Post by Grimm on May 8, 2007 15:55:42 GMT -5
A wisp of fog. The creak of the pier, a splash against the hull of a boat, a whiff of brine and seaweed. The boards were wet and slick beneath his feet. He nearly slipped once but managed to reach the edge without embarrassing himself in front of the crabs and barnacles. He would have never heard the end of it. Cursing himself every time a gull laughed, for it would be a chuckle at his expense. Thankfully, he had been spared. For now.
He undid the knot in the rope and tossed it into the bow of the Kingdom Come, before stepping off the pier onto the boat. He got behind the wheel but let the boat drift out for a bit before turning the ignition. It stuttered but eventually came to life, churning water with a puff of exhaust. He took it even further out before pushing the throttle up beyond idling speed. A brief roar, and Phinehas Grimm cut through Oregon Inlet haze, held his breath as he weaved around shoals and sandbars before coming to rest in the Atlantic Ocean at three in the morning. He floated above the abyss, watched thunderheads pass in front of the moon and saw colors blinking on huge tankers creeping along on the open water. The slap of a fin made him jump. There was little wind to speak of but the Kingdom Come rolled in the tide none the less. The squall must be wreaking its havoc far out to sea, by now.
Grimm made his way out here when he had trouble sleeping, regardless of the hour, or when he needed to clear his head. Sometimes both. He had been out here quite a bit lately, especially since the recent unexpected turn of events in PCW. Although Lantlas and Grimm may be nothing more than acquaintances nodding in the hallway, they had come to an understanding. They may face each other again in the ring one day, but their never-ending feud had found closure. And they had one man to thank for that. Bringing two of the federation’s most lethal competitors together, when before they were constantly at each other’s throats, was not one of Skylar Marshall’s more brilliant business decisions, particularly with the consideration that they have aligned against the very man striving to ruin their careers. That had to be quite the unforeseen side effect.
And that was just the half of it. Phinehas wasn’t sure if he could ever bring himself to verbalize it, but Lantlas’s selfless act of forfeiting the PCW title because of his recently acquired duties raised Grimm’s opinion of him yet again. That championship is the sole reason many enter the realm of pro wrestling in the first place, whether they admit it or not. The bragging rights alone are difficult to ignore. That belt serves as the affirmation of their life’s work. For some miserable misguided few, it is the basis for their very existence. Very few would have stepped away like Lantlas Anduril. Would Grimm? Will Grimm, if it ever came to that? He knew he would never be able to rise to the occasion and bear the burden of keeping an entire federation afloat, but there could be circumstances in the future that required him to reevaluate his position in the company. What if that came to pass while he was champion once again? Would he struggle with the decision, or would he simply drop the belt in the middle of the ring and go about his life? He knew what he hoped would happen. Leave it all behind, sail off to every compass point, travel to places he’d only read about. Follow in the steps of Papa Hemingway and the rest. Sit outside a café nestled in the backwoods of Europe and just…be[/b]. Grimm wanted to say that he would be able to finally see beyond the limits of his horizon and the walls of the PCW arena. But could he?
Phinehas walked to the bow of the Kingdom Come and took a deep breath, inhaled salt air and sea spray. He could feel the currents colliding underneath him. The Kraken stirred. Tentacles unraveling, reaching up for him, pulling him down to be crushed by the deep. The waves would serve as his requiem and no one would know to mourn him. Maybe that would be his fate, as opposed to the thrill of justifying his place among the ranks of PCW. Or maybe his final breath would be postponed and he would indeed reclaim the ultimate declaration of his prowess. If that was to be the case, he would first have to defeat one of the few remaining blemishes on his Pure Class Wrestling career.
Ace Anderson. Beyond Greatness, supposedly. Abandoned by family, Michael Reaper, Finnegan Burke…and by Skylar Marshall too, perhaps? Did it matter anymore? At one time Ace had free reign to turn the entire federation into his playground, but after last week it looked like those days were over. He’d earned himself far more enemies than friends or even associates. While he was once the resident tormenter, “Beyond Greatness” was now the one looking over his shoulder. At Trauma, when he stared across the ring into the ice-blue eyes of the Abomination of Desolation, he would be completely, utterly, alone. And against a man who not only had a bone to pick, but was known to pick those bones until they were nothing more than dust. He tore ligaments, shredded tendons, rendered marrow into paste. Grimm was not out to show he belonged at the top of the funeral pyre, as much as he intended on tossing Ace Anderson back down into the pits where he belonged. It would seem that Skylar Marshall wasn’t the only one making poor choices in recent days.
Grimm watched St. Elmo’s fires leap from antenna to navigation light and back again. If only he could harness those flames…he would burn the federation to cinders. That would certainly end the constant bickering, the power struggles, the unending posturing, the empty threats of violence…things would be much simpler. Alas, that was not realistic. As such, he understood that he had given himself an ultimatum. He spoke it aloud to himself, to hear how it sounded. It existed but briefly before being swallowed by the waves.
“This could be your time to grab hold and never let go, Phinehas. It’s now…or never.”
He undid the knot in the rope and tossed it into the bow of the Kingdom Come, before stepping off the pier onto the boat. He got behind the wheel but let the boat drift out for a bit before turning the ignition. It stuttered but eventually came to life, churning water with a puff of exhaust. He took it even further out before pushing the throttle up beyond idling speed. A brief roar, and Phinehas Grimm cut through Oregon Inlet haze, held his breath as he weaved around shoals and sandbars before coming to rest in the Atlantic Ocean at three in the morning. He floated above the abyss, watched thunderheads pass in front of the moon and saw colors blinking on huge tankers creeping along on the open water. The slap of a fin made him jump. There was little wind to speak of but the Kingdom Come rolled in the tide none the less. The squall must be wreaking its havoc far out to sea, by now.
Grimm made his way out here when he had trouble sleeping, regardless of the hour, or when he needed to clear his head. Sometimes both. He had been out here quite a bit lately, especially since the recent unexpected turn of events in PCW. Although Lantlas and Grimm may be nothing more than acquaintances nodding in the hallway, they had come to an understanding. They may face each other again in the ring one day, but their never-ending feud had found closure. And they had one man to thank for that. Bringing two of the federation’s most lethal competitors together, when before they were constantly at each other’s throats, was not one of Skylar Marshall’s more brilliant business decisions, particularly with the consideration that they have aligned against the very man striving to ruin their careers. That had to be quite the unforeseen side effect.
And that was just the half of it. Phinehas wasn’t sure if he could ever bring himself to verbalize it, but Lantlas’s selfless act of forfeiting the PCW title because of his recently acquired duties raised Grimm’s opinion of him yet again. That championship is the sole reason many enter the realm of pro wrestling in the first place, whether they admit it or not. The bragging rights alone are difficult to ignore. That belt serves as the affirmation of their life’s work. For some miserable misguided few, it is the basis for their very existence. Very few would have stepped away like Lantlas Anduril. Would Grimm? Will Grimm, if it ever came to that? He knew he would never be able to rise to the occasion and bear the burden of keeping an entire federation afloat, but there could be circumstances in the future that required him to reevaluate his position in the company. What if that came to pass while he was champion once again? Would he struggle with the decision, or would he simply drop the belt in the middle of the ring and go about his life? He knew what he hoped would happen. Leave it all behind, sail off to every compass point, travel to places he’d only read about. Follow in the steps of Papa Hemingway and the rest. Sit outside a café nestled in the backwoods of Europe and just…be[/b]. Grimm wanted to say that he would be able to finally see beyond the limits of his horizon and the walls of the PCW arena. But could he?
Phinehas walked to the bow of the Kingdom Come and took a deep breath, inhaled salt air and sea spray. He could feel the currents colliding underneath him. The Kraken stirred. Tentacles unraveling, reaching up for him, pulling him down to be crushed by the deep. The waves would serve as his requiem and no one would know to mourn him. Maybe that would be his fate, as opposed to the thrill of justifying his place among the ranks of PCW. Or maybe his final breath would be postponed and he would indeed reclaim the ultimate declaration of his prowess. If that was to be the case, he would first have to defeat one of the few remaining blemishes on his Pure Class Wrestling career.
Ace Anderson. Beyond Greatness, supposedly. Abandoned by family, Michael Reaper, Finnegan Burke…and by Skylar Marshall too, perhaps? Did it matter anymore? At one time Ace had free reign to turn the entire federation into his playground, but after last week it looked like those days were over. He’d earned himself far more enemies than friends or even associates. While he was once the resident tormenter, “Beyond Greatness” was now the one looking over his shoulder. At Trauma, when he stared across the ring into the ice-blue eyes of the Abomination of Desolation, he would be completely, utterly, alone. And against a man who not only had a bone to pick, but was known to pick those bones until they were nothing more than dust. He tore ligaments, shredded tendons, rendered marrow into paste. Grimm was not out to show he belonged at the top of the funeral pyre, as much as he intended on tossing Ace Anderson back down into the pits where he belonged. It would seem that Skylar Marshall wasn’t the only one making poor choices in recent days.
Grimm watched St. Elmo’s fires leap from antenna to navigation light and back again. If only he could harness those flames…he would burn the federation to cinders. That would certainly end the constant bickering, the power struggles, the unending posturing, the empty threats of violence…things would be much simpler. Alas, that was not realistic. As such, he understood that he had given himself an ultimatum. He spoke it aloud to himself, to hear how it sounded. It existed but briefly before being swallowed by the waves.
“This could be your time to grab hold and never let go, Phinehas. It’s now…or never.”