path, this little ditty results in a similar response from many -- some distressing alchemy of terror and respect.
Don’t fret precious, I’m here. Step away from the window.
Grimm walks out to a single blue-white spotlight, stops to bask in the light and shadows, and looks over the crowd. He’s decked out in his in-ring finery, because you just never know. Better safe than sorry, and all that. The Lord of Misrule begins the long walk down the ramp, dead-set on the ring and ignoring the fans lining the way. The spotlight follows. The words work their way up through the layers of the song.
Go back to sleep.
Phinehas climbs up onto the apron and slides in between the ropes. Instead of mounting any turnbuckles, though, he produces a microphone from a back pocket as he roams the ring from pillar to post. His eyes (oh lord, those eyes) scan the arena as he moves. There have been far too many blindside attacks recently to let down one’s guard.
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
As it is, the song fades away and Grimm pauses on one side of the ring. He raises the microphone to where his mouth would be were it not concealed by the Beard.
“Look what I can do, Johnny. I can go fishing for reactions, too.”
Grimm turns and feints towards the audience. The first four rows flinch in unison. A few fans throw up their hands in defense. Some involuntary whimpers escape. Truth be told, others pee just a little bit.
He resumes his pacing.
“I don’t know why he decided on me, and I’m not going to stand here and tell you I understand that logic. Maybe it’s how the roulette ball fell. Maybe he threw a dart over his shoulder at a PCW roster and hit me right between the eyes. Maybe he figured, what better way to attempt a comeback than to challenge the Hangtown Horror.”
Grimm holds out his hands and shrugs.
“What was it Stormm said…’the point he’s trying to prove is that it doesn’t matter who he steps into the ring with, or when, or where, he’s ready to go.’”
Those pale ginger brows knit into a scowl of the utmost severity.
“I’ve built my career proving that very point. Over and over again for years on end, I’ve unloaded on all comers while people like Johnny Vivacious have come and gone. And come back. And then left again. And, apparently, returned one more time. I’ve fought his kind back then, I fight them now, and I will fight them again. I’m not going to name any names lest I forget someone…”
When recounting this night later to their friends, those at ringside will swear they saw Grimm wink at Ace Anderson. But that can’t be right.
“…but suffice it to say it’s a veritable PCW pantheon laid to waste in my wake.”
“So, sure, Johnny. Bring your middle fingers and your rabble rousing and your fancy duds, and I’ll bring…well, you know.”
Grimm pauses to look towards the entry way, as one does when addressing someone who is not present at the moment.
“And we will do this.”
Having said his piece, Grimm slips through the ropes and drops to the floor. A Perfect Circle’s “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums” picks up right where it left off. As he walks by the announcers’ table Grimm hands the microphone to Ace Anderson, then proceeds up the ramp to the loving embrace of the backstage area where hopefully nothing more than a pumpkin falls prey to that skinning knife.
---------
Lights dim and the PCW-Tron goes black. With the sound of a sharp nib scratching along a ragged sheet of parchment, a sepia-toned cursive scrawls grimm across the screen. The name flickers, wavering in and out of focus with the occasional tracking glitch as if projected from an old forgotten film canister uncovered on the bottom shelf in the cellar.
And then…that music. Sparse percussion taps out through the arena before being joined by what can be described almost as a distorted rendition of that familiar tune calling up the dead-eyed killer from the abyss. And much like the heralding of the cold pitiless creature devouring all in its path, this little ditty results in a similar response from many -- some distressing alchemy of terror and respect.
Don’t fret precious, I’m here. Step away from the window.
Grimm walks out to a single blue-white spotlight, stops to bask in the light and shadows, and looks over the crowd. He’s decked out in his in-ring finery, because you just never know. Better safe than sorry, and all that. The Lord of Misrule begins the long walk down the ramp, dead-set on the ring and ignoring the fans lining the way. The spotlight follows. The words work their way up through the layers of the song.
Go back to sleep.
Phinehas climbs up onto the apron and slides in between the ropes. Instead of mounting any turnbuckles, though, he produces a microphone from a back pocket as he roams the ring from pillar to post. His eyes (oh lord, those eyes) scan the arena as he moves. There have been far too many blindside attacks recently to let down one’s guard.
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
As it is, the song fades away and Grimm pauses on one side of the ring. He raises the microphone to where his mouth would be were it not concealed by the Beard.
“Look what I can do, Johnny. I can go fishing for reactions, too.”
Grimm turns and feints towards the audience. The first four rows flinch in unison. A few fans throw up their hands in defense. Some involuntary whimpers escape. Truth be told, others pee just a little bit.
He resumes his pacing.
“I don’t know why he decided on me, and I’m not going to stand here and tell you I understand that logic. Maybe it’s how the roulette ball fell. Maybe he threw a dart over his shoulder at a PCW roster and hit me right between the eyes. Maybe he figured, what better way to attempt a comeback than to challenge the Hangtown Horror.”
Grimm holds out his hands and shrugs.
“What was it Stormm said…’the point he’s trying to prove is that it doesn’t matter who he steps into the ring with, or when, or where, he’s ready to go.’”
Those pale ginger brows knit into a scowl of the utmost severity.
“I’ve built my career proving that very point. Over and over again for years on end, I’ve unloaded on all comers while people like Johnny Vivacious have come and gone. And come back. And then left again. And, apparently, returned one more time. I’ve fought his kind back then, I fight them now, and I will fight them again. I’m not going to name any names lest I forget someone…”
When recounting this night later to their friends, those at ringside will swear they saw Grimm wink at Ace Anderson. But that can’t be right.
“…but suffice it to say it’s a veritable PCW pantheon laid to waste in my wake.”
“So, sure, Johnny. Bring your middle fingers and your rabble rousing and your fancy duds, and I’ll bring…well, you know.”
Grimm pauses to look towards the entry way, as one does when addressing someone who is not present at the moment.
“And we will do this.”
Having said his piece, Grimm slips through the ropes and drops to the floor. A Perfect Circle’s “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums” picks up right where it left off. As he walks by the announcers’ table Grimm hands the microphone to Ace Anderson, then proceeds up the ramp to the loving embrace of the backstage area where hopefully nothing more than a pumpkin falls prey to that skinning knife.
