Post by Grimm on Sept 9, 2019 9:06:43 GMT -5
The tobacco had been harvested and hung to cure in barns elsewhere, but here in the midst of a great wide field…
…here, where the horizon stretched in all directions, broken up only by the dark shape of hills out there on the rim of the world…
…here spread a plot of corn, cut into a maze by unseen hands. The passages of the maze twitched with false signals, like the empty spaces filled by phantom limbs. Like something of a labyrinth – and who was this Minotaur lurking within, waiting to tear you asunder? Why, it was none other than the Fiend in the Furrows. The bearded horror who walked among the rows.
Phinehas Dillinger squinted in a haze of late summer. He breathed plowed dirt and freshly mown hay. Old leather boots worn the patina of copper stepped through the scattered fodder. Shocks drying in the low sun.
In his left hand, a utility knife blade scraped in and out of its housing with a rasping snicker-snack. His right hand flipped and caught a crooked sixpence over and again. The frantic din of birds and bees hung muffled by the corn, but it was there, marking the days, underscored by the whistling. A low, discordant drone of his own composition. Phinehas fancied it ‘The Lament of Ronnie Frown.’ It did not pierce so much as it rumbled.
But there among the stalks, a phantasmagoria of wanderers, caught as images in silver and salt. Daguerreotypes of neglected children, the broken, the prideful, those harboring deep fears and secret shames. Even former champions struggling to piece together an existence outside of the ring. Stumbling along in a frozen loop of failure with all the rest.
And there alongside those lost souls were those wandering now, unclear of the day or hour. Justin Michaels, who had somehow wormed his way into not only these windings of the highways and the hedges, but also…actually, let’s save that for another time. One Dominic James Atkinson, who, Aurelian blood or not, was not that much closer to knowing the true path than when he’d begun his sojourn through Hangtown -- IIT victory, Black Hand invitation, or not. These two would have their turn. But first, there would be Rick Majors.
Phinehas watched a camera obscura image of Majors. The Impact, reduced to a crooked optic seeking his way out. Phinehas, whether as the Dillinger or the Grimm, had never held any particular ill-will toward him, believe it or not. Sure, that stint as Gabriel had been as poor a decision as anyone had made in recent memory, but it was understandable given his circumstances, his…delicate sensibilities, let’s call them. Jason Willard-or-Seromine-or-whomever-at-this-point saw that and took advantage. Now, we as the entertainment may not be quick to forget the less savory aspects of our performances, but those in the arena and watching at home sure tended to be. No matter what had happened before, those people only remembered the here and now. Every event was an opportunity to rewrite one’s past.
But what a past it had been.
The beginning of the end…even as it had just begun almost seven years ago during the Deadly Rumble at Deadly Intentions III. The new guy had the Lord of Misrule dead to rights. And as he tossed said veteran (even then) over the ropes, said veteran thought, “Really? This new guy? How embarrassing.” But, no, that was not to be the case. One foot on the floor, a premature celebration, and, well, as Mark Long announced at the time, “Rick Majors has been eliminated. The winner of this match, and new number-one contender to the World Championship…GRIMM!”
Who knows where Rick Majors’ career would have gone had that night unfurled just a little bit different. But it didn’t. And Majors had agonized through a tough row to hoe ever since. It had been a sad state of affairs. And it got worse.
The attempts at suicide-by-Grimm were well documented. That first merciless beating. The pleading for him to Finish It. The multiple textbook Harvests on a body that put up no fight. That had given up. And Grimm had hoped to be able to leave well enough alone. But, no. It was not over. Not yet.
At yet another Trauma, on a night just like this one was shaping up to be, Rick Majors returned for another round. Grimm did what Grimm did best. He put on a clinic on brutality. And he felt no remorse, just as he never had, before or since. Majors had asked for it, and by God, he got it. But even then, once all was said and done, Majors cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Wait, that wasn’t right.
He had cried out, “Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!”
No. No it was not.
Those incidents, from years ago, were on Majors’ crumpled shoulders. Phinehas had just been performing the Grimm task set before him. He would make no apologies even now, six years later. Even here among the corn. Brushing alongside a scarecrow twisting on a stick in the breeze. Looking into empty dead candle eyes. Flashing teeth at a grin made of stitch. Watching for those black feathered interlopers. Taking a breath, and smiling at the scent of autumn edging closer.
“Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!”
The facts were these: At 6’1”, 227 pounds, Rick Majors was roughly the same size as Phinehas Dillinger. But beyond that, The Impact was 48 years old. He’d suffered serious neck injuries. Undergone surgeries on his spine, his knees, his shoulders. And despite these ailments, regardless of the accolades – the multiple Icey awards, the North American championships, the reign as Underground King – Rick Majors was still trying to figure out who he was both within Pure Class Wrestling and out in the world at large. Phinehas Dillinger could not help him with that. All he knew was that this was what had happened. These were the things Grimm had done. And it was up to Rick Majors, and God, and everyone to consider those events, and extrapolate them towards what could very well happen at Trauma 258. No doubt Majors would put up more of a fight this time. He’d since been through additional trials and tribulations and come out the other side with a new lease on life, as they say.
He’d emerged a different man, only to find himself back in the ring opposite the Hangtown Horror.
Que sera sera.
Phinehas flicked the knife blade. Snicker-snack. He flipped the coin. He walked the crooked ways. And he was curious as to which of these images would linger for him to find next time.
Which Rick Majors wandered through the corn.
Which Rick Majors would step into the ring.
…here, where the horizon stretched in all directions, broken up only by the dark shape of hills out there on the rim of the world…
…here spread a plot of corn, cut into a maze by unseen hands. The passages of the maze twitched with false signals, like the empty spaces filled by phantom limbs. Like something of a labyrinth – and who was this Minotaur lurking within, waiting to tear you asunder? Why, it was none other than the Fiend in the Furrows. The bearded horror who walked among the rows.
Phinehas Dillinger squinted in a haze of late summer. He breathed plowed dirt and freshly mown hay. Old leather boots worn the patina of copper stepped through the scattered fodder. Shocks drying in the low sun.
In his left hand, a utility knife blade scraped in and out of its housing with a rasping snicker-snack. His right hand flipped and caught a crooked sixpence over and again. The frantic din of birds and bees hung muffled by the corn, but it was there, marking the days, underscored by the whistling. A low, discordant drone of his own composition. Phinehas fancied it ‘The Lament of Ronnie Frown.’ It did not pierce so much as it rumbled.
But there among the stalks, a phantasmagoria of wanderers, caught as images in silver and salt. Daguerreotypes of neglected children, the broken, the prideful, those harboring deep fears and secret shames. Even former champions struggling to piece together an existence outside of the ring. Stumbling along in a frozen loop of failure with all the rest.
And there alongside those lost souls were those wandering now, unclear of the day or hour. Justin Michaels, who had somehow wormed his way into not only these windings of the highways and the hedges, but also…actually, let’s save that for another time. One Dominic James Atkinson, who, Aurelian blood or not, was not that much closer to knowing the true path than when he’d begun his sojourn through Hangtown -- IIT victory, Black Hand invitation, or not. These two would have their turn. But first, there would be Rick Majors.
Phinehas watched a camera obscura image of Majors. The Impact, reduced to a crooked optic seeking his way out. Phinehas, whether as the Dillinger or the Grimm, had never held any particular ill-will toward him, believe it or not. Sure, that stint as Gabriel had been as poor a decision as anyone had made in recent memory, but it was understandable given his circumstances, his…delicate sensibilities, let’s call them. Jason Willard-or-Seromine-or-whomever-at-this-point saw that and took advantage. Now, we as the entertainment may not be quick to forget the less savory aspects of our performances, but those in the arena and watching at home sure tended to be. No matter what had happened before, those people only remembered the here and now. Every event was an opportunity to rewrite one’s past.
But what a past it had been.
The beginning of the end…even as it had just begun almost seven years ago during the Deadly Rumble at Deadly Intentions III. The new guy had the Lord of Misrule dead to rights. And as he tossed said veteran (even then) over the ropes, said veteran thought, “Really? This new guy? How embarrassing.” But, no, that was not to be the case. One foot on the floor, a premature celebration, and, well, as Mark Long announced at the time, “Rick Majors has been eliminated. The winner of this match, and new number-one contender to the World Championship…GRIMM!”
Who knows where Rick Majors’ career would have gone had that night unfurled just a little bit different. But it didn’t. And Majors had agonized through a tough row to hoe ever since. It had been a sad state of affairs. And it got worse.
The attempts at suicide-by-Grimm were well documented. That first merciless beating. The pleading for him to Finish It. The multiple textbook Harvests on a body that put up no fight. That had given up. And Grimm had hoped to be able to leave well enough alone. But, no. It was not over. Not yet.
At yet another Trauma, on a night just like this one was shaping up to be, Rick Majors returned for another round. Grimm did what Grimm did best. He put on a clinic on brutality. And he felt no remorse, just as he never had, before or since. Majors had asked for it, and by God, he got it. But even then, once all was said and done, Majors cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Wait, that wasn’t right.
He had cried out, “Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!”
No. No it was not.
Those incidents, from years ago, were on Majors’ crumpled shoulders. Phinehas had just been performing the Grimm task set before him. He would make no apologies even now, six years later. Even here among the corn. Brushing alongside a scarecrow twisting on a stick in the breeze. Looking into empty dead candle eyes. Flashing teeth at a grin made of stitch. Watching for those black feathered interlopers. Taking a breath, and smiling at the scent of autumn edging closer.
“Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!”
The facts were these: At 6’1”, 227 pounds, Rick Majors was roughly the same size as Phinehas Dillinger. But beyond that, The Impact was 48 years old. He’d suffered serious neck injuries. Undergone surgeries on his spine, his knees, his shoulders. And despite these ailments, regardless of the accolades – the multiple Icey awards, the North American championships, the reign as Underground King – Rick Majors was still trying to figure out who he was both within Pure Class Wrestling and out in the world at large. Phinehas Dillinger could not help him with that. All he knew was that this was what had happened. These were the things Grimm had done. And it was up to Rick Majors, and God, and everyone to consider those events, and extrapolate them towards what could very well happen at Trauma 258. No doubt Majors would put up more of a fight this time. He’d since been through additional trials and tribulations and come out the other side with a new lease on life, as they say.
He’d emerged a different man, only to find himself back in the ring opposite the Hangtown Horror.
Que sera sera.
Phinehas flicked the knife blade. Snicker-snack. He flipped the coin. He walked the crooked ways. And he was curious as to which of these images would linger for him to find next time.
Which Rick Majors wandered through the corn.
Which Rick Majors would step into the ring.
