Black Monday afternoon
Feb 1, 2016 13:35:30 GMT -5
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Cory Steel and Nathan Saniti like this
Post by Grimm on Feb 1, 2016 13:35:30 GMT -5
Justin is up to his feet and shoots a quick glance to the stage…Justin covers and looks back at the stage where Grimm and Showtime have taken a few steps closer and allows Kelli to shoot up a left shoulder after a one and a half count. Justin is slowly losing his concentration for this match, as he forgot to hook a leg. Justin pulls Dollface up to her feet and sends her backwards into the turnbuckles and comes in with an elbow to her jaw. Stormm sends her to the opposite side of the ring and runs in and nails her with a clothesline, which nearly decapitates her. Kelli slowly sinks down, as Stormm yells “WHAT!?” towards Grimm and Showtime…
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger stood before the oldest door in Hangtown. Its wood came from the forest primeval – the central woods of older standing. The people told stories about that forest, stories a bit far-fetched even for Hangtown. That was neither here nor there. It remained that he stood there, hand reaching for the latch, bandaged forearm weeping hatpin poison. He let the question linger – which Phinehas stood at this door? Phinehas Dillinger, brother to William and Ruth, beekeeper, mandolinist, bookstore owner? Or Grimm, the apparition rarely glimpsed, the Lord of Misrule, the Hangtown Horror?
Whomever, or whichever, pushed open the door did so and stepped inside. He stood there in the dark. He knew that another door stood to his left. This door led to a room that had always been empty, at least as long as Phinehas Dillinger had been aware of its existence. Empty, that is, save for the will o’ the wisps that flitted about on certain nights of the year. Solstices, equinoxes, feast days of this or that saint, and others which the lights held sacred.
Phinehas left the door alone and let the room remain empty. He pushed a button to his right and single bulb popped to life above him. The filament shown forth in a light insufficient to the cause and did nothing to drive away the cold that had been locked here for some time. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the shoddy light (Those eyes! Deeper than any icebound Arctic current! Colder than the oldest frost beneath the earth’s supreme glacier! Those eyes!) he took in the stairwell. It loomed as shabby as ever, with wooden slats exposed beneath cracked horsehair plaster. Water stains dried in patterns resembling runes spelling out curses and threats. A moldering old stairwell suggesting to those at its bottom to reconsider the climb. Phinehas breathed in the mustiness, the wet, and the lingering February air, and he accepted the narrowness of it all. He took the stairs one at a time, testing his weight with each step.
Upon reaching the landing at the top he paused at yet another door. The sealing wax around the frame was still intact but broke and dropped to the floor as Phinehas walked inside Bad Omens Booksellers.
The shop was not quite as chilly as the stairwell. (Heat rises, you know, and the windows allowed in the sunlight which the wooden floorboards were happy to absorb.) Phinehas made his rounds throughout the shelves, straightening tomes and running his fingers along the cracked spines displaying foul titles. He’d bring his fingers to his nose and smell the disintegrating paper, the failing binding glue. And as he always did, he checked the spot by habit. He stopped and crooked his head this time. Someone has returned the Book of the Black Hand to its regular spot. The scribes at the Black Chamber must have finished their work. Their reckonings of Grimm as World Champion, Billy’s abhorrent behavior, Michael’s presidential aspirations, Justin’s search for his truth – all of that, and more, and how it would all end. Phinehas’s hand twitched, but he would not so much as lick his finger and flip through a few scattered pages. It was not his place to know. Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~
He looks out to Grimm and Showtime and then grabs Dollface by her roots and lifts her up and turns her back to him and wraps his arm around her neck and dead lifts her up into the air and bring her crashing down to the mat with an inverted implant ddt…Justin is now up and is yelling “WHAT’S THE PROBLEM HERE?” Showtime is talking into Grimm’s ear, but there is no emotion coming off of the World Champion. Justin is on the middle rope yelling out words; Kelli is slowly moving to get up onto her feet. Justin is now in between the ropes looking for something, ANYTHING in the way of response from Showtime and Grimm. Showtime taps Grimm on the shoulder and Grimm finally breaks his contact of Stormm, whom has decided to walk up the aisle and talk to the two - Lane beginning the count!
~~~~~~~~~
Rumors and allegations were the fuel that made the professional wrestling world go ‘round, and my, hadn’t Grimm and Showtime given them something to talk about. Unfortunately the conjectures were all for naught. Despite how the evening may have appeared on camera, Phinehas and Michael had simply walked out to watch their teammate’s match and make sure no one interfered. Nothing but an innocent gesture of goodwill. You ever think of that? After all, Ms. Starr had any number of admirers that could have disrupted the match, N. Saniti and Alexa Black among them. It wasn’t Grimm or Showtime’s fault the two of them decided to walk out on what had been up ‘til then an entertaining match.
A sigh, and a frozen veil of breath spread out before him.
What reason did Justin Michaels have to be concerned about our presence? Did we miss something? Had Stormm given us reason to complicate things?
Hmph.
Phinehas scratched his chin through his beard, then ran his fingers through the hair turning an even more bloody shade of red beneath the filters of the setting sun. A man must have something to tug on when he was uncertain about a circumstance, if for no other reason than to make it look like he would not be swayed. Whatever the flawed reasoning swirling about, due to the events at Trauma 186 the upcoming match involving the three of them had certainly given the pundits something to gibber on about over the last several days.
Not only that, but a certain Non Compos Mentis would be acting as guest referee during the match. As far as Phinehas knew, Sean Rhodes didn’t have any issues with the three of them…at least no more than anyone else. The official shouldn’t be a problem as long as he didn’t try to make this evening about him. Although history did show he was not above forcing himself into the middle of things that didn’t concern him. Hobo Horde, anyone? There was always the possibility the North American title wasn’t enough for him anymore.
Then again, maybe Sean would turn a blind eye and just enjoy a front row seat to the sight of the three of them beating each other senseless. Because they would if you’d let them. And who wouldn’t want to watch three members of the Black Hand tear each other apart?
Phinehas moved to a window in the far wall. The sun was well along its descent, and these windows were warped, dripping panes of glass, but even still from this vantage point he could see the top of the Hanging Tree in the center of town. A large raven circled a bell tower and lit on the uppermost branch.
Phinehas knew all was vanity. All was meaningless. He also knew he must do justice to the title. And he must focus if he was to keep it at least as long as his brother. Or for perpetuity, perhaps? In order to do so, he must get his own house in order, and keep it in order. As much as the Black Hand relied on him, he wasn’t sure if serving as Custodian of the Book was good for his reign. He’d just as soon not be responsible for it, but he knew that was beyond the limits of his say-so. Were he to go as far as to touch a match to the Book and revel in its ashes, a slightly singed copy would be uncovered in the stacks of the Black Chamber. And he would find it in this very spot on the shelf the next day.
Keeper of the Book, his duties as The Stranger (even now)…Phinehas didn’t have to reiterate just how much more Grimm was than just bread and circus. He did not exist solely for lights and acclaim, or for validation from those hiding behind the gossamer strands of the interwebs.
~~~~~~~~~
Justin is yelling for the two to “get back over here”, as he watches them enter the backstage area. At this point, a thoroughly annoyed Kelli is now out in the aisle and stomping after Stormm!
~~~~~~~~~
Grimm was world champion, though. And he would defend that position whether the belt was on the line or not. Even if it meant administering unnecessarily savage beatings to fellow members of the Black Hand. It was a trite statement, one which even he had grown weary of hearing, but it still held true - if Grimm was willing to do the things he had done to his own brother, things everyone just recently witnessed no more than a few weeks ago, well, what would he do to Michael Wryght and Justin Michaels? Besides, over the years Grimm has done…things…to the both of them, so there would be no reason to pull any punches, as they say. Their current arrangement wouldn’t change anything. Grimm knew (or at least assumed) that his opponents realized this was just business, and out of all the members of PCW, these two understood the nature of business better than anyone.
Business? The weaknesses of mankind, its common misery, cruelty, mercilessness, contemptuousness, and malevolence were all my business.
At least…he hoped they grasped the severity of this. For a Grimm match was not a place for cowards or the unprepared.
The sun disappeared behind the western-most ridge. Darkness would soon be upon the face of the deep, and the lamplighters would follow in behind, scurrying hither and yon to touch their firebrands to the gas jets of the street lamps. Then the town would really come alive, and Phinehas decided he would join them. Perhaps a pint at The Owl & Eel and a tune or two would be in order.
Be that as it may, perhaps he would also use this evening as a way in which to toast his recent success. For as world champion, Grimm was now much in the way of the face of the federation. The standard bearer. And this in turn would provide the opportunity to remake the federation in his own image.
What was this image? Who was the Grimm behind the Harvest?
Some fancied Hangtown to be the twisted, misshapen incarnation of Phinehas himself. That, somehow, his dark wisdom and cruel strength had provided him the means by which to bring his homeland forth out of the swirling chaos of creation. Whether this theory was accepted or not, and whether his fellow PCW employees accepted him as world champion or not, Grimm would drag the lot of them spitting and cursing along in his wake.
Regardless of their opinions towards him, everyone sensed that this passing of the title heralded something more than just a simple transition. What would be Sadistic’s place in all this now? It was anyone’s guess. One thing underlying it all, however, was, the status of the Black Hand notwithstanding…
Did you ever stop to consider that, all this time, maybe it was Billy keeping me in check?
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger stood before the oldest door in Hangtown. Its wood came from the forest primeval – the central woods of older standing. The people told stories about that forest, stories a bit far-fetched even for Hangtown. That was neither here nor there. It remained that he stood there, hand reaching for the latch, bandaged forearm weeping hatpin poison. He let the question linger – which Phinehas stood at this door? Phinehas Dillinger, brother to William and Ruth, beekeeper, mandolinist, bookstore owner? Or Grimm, the apparition rarely glimpsed, the Lord of Misrule, the Hangtown Horror?
Whomever, or whichever, pushed open the door did so and stepped inside. He stood there in the dark. He knew that another door stood to his left. This door led to a room that had always been empty, at least as long as Phinehas Dillinger had been aware of its existence. Empty, that is, save for the will o’ the wisps that flitted about on certain nights of the year. Solstices, equinoxes, feast days of this or that saint, and others which the lights held sacred.
Phinehas left the door alone and let the room remain empty. He pushed a button to his right and single bulb popped to life above him. The filament shown forth in a light insufficient to the cause and did nothing to drive away the cold that had been locked here for some time. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the shoddy light (Those eyes! Deeper than any icebound Arctic current! Colder than the oldest frost beneath the earth’s supreme glacier! Those eyes!) he took in the stairwell. It loomed as shabby as ever, with wooden slats exposed beneath cracked horsehair plaster. Water stains dried in patterns resembling runes spelling out curses and threats. A moldering old stairwell suggesting to those at its bottom to reconsider the climb. Phinehas breathed in the mustiness, the wet, and the lingering February air, and he accepted the narrowness of it all. He took the stairs one at a time, testing his weight with each step.
Upon reaching the landing at the top he paused at yet another door. The sealing wax around the frame was still intact but broke and dropped to the floor as Phinehas walked inside Bad Omens Booksellers.
The shop was not quite as chilly as the stairwell. (Heat rises, you know, and the windows allowed in the sunlight which the wooden floorboards were happy to absorb.) Phinehas made his rounds throughout the shelves, straightening tomes and running his fingers along the cracked spines displaying foul titles. He’d bring his fingers to his nose and smell the disintegrating paper, the failing binding glue. And as he always did, he checked the spot by habit. He stopped and crooked his head this time. Someone has returned the Book of the Black Hand to its regular spot. The scribes at the Black Chamber must have finished their work. Their reckonings of Grimm as World Champion, Billy’s abhorrent behavior, Michael’s presidential aspirations, Justin’s search for his truth – all of that, and more, and how it would all end. Phinehas’s hand twitched, but he would not so much as lick his finger and flip through a few scattered pages. It was not his place to know. Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~
He looks out to Grimm and Showtime and then grabs Dollface by her roots and lifts her up and turns her back to him and wraps his arm around her neck and dead lifts her up into the air and bring her crashing down to the mat with an inverted implant ddt…Justin is now up and is yelling “WHAT’S THE PROBLEM HERE?” Showtime is talking into Grimm’s ear, but there is no emotion coming off of the World Champion. Justin is on the middle rope yelling out words; Kelli is slowly moving to get up onto her feet. Justin is now in between the ropes looking for something, ANYTHING in the way of response from Showtime and Grimm. Showtime taps Grimm on the shoulder and Grimm finally breaks his contact of Stormm, whom has decided to walk up the aisle and talk to the two - Lane beginning the count!
~~~~~~~~~
Rumors and allegations were the fuel that made the professional wrestling world go ‘round, and my, hadn’t Grimm and Showtime given them something to talk about. Unfortunately the conjectures were all for naught. Despite how the evening may have appeared on camera, Phinehas and Michael had simply walked out to watch their teammate’s match and make sure no one interfered. Nothing but an innocent gesture of goodwill. You ever think of that? After all, Ms. Starr had any number of admirers that could have disrupted the match, N. Saniti and Alexa Black among them. It wasn’t Grimm or Showtime’s fault the two of them decided to walk out on what had been up ‘til then an entertaining match.
A sigh, and a frozen veil of breath spread out before him.
What reason did Justin Michaels have to be concerned about our presence? Did we miss something? Had Stormm given us reason to complicate things?
Hmph.
Phinehas scratched his chin through his beard, then ran his fingers through the hair turning an even more bloody shade of red beneath the filters of the setting sun. A man must have something to tug on when he was uncertain about a circumstance, if for no other reason than to make it look like he would not be swayed. Whatever the flawed reasoning swirling about, due to the events at Trauma 186 the upcoming match involving the three of them had certainly given the pundits something to gibber on about over the last several days.
Not only that, but a certain Non Compos Mentis would be acting as guest referee during the match. As far as Phinehas knew, Sean Rhodes didn’t have any issues with the three of them…at least no more than anyone else. The official shouldn’t be a problem as long as he didn’t try to make this evening about him. Although history did show he was not above forcing himself into the middle of things that didn’t concern him. Hobo Horde, anyone? There was always the possibility the North American title wasn’t enough for him anymore.
Then again, maybe Sean would turn a blind eye and just enjoy a front row seat to the sight of the three of them beating each other senseless. Because they would if you’d let them. And who wouldn’t want to watch three members of the Black Hand tear each other apart?
Phinehas moved to a window in the far wall. The sun was well along its descent, and these windows were warped, dripping panes of glass, but even still from this vantage point he could see the top of the Hanging Tree in the center of town. A large raven circled a bell tower and lit on the uppermost branch.
Phinehas knew all was vanity. All was meaningless. He also knew he must do justice to the title. And he must focus if he was to keep it at least as long as his brother. Or for perpetuity, perhaps? In order to do so, he must get his own house in order, and keep it in order. As much as the Black Hand relied on him, he wasn’t sure if serving as Custodian of the Book was good for his reign. He’d just as soon not be responsible for it, but he knew that was beyond the limits of his say-so. Were he to go as far as to touch a match to the Book and revel in its ashes, a slightly singed copy would be uncovered in the stacks of the Black Chamber. And he would find it in this very spot on the shelf the next day.
Keeper of the Book, his duties as The Stranger (even now)…Phinehas didn’t have to reiterate just how much more Grimm was than just bread and circus. He did not exist solely for lights and acclaim, or for validation from those hiding behind the gossamer strands of the interwebs.
~~~~~~~~~
Justin is yelling for the two to “get back over here”, as he watches them enter the backstage area. At this point, a thoroughly annoyed Kelli is now out in the aisle and stomping after Stormm!
~~~~~~~~~
Grimm was world champion, though. And he would defend that position whether the belt was on the line or not. Even if it meant administering unnecessarily savage beatings to fellow members of the Black Hand. It was a trite statement, one which even he had grown weary of hearing, but it still held true - if Grimm was willing to do the things he had done to his own brother, things everyone just recently witnessed no more than a few weeks ago, well, what would he do to Michael Wryght and Justin Michaels? Besides, over the years Grimm has done…things…to the both of them, so there would be no reason to pull any punches, as they say. Their current arrangement wouldn’t change anything. Grimm knew (or at least assumed) that his opponents realized this was just business, and out of all the members of PCW, these two understood the nature of business better than anyone.
Business? The weaknesses of mankind, its common misery, cruelty, mercilessness, contemptuousness, and malevolence were all my business.
At least…he hoped they grasped the severity of this. For a Grimm match was not a place for cowards or the unprepared.
The sun disappeared behind the western-most ridge. Darkness would soon be upon the face of the deep, and the lamplighters would follow in behind, scurrying hither and yon to touch their firebrands to the gas jets of the street lamps. Then the town would really come alive, and Phinehas decided he would join them. Perhaps a pint at The Owl & Eel and a tune or two would be in order.
Be that as it may, perhaps he would also use this evening as a way in which to toast his recent success. For as world champion, Grimm was now much in the way of the face of the federation. The standard bearer. And this in turn would provide the opportunity to remake the federation in his own image.
What was this image? Who was the Grimm behind the Harvest?
Some fancied Hangtown to be the twisted, misshapen incarnation of Phinehas himself. That, somehow, his dark wisdom and cruel strength had provided him the means by which to bring his homeland forth out of the swirling chaos of creation. Whether this theory was accepted or not, and whether his fellow PCW employees accepted him as world champion or not, Grimm would drag the lot of them spitting and cursing along in his wake.
Regardless of their opinions towards him, everyone sensed that this passing of the title heralded something more than just a simple transition. What would be Sadistic’s place in all this now? It was anyone’s guess. One thing underlying it all, however, was, the status of the Black Hand notwithstanding…
Did you ever stop to consider that, all this time, maybe it was Billy keeping me in check?
