Post by Grimm on Aug 9, 2019 10:56:52 GMT -5
Seven?
Seven.
Pure Class Wrestling World Championships, that was. After defeating Lantlas, Murdoc, and Sean Hunter at the second Deadly Intentions for his first – more specifically, having survived the Deadly Lockdown and Harvesting Lantlas through a table. While “Heavy Metal” Jacob Roth was, um, distracted, Tyrone “Crazy Boy” Smith got both the Lament Configuration and the Harvest at Trauma 81 for the second.
PCW closed in the middle of 2007 and the title was vacated…meaning the Lord of Misrule never officially lost that one.
But any way.
After a headbutt into a, you guessed it, Harvest, Justin Kaard fell at Trauma 142 for number three. Grimm beat his dastardly brother Billy Sadistic at Collision Course IV for the fourth. Number five came at Living a Legacy VIII, much to the chagrin, yet again, of young master Kaard. Mass Destruction VII was the setting for Title the sixth, when Grimm and fan favorite Dan Fierce faced off in a steel cage. When Grimm sacrificed part of the GingerBeard of Doom to escape that cage.
And, well, you all saw Living a Legacy XI.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. He held a mug of tea (Hangtown Blend, of course) in his hands and watched the shadows stretch along All Souls Hollow. He pushed himself off with his toes and rocked. Push and rock and catch, push and creak and catch. Phinehas took a deep breath. He smelled his tea, and caught a whiff of the changing of the seasons. It was that odd, uneven time, with the best of summer gone but the new fall not yet here.
But it was coming.
~~~~~~~
Seven.
The number of completeness. Perfection. But don’t take my word for it. Just ask any other belief system around the world, at any time in history.
The Seven Wonders of the World. Islands of Atlantis. Cities of Gold.
Days of Creation. Last sayings of Christ on the cross. The joys and sorrows of his mother.
Archangels. Deadly sins. Ages of man.
The seven notes of the diatonic scale. The seventh son of a seventh son. Seven chakras that need aligned and opened. The seven fundamental types of catastrophes.
Trips around the Kaaba. Doors to hell. Candles and shepherds. Pillars of Wisdom.
The unity of the four corners of the earth with the Holy Trinity.
One by one, two by two, by three…an expression of all possible aspects of the absolute.
The number of perfection and utter achievement…which Gerard Angelo would like to bring to an end. And would have you believe he deserved it.
Oh, Gerry.
We know your time as champion was brief. So brief, in fact, that we hardly had a chance to see what kind of World Champion you would be. Because there was more than one type. We’ve seen them all here in Pure Class Wrestling.
Names shall be withheld to protect the guilty, but anyone who’s been around knows well enough who has filled these roles.
There’s the Shining Example, the one offering themselves as something to which to aspire. In a similar vein, there was the champion who would have you believe they would show you things you’ve never seen. Sorry, but there’s nothing new under the sun. Performance pieces and approaches new to you, perhaps, but not to Pure Class Wrestling itself. It has seen, and tolerated, and sometimes cast aside anything you could offer.
There’s the World Champion who proclaims they’ve finally got theirs and can now do whatever they want. Meaning, they have an excuse to be even more of a boor than before they managed to win the belt. There’s the one who’s reached the pinnacle of their career, which then goes one of two ways – thank you so much, this is a dream come true, this is for you the fans, and a testament to all your support. Or, you never believed in me or what I’ve been trying to do here. So, screw you, I don’t need you.
There’s the interesting case of the champion who knows deep down their win was a fluke. An awkward situation at best. They keep a low profile so as to not draw attention to themselves, so that when the inevitable loss comes, it’s not quite so embarrassing.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas took a drink. This was the best batch of Hangtown Blend in some time. Earthy enough, but with an undercurrent of spice that reminded you of stockings hanging by the chimney with care. It packed just enough ‘umph’ that one could forego the cream and sugar.
~~~~~~~
Where were we…oh, yes, the litany of the champions. Finally, there was the Grimm Variation. Now, the Hangtown Horror was easy to take for granted. He’s no fresh-faced upstart raging through the opposition. He’s not a well-loved veteran who’s finally obtained his moment in the spotlight. Grimm understood this. And he was fine with it. What appeared to be indifference was confirmed resolution. Was he the biggest? Hardly. The quickest? Not quite. And he may not be the most…electrifying performer week after week. Grimm may not be the champion the interwebs and the talking heads preferred, but he was the World Champion that PCW needed. A steady hand on the tiller would always be better than a flash in the pan.
Because what did he just say about cutting out the nonsense and laying it all out there in the ring? With all the recent talk about moving from the so-called status quo into a new age (and let’s face it, we’ve heard that before), it should be pointed out that it was not so much a new age as it was an obnoxious one. But it ended, thanks to Gerard Angelo, and now that element was gone. These claims of a renaissance…this push towards an age of enlightenment…they come and go.
Grimm Tales, though, were forever, and they fueled this engine.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas stood and slipped into the house. He reemerged moments later, sans mug, and stepped off the porch. Wiping away whatever tealeaf dregs may have landed in the beard, he walked around to the side where the root cellar lay. Phinehas leaned back into a stretch, then pulled open the doors. Cold dry air wafted out. It smelled of dirt and herbs and old things and it pulled him down.
~~~~~~~
If targeting a previous injury -- which Gerry had done little to nothing to hide, one should note -- was that much of a sore spot, maybe said previously injured wrestler should take the time to properly rehabilitate it so it healed properly. Or maybe he should just quit if the thought of a career-ending injury had become too much to take. If all of this had moved beyond his ability to cope.
It was not Grimm’s job – or anyone’s job, for that matter – to coddle anyone in the ring. Grimm snatched that World Title from Gerard Angelo…from all of them… while working within the prescribed limits. That’s how Grimm had always operated, and had accomplished all those things for which he’d grown so (in)famous. Spending too much time with agents and sycophants out there in Tinsel Town had muddled the Hollywood Hero’s mind. Look, he had claimed this business was his life. If that was true, he should know how this worked. Any veteran worth his salt would know better than to blame his failures on anyone but himself.
And if Grimm ruined you, well, then you were ruined. That was always a possibility when one signed with Pure Class Wrestling. It was nothing personal…it was business.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas moved down below, among the bundles of Granny’s dried herbs and Ruth’s Things In Jars. His own tools. The strings of bones. The tallow and beeswax candles. He walked to the door-nailed-shut. Pried it loose, and slipped in behind.
~~~~~~~
No matter how fleeting a moment it was, Gerard Angelo was once a PCW World Champion, for goodness’ sake. Act like one. “The One” had better let that go, all the distractions and disappointments and finger pointiing, or he’d have even less of a chance at Return to Glory the Tenth. He’d best sweep out the clutter and step into that ring with a clear head, otherwise the match was lost before it had even begun. And no one wanted to see that in a pay per view main event.
~~~~~~~
Even as Hangtown Woods transitioned into the other places, it all recognized Phinehas Dillinger just the same. Those trees and rocks knew the mood and gave him passage. The Crimson Demon weaved among the signs and graves.
And there within the stony confines of what was once an iron furnace, Harley Weiss looked the worse for wear. Face and hands smudged with mud, leaves in his hair, random bruises and scabs scattered all about. Not to mention the fever chill that had kept him awake since he’d come to. Come to, and found himself free to go -- not handcuffed, hogtied, or restrained in any way. Just sore and filthy and confused. Hypothetically he could make a break for it, but it was fear which kept him in place. He knew an escape attempt would be an exercise in futility. Where would he go? He didn’t know where he was. Even if this wasn’t Hangtown, and he faced no danger from the Ghost Pig That Will Cleave You In Half, Harley knew full well running would be a losing proposition. It would make things worse and he tried not to dwell on what worse might be. Besides, despite his current condition, no one had touched him since he regained consciousness, and he preferred to keep it that way.
So he stood there in a corner and watched the faint shadow of a feeble sun as it crept across the gaps in the stonework and slid to an opening he assumed had once served as a doorway. At least the arch curving above it looked like it had been set that way with intention.
One second Harley traced the sunlight and shadows across the opening, the next a silhouette stood there. The shape of which was familiar to most anyone who had spent any time in the PCW over the last several years. It was the form which one saw looking down at them with its head tilted as they gazed up in a daze into the lights of the arena.
Gerard Angelo, The Man Without Peer, knew that sight as well as anyone.
Phinehas Dillinger stepped through the opening. He stood, backlit, a dark matter halo framing that nest of red hair, ghost particles swirling about, raining down in an almanac of dust.
Phineas thought this place could stand for a gunpowder and vinegar fumigation. And the man before him could use a good dose of Granny’s elixirs and salves. But, at least he was still here. Whether he knew the Watchmen had disbanded or not…whether he held out hope that the Chronological Order would be searching for him…that was neither here nor there. He had stayed put. It seemed the Hangtown Horror’s reputation, and that of Hangtown itself, proceeded both him and it.
Harley raised his hand to block the light. He squinted with a look of scurvy and discontent.
“What do you want?”
The silhouette shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. Just checking in. Sooner or later…one way or another...there’ll be a use for you. Until then, hang tight.”
Well, that wasn’t much comfort.
“Where am I?”
Over the hills, down by the river, a train juddered. They could almost feel the ground shudder there in the furnace.
“You ain’t in Hangtown, I’ll tell you that much.”
Because even if it served the greater purpose…even if it was a means to an end…they couldn’t allow just anyone into Hangtown. This Order business was almost too much for the town to tolerate. Enough was enough.
“And while we’re at it, you can’t steal the Book of the Black Hand and expect there to be no consequences.”
Harley slumped to the ground.
“Come on Phinehas, it wasn’t the real Book. And that wasn’t even me. That was Dolores Arl…Aur…Aurelian.”
“Even so.”
Harley put his head in his hands.
“I don’t think Dominic…”
Phinehas leaned forward with hands on knees. Harley didn’t want to look, but he did. Grimm was no longer just a silhouette.
“Listen here, sport. Dominic doesn’t know half of what’s gone on. Of what’s going on. And I don’t doubt for one second that given the chance he’d wrap those meaty paws around my neck and throw me through the nearest window. Just the idea of one of those title belts makes people desperate, sometimes. And seeing how he’s lost his mooring as he has, well, Black Hand or not I can’t take any chances.”
Hard truths spun in the moss and leaf dust. But truths they were, and they left Harley grasping for some way out of this.
“You know I don’t trust Horatio Mortimer any more than you do,” said Harley.
“Oh, I’ve got no delusions about that. Or that man. This could get ugly.”
Phinehas recognized Harley knew very little. But every little bit helped, and besides, Harley didn’t know that he knew. Like he’d said, sooner or later, something would come of this.
He looked down at that mess of gristle, cartilage, and blood. He made an indecipherable gesture. Harley Weiss was afraid to consider what might be contained within it.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon enough,” said Phinehas. He stepped out of the circle of stones into a dusky hollow, and walked away through a landscape of eventual soggy autumn compost.
Seven.
Pure Class Wrestling World Championships, that was. After defeating Lantlas, Murdoc, and Sean Hunter at the second Deadly Intentions for his first – more specifically, having survived the Deadly Lockdown and Harvesting Lantlas through a table. While “Heavy Metal” Jacob Roth was, um, distracted, Tyrone “Crazy Boy” Smith got both the Lament Configuration and the Harvest at Trauma 81 for the second.
PCW closed in the middle of 2007 and the title was vacated…meaning the Lord of Misrule never officially lost that one.
But any way.
After a headbutt into a, you guessed it, Harvest, Justin Kaard fell at Trauma 142 for number three. Grimm beat his dastardly brother Billy Sadistic at Collision Course IV for the fourth. Number five came at Living a Legacy VIII, much to the chagrin, yet again, of young master Kaard. Mass Destruction VII was the setting for Title the sixth, when Grimm and fan favorite Dan Fierce faced off in a steel cage. When Grimm sacrificed part of the GingerBeard of Doom to escape that cage.
And, well, you all saw Living a Legacy XI.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. He held a mug of tea (Hangtown Blend, of course) in his hands and watched the shadows stretch along All Souls Hollow. He pushed himself off with his toes and rocked. Push and rock and catch, push and creak and catch. Phinehas took a deep breath. He smelled his tea, and caught a whiff of the changing of the seasons. It was that odd, uneven time, with the best of summer gone but the new fall not yet here.
But it was coming.
~~~~~~~
Seven.
The number of completeness. Perfection. But don’t take my word for it. Just ask any other belief system around the world, at any time in history.
The Seven Wonders of the World. Islands of Atlantis. Cities of Gold.
Days of Creation. Last sayings of Christ on the cross. The joys and sorrows of his mother.
Archangels. Deadly sins. Ages of man.
The seven notes of the diatonic scale. The seventh son of a seventh son. Seven chakras that need aligned and opened. The seven fundamental types of catastrophes.
Trips around the Kaaba. Doors to hell. Candles and shepherds. Pillars of Wisdom.
The unity of the four corners of the earth with the Holy Trinity.
One by one, two by two, by three…an expression of all possible aspects of the absolute.
The number of perfection and utter achievement…which Gerard Angelo would like to bring to an end. And would have you believe he deserved it.
Oh, Gerry.
We know your time as champion was brief. So brief, in fact, that we hardly had a chance to see what kind of World Champion you would be. Because there was more than one type. We’ve seen them all here in Pure Class Wrestling.
Names shall be withheld to protect the guilty, but anyone who’s been around knows well enough who has filled these roles.
There’s the Shining Example, the one offering themselves as something to which to aspire. In a similar vein, there was the champion who would have you believe they would show you things you’ve never seen. Sorry, but there’s nothing new under the sun. Performance pieces and approaches new to you, perhaps, but not to Pure Class Wrestling itself. It has seen, and tolerated, and sometimes cast aside anything you could offer.
There’s the World Champion who proclaims they’ve finally got theirs and can now do whatever they want. Meaning, they have an excuse to be even more of a boor than before they managed to win the belt. There’s the one who’s reached the pinnacle of their career, which then goes one of two ways – thank you so much, this is a dream come true, this is for you the fans, and a testament to all your support. Or, you never believed in me or what I’ve been trying to do here. So, screw you, I don’t need you.
There’s the interesting case of the champion who knows deep down their win was a fluke. An awkward situation at best. They keep a low profile so as to not draw attention to themselves, so that when the inevitable loss comes, it’s not quite so embarrassing.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas took a drink. This was the best batch of Hangtown Blend in some time. Earthy enough, but with an undercurrent of spice that reminded you of stockings hanging by the chimney with care. It packed just enough ‘umph’ that one could forego the cream and sugar.
~~~~~~~
Where were we…oh, yes, the litany of the champions. Finally, there was the Grimm Variation. Now, the Hangtown Horror was easy to take for granted. He’s no fresh-faced upstart raging through the opposition. He’s not a well-loved veteran who’s finally obtained his moment in the spotlight. Grimm understood this. And he was fine with it. What appeared to be indifference was confirmed resolution. Was he the biggest? Hardly. The quickest? Not quite. And he may not be the most…electrifying performer week after week. Grimm may not be the champion the interwebs and the talking heads preferred, but he was the World Champion that PCW needed. A steady hand on the tiller would always be better than a flash in the pan.
Because what did he just say about cutting out the nonsense and laying it all out there in the ring? With all the recent talk about moving from the so-called status quo into a new age (and let’s face it, we’ve heard that before), it should be pointed out that it was not so much a new age as it was an obnoxious one. But it ended, thanks to Gerard Angelo, and now that element was gone. These claims of a renaissance…this push towards an age of enlightenment…they come and go.
Grimm Tales, though, were forever, and they fueled this engine.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas stood and slipped into the house. He reemerged moments later, sans mug, and stepped off the porch. Wiping away whatever tealeaf dregs may have landed in the beard, he walked around to the side where the root cellar lay. Phinehas leaned back into a stretch, then pulled open the doors. Cold dry air wafted out. It smelled of dirt and herbs and old things and it pulled him down.
~~~~~~~
If targeting a previous injury -- which Gerry had done little to nothing to hide, one should note -- was that much of a sore spot, maybe said previously injured wrestler should take the time to properly rehabilitate it so it healed properly. Or maybe he should just quit if the thought of a career-ending injury had become too much to take. If all of this had moved beyond his ability to cope.
It was not Grimm’s job – or anyone’s job, for that matter – to coddle anyone in the ring. Grimm snatched that World Title from Gerard Angelo…from all of them… while working within the prescribed limits. That’s how Grimm had always operated, and had accomplished all those things for which he’d grown so (in)famous. Spending too much time with agents and sycophants out there in Tinsel Town had muddled the Hollywood Hero’s mind. Look, he had claimed this business was his life. If that was true, he should know how this worked. Any veteran worth his salt would know better than to blame his failures on anyone but himself.
And if Grimm ruined you, well, then you were ruined. That was always a possibility when one signed with Pure Class Wrestling. It was nothing personal…it was business.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas moved down below, among the bundles of Granny’s dried herbs and Ruth’s Things In Jars. His own tools. The strings of bones. The tallow and beeswax candles. He walked to the door-nailed-shut. Pried it loose, and slipped in behind.
~~~~~~~
No matter how fleeting a moment it was, Gerard Angelo was once a PCW World Champion, for goodness’ sake. Act like one. “The One” had better let that go, all the distractions and disappointments and finger pointiing, or he’d have even less of a chance at Return to Glory the Tenth. He’d best sweep out the clutter and step into that ring with a clear head, otherwise the match was lost before it had even begun. And no one wanted to see that in a pay per view main event.
~~~~~~~
Even as Hangtown Woods transitioned into the other places, it all recognized Phinehas Dillinger just the same. Those trees and rocks knew the mood and gave him passage. The Crimson Demon weaved among the signs and graves.
And there within the stony confines of what was once an iron furnace, Harley Weiss looked the worse for wear. Face and hands smudged with mud, leaves in his hair, random bruises and scabs scattered all about. Not to mention the fever chill that had kept him awake since he’d come to. Come to, and found himself free to go -- not handcuffed, hogtied, or restrained in any way. Just sore and filthy and confused. Hypothetically he could make a break for it, but it was fear which kept him in place. He knew an escape attempt would be an exercise in futility. Where would he go? He didn’t know where he was. Even if this wasn’t Hangtown, and he faced no danger from the Ghost Pig That Will Cleave You In Half, Harley knew full well running would be a losing proposition. It would make things worse and he tried not to dwell on what worse might be. Besides, despite his current condition, no one had touched him since he regained consciousness, and he preferred to keep it that way.
So he stood there in a corner and watched the faint shadow of a feeble sun as it crept across the gaps in the stonework and slid to an opening he assumed had once served as a doorway. At least the arch curving above it looked like it had been set that way with intention.
One second Harley traced the sunlight and shadows across the opening, the next a silhouette stood there. The shape of which was familiar to most anyone who had spent any time in the PCW over the last several years. It was the form which one saw looking down at them with its head tilted as they gazed up in a daze into the lights of the arena.
Gerard Angelo, The Man Without Peer, knew that sight as well as anyone.
Phinehas Dillinger stepped through the opening. He stood, backlit, a dark matter halo framing that nest of red hair, ghost particles swirling about, raining down in an almanac of dust.
Phineas thought this place could stand for a gunpowder and vinegar fumigation. And the man before him could use a good dose of Granny’s elixirs and salves. But, at least he was still here. Whether he knew the Watchmen had disbanded or not…whether he held out hope that the Chronological Order would be searching for him…that was neither here nor there. He had stayed put. It seemed the Hangtown Horror’s reputation, and that of Hangtown itself, proceeded both him and it.
Harley raised his hand to block the light. He squinted with a look of scurvy and discontent.
“What do you want?”
The silhouette shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. Just checking in. Sooner or later…one way or another...there’ll be a use for you. Until then, hang tight.”
Well, that wasn’t much comfort.
“Where am I?”
Over the hills, down by the river, a train juddered. They could almost feel the ground shudder there in the furnace.
“You ain’t in Hangtown, I’ll tell you that much.”
Because even if it served the greater purpose…even if it was a means to an end…they couldn’t allow just anyone into Hangtown. This Order business was almost too much for the town to tolerate. Enough was enough.
“And while we’re at it, you can’t steal the Book of the Black Hand and expect there to be no consequences.”
Harley slumped to the ground.
“Come on Phinehas, it wasn’t the real Book. And that wasn’t even me. That was Dolores Arl…Aur…Aurelian.”
“Even so.”
Harley put his head in his hands.
“I don’t think Dominic…”
Phinehas leaned forward with hands on knees. Harley didn’t want to look, but he did. Grimm was no longer just a silhouette.
“Listen here, sport. Dominic doesn’t know half of what’s gone on. Of what’s going on. And I don’t doubt for one second that given the chance he’d wrap those meaty paws around my neck and throw me through the nearest window. Just the idea of one of those title belts makes people desperate, sometimes. And seeing how he’s lost his mooring as he has, well, Black Hand or not I can’t take any chances.”
Hard truths spun in the moss and leaf dust. But truths they were, and they left Harley grasping for some way out of this.
“You know I don’t trust Horatio Mortimer any more than you do,” said Harley.
“Oh, I’ve got no delusions about that. Or that man. This could get ugly.”
Phinehas recognized Harley knew very little. But every little bit helped, and besides, Harley didn’t know that he knew. Like he’d said, sooner or later, something would come of this.
He looked down at that mess of gristle, cartilage, and blood. He made an indecipherable gesture. Harley Weiss was afraid to consider what might be contained within it.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon enough,” said Phinehas. He stepped out of the circle of stones into a dusky hollow, and walked away through a landscape of eventual soggy autumn compost.
