To sleep, perchance to dream
Aug 28, 2019 8:38:50 GMT -5
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Stormm, The Anarchist, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on Aug 28, 2019 8:38:50 GMT -5
Phinehas tossed.
~~~~~~~
There are intermittent skips in the track that normally accompanies him to the ring as well, and as he makes halfway down the ramp, the spotlight cuts out, and returns as two spotlights, the second shining upon what appears to be Stormm, in his hooded, black, leather trench coat at the top of the ramp. The hood is up, and his head is down.
But the spotlights don’t stay for long, flickering wildly like before, and going out as Grimm reaches ringside. They flash off again and the music cuts once more, and when they return, three spotlights. What appeared to be Stormm at the top of the ramp is now met with a similarly dressed man halfway down the ramp now, as if as specter of Stormm were following the Lord of Misrule to the ring.
Grimm has not wavered once, as if he was expecting the mind games, his eyes deadset on the ring and ignoring everything along the way. The spotlight continues to follow him, but the other two are still set on the shades of Stormm as the words try work their way up through the layers of the song as it cuts in and out.
Go back to sleep.
Phinehas climbs up onto the apron and slides in between the ropes. Hopping up onto a turnbuckle, he casts his gaze out over the crowd with his arms at his side, eyes shifting to take in the sea of faces spread out before him. He glances back towards the ramp, but a split second before he does, the other two spotlights cut out, and Grimm then drops down. And waits.
The spotlight shuts off, and the arena is left in total darkness for another split second, before four more spotlights return. This time, Stormm’s shadows have multiplied again, one on each side of the ring, surrounding Grimm, who doesn’t flinch, and appears unphased, despite what would end up being a terrible numbers game for him.
None of them move, and the four spotlights become total darkness again as the music cuts out. The pattern does no continue, and eight spotlights don’t return, but instead, just one more, shining on Grimm… and Stormm… in the middle of the ring.
Before Grimm can turn the full hundred and eighty degrees to face the other man in the ring, he gets his clock cleaned as the end of the wooden bat jams through the ginger beard and connects with Grimm’s jaw, and the spotlight goes out, and the house lights come back on. The only person in the ring is Grimm, laid out onto his side, holding the side of his face.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas turned.
~~~~~~~
Grimm slowly gets to his knees, and then he turns, dazed. Stormm goes for a title belt shot... but Grimm ducks under it. And he catches Stormm from behind before Stormm can turn and drops him with a sleeping neckbreaker.
An exhausted Grimm drops down for a cover.
The referee and the crowd: ONE...
TWO...
THRE - Kickout!
Grimm sits up with as much of a disturbed expression as we've ever seen on his face. He looks at the referee, his eyes questioning, and he stoically rolls to his feet, taking a glance back at Stormm. He knows it's now or never to close this match out. Grimm paces over to the ropes and he climbs up, going to the top rope and setting himself for a tornado DDT. Grimm catches Stormm by the head, but instead of dragging him down, he is turned onto Stormm's shoulders. Stormm is able to use his greater size and strength to lift Grimm back up, ith his left arm over the back of Grimm's head, and 's left arm over his left shoulder. Stormm then grabs Grimm's left leg, lifting it up close to Grimm's own torso, and then lifts Grimm up into the cradle suplex position. Stormm then jumps a little, twirls about two hundred and seventy degrees, and falls on his stomach while Grimm is forced to land on his neck, shoulders, and upper back. The crowd explodes in an awed, flabbergasted expulsion of air. Both Stormm and Grimm are laid out.
The crowd is heavily invested, some are cheering for Grimm, some, bafflingly, are cheering for Stormm. Neither man is able to move after the long, brutal war we've witnessed. It has taken its toll. Finally, at long last, Stormm starts to move. He meekly rolls onto his side and his fingertips stretch out. He places a weak arm over Grimm's chest.
The referee drops down for a cover.
The referee and the crowd: ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!
Ding Ding Ding
Sasha Greene: Here is your winner... and STILLLLL PURE CLASS WRESTLING NORTH AMERICAN CHAMPION... JUSTIN "STORMM" MICHAELS!!!
~~~~~~~
Phinehas’s eyes darted behind closed lids. Their veins a network of roiling blue fighting to control his REM sleep.
~~~~~~~
After Grimm's hand is raised, when he would normally have been handed the World title belt after any other match, the strap is nowhere to be seen, and the referee looks around for it as well. Not being one to wait, The Lord of Misrule climbs through the ropes, and steps out of the ring with the timekeepers area in his sights. Upon approach, and before he can take possession of the title, Stormm comes crashing in from behind the barricade, smashing Grimm in the face with the top prize in Pure Class Wrestling. After the grueling match, Grimm has nothing left in him after taking the full force of the title belt to the face. He takes the table and bell down with him as Stormm hoists the title over his head.
Gerard Angelo, who is still picking himself up after the loss, doesn't look pleased to see the Force of Nature's presence, who has laid the title belt across the unconscious champion's chest, and has already begun to make his way into the ring. The crowd is still on their feet after the Main Event, and have not calmed down at all.
…
Stormm exits the ring and reaches back behind the timekeeper's area, producing his signature wooden baseball bat to the cheers of the crowd. He uses it to poke at the fallen champion, who hasn't moved. The smile returns as he turns his attention back towards Gerard Angelo in the ring, and he points the bat towards him and looks out into the crowd, who applaud the possible carnage. As the Force of Nature slides back into the ring, Gerard rolls out, to get away from an even worse night, and Stormm, instead, climbs the nearest turnbuckle and raises his hand into the air.
The arena goes dark. Phone lights start appearing like bright stars in the night sky. The cheers are only bolstered by unified chants of Stormm's name. When the lights reappear, he is nowhere to be found. Grimm and Gerard are still where he laid them to rest...
~~~~~~~
Phinehas’s eyes popped open. Even here in the early morning light they shone as the buried blue ice erupting out of a glacial chasm. He lay there in the aftermath of a dream. Not a lucid dream, because were that the case those images would have played out much differently.
But he still had a chance to make that right.
Phinehas Dillinger – Grimm. The Hangtown Horror. The PCW World Champion. –lay there in his bed. He lay there in his home up All Souls Hollow, on the outskirts of Hangtown. Bedroom windows open, cross breeze rushing through, bringing with it the last gasps of a river valley summer and the thrumming roar of the cicadas. And on that morning, beneath the mugginess and the honeysuckle and the pears rotting on the branch, he smelled the change coming. The Withering, the leaf dust, the killing frost. Fall was on its way.
And with it, the harvest.
Phinehas lay there thinking of the dream, and how the paths of he and the Force of Nature had crissed and crossed over the years. And how, one way or another, whatever was to come, the event (because it would be an Event with a capital ‘E’) would put some kind of punctuation mark on the career of Justin Michaels, even if it was not his final match. The Hangtown Horror and the Force of Nature would make that night a wonder to behold.
He stretched his arms and legs as if drawn and quartered by a plow horse. Then swung his feet out from beneath the sheets onto the cool poplar wood of the floor.
Phinehas smacked his lips. His mouth tasted of sleep and stagnant air. He needed a drink of water.
~~~~~~~
There are intermittent skips in the track that normally accompanies him to the ring as well, and as he makes halfway down the ramp, the spotlight cuts out, and returns as two spotlights, the second shining upon what appears to be Stormm, in his hooded, black, leather trench coat at the top of the ramp. The hood is up, and his head is down.
But the spotlights don’t stay for long, flickering wildly like before, and going out as Grimm reaches ringside. They flash off again and the music cuts once more, and when they return, three spotlights. What appeared to be Stormm at the top of the ramp is now met with a similarly dressed man halfway down the ramp now, as if as specter of Stormm were following the Lord of Misrule to the ring.
Grimm has not wavered once, as if he was expecting the mind games, his eyes deadset on the ring and ignoring everything along the way. The spotlight continues to follow him, but the other two are still set on the shades of Stormm as the words try work their way up through the layers of the song as it cuts in and out.
Go back to sleep.
Phinehas climbs up onto the apron and slides in between the ropes. Hopping up onto a turnbuckle, he casts his gaze out over the crowd with his arms at his side, eyes shifting to take in the sea of faces spread out before him. He glances back towards the ramp, but a split second before he does, the other two spotlights cut out, and Grimm then drops down. And waits.
The spotlight shuts off, and the arena is left in total darkness for another split second, before four more spotlights return. This time, Stormm’s shadows have multiplied again, one on each side of the ring, surrounding Grimm, who doesn’t flinch, and appears unphased, despite what would end up being a terrible numbers game for him.
None of them move, and the four spotlights become total darkness again as the music cuts out. The pattern does no continue, and eight spotlights don’t return, but instead, just one more, shining on Grimm… and Stormm… in the middle of the ring.
Before Grimm can turn the full hundred and eighty degrees to face the other man in the ring, he gets his clock cleaned as the end of the wooden bat jams through the ginger beard and connects with Grimm’s jaw, and the spotlight goes out, and the house lights come back on. The only person in the ring is Grimm, laid out onto his side, holding the side of his face.
~~~~~~~
Phinehas turned.
~~~~~~~
Grimm slowly gets to his knees, and then he turns, dazed. Stormm goes for a title belt shot... but Grimm ducks under it. And he catches Stormm from behind before Stormm can turn and drops him with a sleeping neckbreaker.
An exhausted Grimm drops down for a cover.
The referee and the crowd: ONE...
TWO...
THRE - Kickout!
Grimm sits up with as much of a disturbed expression as we've ever seen on his face. He looks at the referee, his eyes questioning, and he stoically rolls to his feet, taking a glance back at Stormm. He knows it's now or never to close this match out. Grimm paces over to the ropes and he climbs up, going to the top rope and setting himself for a tornado DDT. Grimm catches Stormm by the head, but instead of dragging him down, he is turned onto Stormm's shoulders. Stormm is able to use his greater size and strength to lift Grimm back up, ith his left arm over the back of Grimm's head, and 's left arm over his left shoulder. Stormm then grabs Grimm's left leg, lifting it up close to Grimm's own torso, and then lifts Grimm up into the cradle suplex position. Stormm then jumps a little, twirls about two hundred and seventy degrees, and falls on his stomach while Grimm is forced to land on his neck, shoulders, and upper back. The crowd explodes in an awed, flabbergasted expulsion of air. Both Stormm and Grimm are laid out.
The crowd is heavily invested, some are cheering for Grimm, some, bafflingly, are cheering for Stormm. Neither man is able to move after the long, brutal war we've witnessed. It has taken its toll. Finally, at long last, Stormm starts to move. He meekly rolls onto his side and his fingertips stretch out. He places a weak arm over Grimm's chest.
The referee drops down for a cover.
The referee and the crowd: ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!
Ding Ding Ding
Sasha Greene: Here is your winner... and STILLLLL PURE CLASS WRESTLING NORTH AMERICAN CHAMPION... JUSTIN "STORMM" MICHAELS!!!
~~~~~~~
Phinehas’s eyes darted behind closed lids. Their veins a network of roiling blue fighting to control his REM sleep.
~~~~~~~
After Grimm's hand is raised, when he would normally have been handed the World title belt after any other match, the strap is nowhere to be seen, and the referee looks around for it as well. Not being one to wait, The Lord of Misrule climbs through the ropes, and steps out of the ring with the timekeepers area in his sights. Upon approach, and before he can take possession of the title, Stormm comes crashing in from behind the barricade, smashing Grimm in the face with the top prize in Pure Class Wrestling. After the grueling match, Grimm has nothing left in him after taking the full force of the title belt to the face. He takes the table and bell down with him as Stormm hoists the title over his head.
Gerard Angelo, who is still picking himself up after the loss, doesn't look pleased to see the Force of Nature's presence, who has laid the title belt across the unconscious champion's chest, and has already begun to make his way into the ring. The crowd is still on their feet after the Main Event, and have not calmed down at all.
…
Stormm exits the ring and reaches back behind the timekeeper's area, producing his signature wooden baseball bat to the cheers of the crowd. He uses it to poke at the fallen champion, who hasn't moved. The smile returns as he turns his attention back towards Gerard Angelo in the ring, and he points the bat towards him and looks out into the crowd, who applaud the possible carnage. As the Force of Nature slides back into the ring, Gerard rolls out, to get away from an even worse night, and Stormm, instead, climbs the nearest turnbuckle and raises his hand into the air.
The arena goes dark. Phone lights start appearing like bright stars in the night sky. The cheers are only bolstered by unified chants of Stormm's name. When the lights reappear, he is nowhere to be found. Grimm and Gerard are still where he laid them to rest...
~~~~~~~
Phinehas’s eyes popped open. Even here in the early morning light they shone as the buried blue ice erupting out of a glacial chasm. He lay there in the aftermath of a dream. Not a lucid dream, because were that the case those images would have played out much differently.
But he still had a chance to make that right.
Phinehas Dillinger – Grimm. The Hangtown Horror. The PCW World Champion. –lay there in his bed. He lay there in his home up All Souls Hollow, on the outskirts of Hangtown. Bedroom windows open, cross breeze rushing through, bringing with it the last gasps of a river valley summer and the thrumming roar of the cicadas. And on that morning, beneath the mugginess and the honeysuckle and the pears rotting on the branch, he smelled the change coming. The Withering, the leaf dust, the killing frost. Fall was on its way.
And with it, the harvest.
Phinehas lay there thinking of the dream, and how the paths of he and the Force of Nature had crissed and crossed over the years. And how, one way or another, whatever was to come, the event (because it would be an Event with a capital ‘E’) would put some kind of punctuation mark on the career of Justin Michaels, even if it was not his final match. The Hangtown Horror and the Force of Nature would make that night a wonder to behold.
He stretched his arms and legs as if drawn and quartered by a plow horse. Then swung his feet out from beneath the sheets onto the cool poplar wood of the floor.
Phinehas smacked his lips. His mouth tasted of sleep and stagnant air. He needed a drink of water.