Post by Grimm on Jul 1, 2019 9:45:08 GMT -5
And so, with the flick of a thumbnail, the match head ignites in a flare of sulfur and phosphorus. A whiff of brimstone. Eyes of blue watch orange and red begin the climb down the matchstick.
July in Kentucky. Phinehas Dillinger kneels on a bare patch of ground and touches the match to a black circle no bigger than a nickel. A black powder pop, a magnesium flare, and there falls Lucifer, the Bringer of Light. Phinehas waves the match to extinguish the flame as he stands, and he watches alongside Ruth and Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin as the small tablet flickers and grows. A black snake of graphite and linseed oil expands at their feet. They smell burned sugar. There on top of a hill, where a stale wind barely rustles the sycamores. The snake grows, and twists, and coils around on itself. Here a much larger circle now that the snake grabs its own tail in its mouth. The three figures watch the inside edge of the snake smoke and fizz. The area inside the ouroboros disappears – no hill, no bedrock, just a great empty where not even the light from the end of creation can seep out -- and then they watch as an image glows within the nothing.
Dominic Atkinson, The Zenith, sitting on a porch not far from where they stand. He sits fuming, hands clinched into massive fists, listening to the old woman in the rocking chair behind him. Whatever she’s saying, he knows she’s right.
“Worried about the sudden competition, are we, Phinehas?” says Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin as he hops to keep his balance. “I didn’t take you to be the paranoid type.”
Phinehas’s eyes narrow. He does not turn from the scrying circle.
“Any World Champion worth his salt would want to stay apprised of this situation, whether the target is an ally or not.”
“You know this, Rumpelstiltskin,” says Ruth. “This is not just about a title belt. Things are moving within the Chronological Order, and what affects them, affects the Black Hand.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin huffs. “Even more of a reason to send me back out. I could have kept tabs on them. I’ve done it before. You know this, Ruth.”
Ruth closes her eyes and gives a slight shake of the head. “And you were terrible at it. Do you realize how much work it took to repair…all of that once you so blatantly showed your hand? I’m surprised Dominic and Horatio trust us at all.”
“Yeah, well, maybe they don’t. Maybe this is all an act. Maybe they’re playing us, and unless somebody does some digging…”
“Quiet,” says Phinehas as he raises his hand. He leans over the circle and the image fades to...
An explosion. Stone fractures and timber splinters and fire engulfs all. What once was is no more.
Phinehas straightens. Ruth glances at her brother. “Besides, Dominic will be coming after the World Title. He’s not after Phinehas, and who’s to say who will be the champion when the time comes. There will be a lot of matches between now and then.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin looks to the Dillingers. “What, you mean like this next match? Against Razor Blade? Come on.”
Still watching embers rain down on the inexplicable Armageddon, Phinehas says, “Yes, exactly like this next match. Razor Blade has experienced defeat after defeat. He was kidnapped by Sicko, who no doubt inflicted untold atrocities and committed abominable acts upon him. And yet…there he stands. Still defiant, still making claims to championships. Confident to the point of ridiculousness. He’s clearly irrational and not subject to anything remotely resembling reason.”
“And that’s just the kind of person you have to watch out for, title on the line or not” says Ruth.
“Exactly. There’s no telling what he’s liable to do, especially in a match like this. I mean, the Bodacious Barbecue Beach Blast Battle? This one offers plenty of room for error. One misstep and Razor Blade will have done the unimaginable. I can’t let that happen.”
A rain falls. The fire dies. Nothing to see now but smoke and mud.
And then, monitors and machines. Digital readouts and tubes. Constant electronic beeps. The antiseptic smell of sterilized frustration and death.
As the three watch, they recognize that the cacophony of crows and locusts around them had never let up. The creatures here are not impressed by the weirdness of Hangtown. If nothing else, they revel in mocking it.
A bead of sweat drips off the tip of Phinehas’s nose. It hits the image, and the circle dissolves into sandstone and clay. The snake turns to ash and gets carried off the hilltop by a mighty rushing wind.
July in Kentucky. Phinehas Dillinger kneels on a bare patch of ground and touches the match to a black circle no bigger than a nickel. A black powder pop, a magnesium flare, and there falls Lucifer, the Bringer of Light. Phinehas waves the match to extinguish the flame as he stands, and he watches alongside Ruth and Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin as the small tablet flickers and grows. A black snake of graphite and linseed oil expands at their feet. They smell burned sugar. There on top of a hill, where a stale wind barely rustles the sycamores. The snake grows, and twists, and coils around on itself. Here a much larger circle now that the snake grabs its own tail in its mouth. The three figures watch the inside edge of the snake smoke and fizz. The area inside the ouroboros disappears – no hill, no bedrock, just a great empty where not even the light from the end of creation can seep out -- and then they watch as an image glows within the nothing.
Dominic Atkinson, The Zenith, sitting on a porch not far from where they stand. He sits fuming, hands clinched into massive fists, listening to the old woman in the rocking chair behind him. Whatever she’s saying, he knows she’s right.
“Worried about the sudden competition, are we, Phinehas?” says Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin as he hops to keep his balance. “I didn’t take you to be the paranoid type.”
Phinehas’s eyes narrow. He does not turn from the scrying circle.
“Any World Champion worth his salt would want to stay apprised of this situation, whether the target is an ally or not.”
“You know this, Rumpelstiltskin,” says Ruth. “This is not just about a title belt. Things are moving within the Chronological Order, and what affects them, affects the Black Hand.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin huffs. “Even more of a reason to send me back out. I could have kept tabs on them. I’ve done it before. You know this, Ruth.”
Ruth closes her eyes and gives a slight shake of the head. “And you were terrible at it. Do you realize how much work it took to repair…all of that once you so blatantly showed your hand? I’m surprised Dominic and Horatio trust us at all.”
“Yeah, well, maybe they don’t. Maybe this is all an act. Maybe they’re playing us, and unless somebody does some digging…”
“Quiet,” says Phinehas as he raises his hand. He leans over the circle and the image fades to...
An explosion. Stone fractures and timber splinters and fire engulfs all. What once was is no more.
Phinehas straightens. Ruth glances at her brother. “Besides, Dominic will be coming after the World Title. He’s not after Phinehas, and who’s to say who will be the champion when the time comes. There will be a lot of matches between now and then.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin looks to the Dillingers. “What, you mean like this next match? Against Razor Blade? Come on.”
Still watching embers rain down on the inexplicable Armageddon, Phinehas says, “Yes, exactly like this next match. Razor Blade has experienced defeat after defeat. He was kidnapped by Sicko, who no doubt inflicted untold atrocities and committed abominable acts upon him. And yet…there he stands. Still defiant, still making claims to championships. Confident to the point of ridiculousness. He’s clearly irrational and not subject to anything remotely resembling reason.”
“And that’s just the kind of person you have to watch out for, title on the line or not” says Ruth.
“Exactly. There’s no telling what he’s liable to do, especially in a match like this. I mean, the Bodacious Barbecue Beach Blast Battle? This one offers plenty of room for error. One misstep and Razor Blade will have done the unimaginable. I can’t let that happen.”
A rain falls. The fire dies. Nothing to see now but smoke and mud.
And then, monitors and machines. Digital readouts and tubes. Constant electronic beeps. The antiseptic smell of sterilized frustration and death.
As the three watch, they recognize that the cacophony of crows and locusts around them had never let up. The creatures here are not impressed by the weirdness of Hangtown. If nothing else, they revel in mocking it.
A bead of sweat drips off the tip of Phinehas’s nose. It hits the image, and the circle dissolves into sandstone and clay. The snake turns to ash and gets carried off the hilltop by a mighty rushing wind.
