Get up and bar the door
Apr 8, 2019 11:48:02 GMT -5
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Dominator / Mortimer and Gerard Angelo like this
Post by Grimm on Apr 8, 2019 11:48:02 GMT -5
Down there below Hangtown, the empty spaces sit dark, dry, and a consistent 54 degrees Fahrenheit. Such conditions are prime for one wishing to preserve things, and to store those things for an indeterminate length of time. Things sealed up in jars, sprigs of herbs and holly and mistletoe tacked up with twine, and myriad other goodies.
An empty space like a root cellar, for instance, all quiet-like, where the only sound is the pulse of the blood in your head as it echoes the throbbing of your heart. All quiet, until a door built into a wall of earth strains on its hinges and the frame splinters where the nails fixing it shut pop loose. Phinehas Dillinger steps through the opening, around the door now hanging there cock-eyed, and dusts off his pants with one hand. The other hand holds a candle – just a stub of a thing – with wax knuckles and a flame wavering this way and that.
Here comes the candle to light you to bed // And here comes the chopper to chop off your head.
After going to and fro in Hangtown, and from walking up and down on it, Phinehas holds up the candle until his eyes adjust to the gloom. He’s been a busy man, that Phinehas, and there have been many tales about his comings and goings over the years. Fact or fiction, myth or history, well, he’ll never tell.
Something shifting under the bed. A shadow in the closet. Creaking stairs. Tapping at the window. A form looming on a hilltop, perched atop a bridge, in the hayloft, at the end of the railroad tunnel. Silhouettes and eyes. Hobnails clicking. Grins flashing. A nursery rhyme serving as a warning.
Baby, baby, naughty baby,
Hush, you squalling thing, I say.
Peace this moment, peace, or maybe,
Phinehas will pass this way.
Baby, baby, he’s a giant,
Tall and black as All Souls steeple,
And he breakfasts, dines, and dinners,
Every day on naughty people.
Baby, baby, if he hears you,
As he gallops past the house,
Limb from limb at once he’ll tear you,
Just as pussy tears a mouse.
And he’ll beat you, beat you, beat you,
And he’ll beat you to a pulp,
And he’ll eat you, eat you, eat you,
Every morsel, in one gulp.
Be that as it may, Phinehas still has work to do. He sets the candle into a niche carved into the clay, then takes up a hammer and a fistful of ten-penny nails and repairs the door-in-the-wall. At least until the next time. Returning the hammer and leftover nails to their place, he walks to another set of shelves but then stops. Sniffs the air. His brow furrows as he turns.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”
He returns to the shelves and rummages through jars, peering at faded labels and holding others up to the candle. Dried husks of flies. Powdered lichen. Saltpetre, pepper, fungal spores, some… thing floating in an amber liquid.
“Now, I know what you’re wondering.”
Phinehas’s voice is muffled down here below ground. The weight of the sandstone and the roots and the bones overhead stifles sound itself.
“How did Grimm get himself into this pickle? It’s a valid question. Neither Kyle Shane nor Justin Michaels have anything I want or need. Why this match, and why now? Well, we can speculate ‘til kingdom come. And we know how everyone just loves to speculate.”
He moves to another set of shelves, where his eyes light up.
“Let’s look at how this appears on paper. In one corner we have Kyle Shane. His time as the, I don’t know, let’s say people’s champion, has come to an end. This place at the top was how he defined himself. It’s who he was. The loss must have been a shock to the system, a blow to the psyche, once he was able to grasp the magnitude of what occurred. Now, I don’t know how he operated in previous federations – and I can’t emphasize just how much I don’t care about what did or did not happen in any of them – but this is new ground for him here where it counts. Now is the time for a remastering, a remixing, a what-have-you, and perhaps the Icemann Invitational Tournament will be the instigating incident for whatever new quest or career trajectory he has in mind. And maybe he won’t be so fragile now that he’s unpacked those emotions of his…in front of everyone…on live TV.”
Phinehas sets aside one empty jar. Its neighbors include glasses of ginseng, ginger, and horseradish. He takes varying amounts of each, along with dried moss snuff and shavings from the bark of a persimmon tree, and puts all of it together in the empty jar, which he then shakes.
“In the other corner stands Stormm. And in this I freely admit I’m as confused as Mr. God of Game. I’ve been a contributing member of Pure Class Wrestling nigh on many years, and I don’t know what kind of backstage wheeling and dealing could have resulted in that apparent immediate challenge to the new World Champion. This may be professional wrestling and goodness knows it has a long history of shady works, but even so there are usually procedures in place as to how things progress. One doesn’t typically drop a title – no matter how long he or she held it – and become the contender for another the same night. Especially without some kind of fight or tournament or contractual loophole. Though, and hear me out, maybe it was all Justin’s doing. This is Stormm we’re talking about here. Maybe he simply took it upon himself to insinuate that he is next in line, using some sort of befuddling logic he may explain at some point. Or maybe he won’t.”
The Lord of Misrule pulls an old railroad spike out of a back pocket and drags it across his tongue. He jabs it into the jar of blended things then licks it again. Casting about, he reaches into a burlap sack at his feet, pulls out a pinch of ash, and sprinkles it in. He repeats the taste test with the rusted bit of iron, and nods.
“And last but not least, here stands Grimm. And the facts are these. I do what I want. Snap. Crackle. Pop. not the least of it. And do you hear about fines? Do you read about suspensions? No, you do not. So here’s your first bit of speculation…maybe they’re feeding you to me. Just consider it. The front office has had enough. You’ve served your purpose. You pulled in the right demographics for television shares and such, and it’s simply time for you to go before you become a complete and utter liability. An embarrassment, to yourself and/or the federation. Or maybe the powers-that-be didn’t sanction that little appearance at the end of Mass Destruction. Perhaps they don’t like the idea of having to deal with the fallout of such hubris, and so, maybe…well, what better send-off to exciting new adventures than a severe beating . So much more appropriate than balloons and streamers and highlight reels, I would say.”
Another test, and Phinehas pauses to pick flecks of rust out of his teeth.
“Now, another possibility is maybe I’m wrong, and it turns out they’re not too keen on my interaction with Tyler Scott and Cory Steel after all. Maybe they thought the Hangtown Horror was a little too horrible to Seromine. Maybe this is in retaliation for my behavior. Stick him in the ring with two former champions who just dropped their belts after some exceedingly long title reigns and let them take out their frustrations on him.”
He stick his nose in the jar, inhales, coughs, inhales again. He screws on the lid and shakes the completed concoction with vigor.
“Or maybe they just drew names out of a hat and everyone will get a kick out of watching us waylay ourselves silly,” says Phinehas with a shrug.
“More facts. Both of you have lost something near and dear to you, and as with anything of consequence, you deal with it differently. You’re both working through your own personal stages of grief. Just know – just accept – that all things come to an end. Nothing lasts forever. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” he says, kicking the sack of ashes.
One last test of the door. It holds firm.
“Whether triumph or failure, both of you need to let go. Move on. I’m not actually suggesting anything so final as a Snap.Crackle.Pop of course…”
“…though never say never,” Phinehas says with a flicker of candlelight in his pale blue eyes.
“Perhaps…perhaps more of a punctuation mark on what just ended for the two of you. Because it’s ended. It’s over. Pursue that reboot, that IIT trophy, whatever it takes for bygones to remain bygones.”
“And once this night is over, don’t make me come back out there.”
Que sera sera.
With the jar of Hangtown Blend in hand, Phinehas reaches and snuffs the candle with thumb and forefinger. He knows better than to puff it out, as that’s a good way to blow away your intentions.
Regardless of whether those intentions are good…or ill.
An empty space like a root cellar, for instance, all quiet-like, where the only sound is the pulse of the blood in your head as it echoes the throbbing of your heart. All quiet, until a door built into a wall of earth strains on its hinges and the frame splinters where the nails fixing it shut pop loose. Phinehas Dillinger steps through the opening, around the door now hanging there cock-eyed, and dusts off his pants with one hand. The other hand holds a candle – just a stub of a thing – with wax knuckles and a flame wavering this way and that.
Here comes the candle to light you to bed // And here comes the chopper to chop off your head.
After going to and fro in Hangtown, and from walking up and down on it, Phinehas holds up the candle until his eyes adjust to the gloom. He’s been a busy man, that Phinehas, and there have been many tales about his comings and goings over the years. Fact or fiction, myth or history, well, he’ll never tell.
Something shifting under the bed. A shadow in the closet. Creaking stairs. Tapping at the window. A form looming on a hilltop, perched atop a bridge, in the hayloft, at the end of the railroad tunnel. Silhouettes and eyes. Hobnails clicking. Grins flashing. A nursery rhyme serving as a warning.
Baby, baby, naughty baby,
Hush, you squalling thing, I say.
Peace this moment, peace, or maybe,
Phinehas will pass this way.
Baby, baby, he’s a giant,
Tall and black as All Souls steeple,
And he breakfasts, dines, and dinners,
Every day on naughty people.
Baby, baby, if he hears you,
As he gallops past the house,
Limb from limb at once he’ll tear you,
Just as pussy tears a mouse.
And he’ll beat you, beat you, beat you,
And he’ll beat you to a pulp,
And he’ll eat you, eat you, eat you,
Every morsel, in one gulp.
Be that as it may, Phinehas still has work to do. He sets the candle into a niche carved into the clay, then takes up a hammer and a fistful of ten-penny nails and repairs the door-in-the-wall. At least until the next time. Returning the hammer and leftover nails to their place, he walks to another set of shelves but then stops. Sniffs the air. His brow furrows as he turns.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”
He returns to the shelves and rummages through jars, peering at faded labels and holding others up to the candle. Dried husks of flies. Powdered lichen. Saltpetre, pepper, fungal spores, some… thing floating in an amber liquid.
“Now, I know what you’re wondering.”
Phinehas’s voice is muffled down here below ground. The weight of the sandstone and the roots and the bones overhead stifles sound itself.
“How did Grimm get himself into this pickle? It’s a valid question. Neither Kyle Shane nor Justin Michaels have anything I want or need. Why this match, and why now? Well, we can speculate ‘til kingdom come. And we know how everyone just loves to speculate.”
He moves to another set of shelves, where his eyes light up.
“Let’s look at how this appears on paper. In one corner we have Kyle Shane. His time as the, I don’t know, let’s say people’s champion, has come to an end. This place at the top was how he defined himself. It’s who he was. The loss must have been a shock to the system, a blow to the psyche, once he was able to grasp the magnitude of what occurred. Now, I don’t know how he operated in previous federations – and I can’t emphasize just how much I don’t care about what did or did not happen in any of them – but this is new ground for him here where it counts. Now is the time for a remastering, a remixing, a what-have-you, and perhaps the Icemann Invitational Tournament will be the instigating incident for whatever new quest or career trajectory he has in mind. And maybe he won’t be so fragile now that he’s unpacked those emotions of his…in front of everyone…on live TV.”
Phinehas sets aside one empty jar. Its neighbors include glasses of ginseng, ginger, and horseradish. He takes varying amounts of each, along with dried moss snuff and shavings from the bark of a persimmon tree, and puts all of it together in the empty jar, which he then shakes.
“In the other corner stands Stormm. And in this I freely admit I’m as confused as Mr. God of Game. I’ve been a contributing member of Pure Class Wrestling nigh on many years, and I don’t know what kind of backstage wheeling and dealing could have resulted in that apparent immediate challenge to the new World Champion. This may be professional wrestling and goodness knows it has a long history of shady works, but even so there are usually procedures in place as to how things progress. One doesn’t typically drop a title – no matter how long he or she held it – and become the contender for another the same night. Especially without some kind of fight or tournament or contractual loophole. Though, and hear me out, maybe it was all Justin’s doing. This is Stormm we’re talking about here. Maybe he simply took it upon himself to insinuate that he is next in line, using some sort of befuddling logic he may explain at some point. Or maybe he won’t.”
The Lord of Misrule pulls an old railroad spike out of a back pocket and drags it across his tongue. He jabs it into the jar of blended things then licks it again. Casting about, he reaches into a burlap sack at his feet, pulls out a pinch of ash, and sprinkles it in. He repeats the taste test with the rusted bit of iron, and nods.
“And last but not least, here stands Grimm. And the facts are these. I do what I want. Snap. Crackle. Pop. not the least of it. And do you hear about fines? Do you read about suspensions? No, you do not. So here’s your first bit of speculation…maybe they’re feeding you to me. Just consider it. The front office has had enough. You’ve served your purpose. You pulled in the right demographics for television shares and such, and it’s simply time for you to go before you become a complete and utter liability. An embarrassment, to yourself and/or the federation. Or maybe the powers-that-be didn’t sanction that little appearance at the end of Mass Destruction. Perhaps they don’t like the idea of having to deal with the fallout of such hubris, and so, maybe…well, what better send-off to exciting new adventures than a severe beating . So much more appropriate than balloons and streamers and highlight reels, I would say.”
Another test, and Phinehas pauses to pick flecks of rust out of his teeth.
“Now, another possibility is maybe I’m wrong, and it turns out they’re not too keen on my interaction with Tyler Scott and Cory Steel after all. Maybe they thought the Hangtown Horror was a little too horrible to Seromine. Maybe this is in retaliation for my behavior. Stick him in the ring with two former champions who just dropped their belts after some exceedingly long title reigns and let them take out their frustrations on him.”
He stick his nose in the jar, inhales, coughs, inhales again. He screws on the lid and shakes the completed concoction with vigor.
“Or maybe they just drew names out of a hat and everyone will get a kick out of watching us waylay ourselves silly,” says Phinehas with a shrug.
“More facts. Both of you have lost something near and dear to you, and as with anything of consequence, you deal with it differently. You’re both working through your own personal stages of grief. Just know – just accept – that all things come to an end. Nothing lasts forever. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” he says, kicking the sack of ashes.
One last test of the door. It holds firm.
“Whether triumph or failure, both of you need to let go. Move on. I’m not actually suggesting anything so final as a Snap.Crackle.Pop of course…”
“…though never say never,” Phinehas says with a flicker of candlelight in his pale blue eyes.
“Perhaps…perhaps more of a punctuation mark on what just ended for the two of you. Because it’s ended. It’s over. Pursue that reboot, that IIT trophy, whatever it takes for bygones to remain bygones.”
“And once this night is over, don’t make me come back out there.”
Que sera sera.
With the jar of Hangtown Blend in hand, Phinehas reaches and snuffs the candle with thumb and forefinger. He knows better than to puff it out, as that’s a good way to blow away your intentions.
Regardless of whether those intentions are good…or ill.
