Licking honey off a thorn
Mar 23, 2016 11:41:53 GMT -5
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Post by Grimm on Mar 23, 2016 11:41:53 GMT -5
Like all phenomena, Grimm’s career had its peaks and valleys. It shrieked at the crescendo, and dipped to low frequency rumbles. Even at its lowest, vibrations passed through the abyss in all directions and could be detected by those who may not even recognize why they suddenly felt ill. The old man puking in the garbage can in the alley was not drunk. He had just stumbled across the residual tremors remaining after an unforeseen three-count.
The sustained growl vocalizing Grimm’s career over the ages dissipated across a wasteland. A wide plain scarred by crumbling walls and steep stairs winding to a void. Dry stone fences lined the path leading off to the horizon where mountains rose jagged, capped in snow and fog. The fences followed ditches filled with iron-stained water. And dotting this wilderness were monuments to Grimm’s passage. Cairns not of stone, but of tongues, fingertips, and teeth. A series of disappointments and jubilations pockmarked the land.
Would-a, could-a, should-a. It was a tale as old as time, cruel and arcane, and yet Grimm stood resolute in his intention to make a worse situation out of the worst situations. Upsets meant nothing when they led to nothing. Opponents came in an unceasing wave, and two of his most recent failures would be cresting over him in a matter of days. Yet his own fury would rain down. Grimm wasn’t finished. A taking away concentrated what was left - the distillate of Grimm, his very essence. As a result, this match had become an agonizing task. The Lord of Misrule had just lost the Title of All Titles in the main event of a Pay Per View. This was a non-title matchup with no conceivable reason to concern oneself with the rulebook. Win. Lose. Double countout. Disqualification.
So what.
A man wrapped in shadows held his hand over a candle. He lowered it as he read aloud.
”Phinehas.”
Grimm was uncomfortable with how he had conducted himself at the end of Mass Destruction. The shock of such uncharacteristic behavior was not lost on him. He’d made comments over the years regarding his beliefs on match outcomes and awards. How acclimations were nothing but chaff left behind on the threshing room floor.
Hmm. Maybe victories and titles meant more than he cared to admit.
Or maybe it was merely the principle of the thing, for Grimm was nothing if not a man of principles. The idea that, of all people, Justin Kaard was now World Champion. A man who had at one point simply been handed one-half of the tag team titles in order to keep the champions limping along. Who had won the World Title at another time in his career and dropped it after one of the more ferocious beatings ever dished out to a champion of any kind. Now that he had claimed it again, Kaard could say whatever he wanted. Promises and guarantees aside, he had proven his true nature time and again, and you cannot change a person’s nature. Unless Kaard managed to go down as one of the great PCW champions. Which, no, he would not. He had one last chance to redeem the Adrenaline King’s “legacy”, for what it’s worth, and, with Grimm’s help, he would spoil it.
Non Compos Mentis had defeated Grimm not three events ago. And he had retained his precious North American title at Mass Destruction by defeating a syphilitic imbecile. Well done. How he had managed to stay focused on his own match while all the while running down to help all those who found themselves in distress during the course of the evening was an accomplishment in itself. And I’m sure we’re all very impressed.
Muttered prayers while running his finger across passages well marked and thoroughly annotated. Sinners in the hands of an angry God. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…an abomination before the Lord…drive them out from before thee.
…a witch…
”Phinehas.”
Defiled and ashamed, Grimm would enter the ring admitting he did not know his opponents’ respective mindsets. They both held fresh victories over him, after all. But he did know that the results of their last meetings were unacceptable. Kickouts at the last seconds. Another title come and gone. Grimm had not lived up to expectations, or his own assumptions. And you know what happens when you assume.
Sometimes you’re wrong.
And thus they had forced his Hand.
The two of them could discuss the finer points of monsters and eldritch fogs. They could trade quips and snickers and scoffing. Grimm would be the red-headed guy with the beard, standing in the corner, waiting to fight.
”PHINEHAS!”
He hoped that was a daddy-long-legs scurrying across his arm. Phinehas Dillinger’s eyes focused, pinpricks of glacial ice settling upon his hard cold knuckles wringing the steering wheel. He sat in his idle vehicle, still in its space in the arena’s parking garage. He immediately felt not one, but two presences in the seat behind him.
“Ruth’s going to need you. Go home.”
The antifreeze green eyes of his brother William flashed in the dark, but they were just reflections of the lights atop the hospital across the way. The Man in Black’s teeth glinted beside him. He was not smiling.
The presences departed, leaving Phinehas with a moment of clarity. Going up against two foes, let alone these two, would not end in success were he to utilize a conventional approach. One must adapt unconventional tactics if one was to make them panic. Knock them out of their tempo, away from their game plan. Only a relentless effort could make them question their decisions. Their plan. Their abilities. Themselves.
A growl rumbled in Grimm’s chest and worked its way up his throat. He turned the key in the ignition.
“Go home.”
“Now."
The sustained growl vocalizing Grimm’s career over the ages dissipated across a wasteland. A wide plain scarred by crumbling walls and steep stairs winding to a void. Dry stone fences lined the path leading off to the horizon where mountains rose jagged, capped in snow and fog. The fences followed ditches filled with iron-stained water. And dotting this wilderness were monuments to Grimm’s passage. Cairns not of stone, but of tongues, fingertips, and teeth. A series of disappointments and jubilations pockmarked the land.
Would-a, could-a, should-a. It was a tale as old as time, cruel and arcane, and yet Grimm stood resolute in his intention to make a worse situation out of the worst situations. Upsets meant nothing when they led to nothing. Opponents came in an unceasing wave, and two of his most recent failures would be cresting over him in a matter of days. Yet his own fury would rain down. Grimm wasn’t finished. A taking away concentrated what was left - the distillate of Grimm, his very essence. As a result, this match had become an agonizing task. The Lord of Misrule had just lost the Title of All Titles in the main event of a Pay Per View. This was a non-title matchup with no conceivable reason to concern oneself with the rulebook. Win. Lose. Double countout. Disqualification.
So what.
A man wrapped in shadows held his hand over a candle. He lowered it as he read aloud.
”Phinehas.”
Grimm was uncomfortable with how he had conducted himself at the end of Mass Destruction. The shock of such uncharacteristic behavior was not lost on him. He’d made comments over the years regarding his beliefs on match outcomes and awards. How acclimations were nothing but chaff left behind on the threshing room floor.
Hmm. Maybe victories and titles meant more than he cared to admit.
Or maybe it was merely the principle of the thing, for Grimm was nothing if not a man of principles. The idea that, of all people, Justin Kaard was now World Champion. A man who had at one point simply been handed one-half of the tag team titles in order to keep the champions limping along. Who had won the World Title at another time in his career and dropped it after one of the more ferocious beatings ever dished out to a champion of any kind. Now that he had claimed it again, Kaard could say whatever he wanted. Promises and guarantees aside, he had proven his true nature time and again, and you cannot change a person’s nature. Unless Kaard managed to go down as one of the great PCW champions. Which, no, he would not. He had one last chance to redeem the Adrenaline King’s “legacy”, for what it’s worth, and, with Grimm’s help, he would spoil it.
Non Compos Mentis had defeated Grimm not three events ago. And he had retained his precious North American title at Mass Destruction by defeating a syphilitic imbecile. Well done. How he had managed to stay focused on his own match while all the while running down to help all those who found themselves in distress during the course of the evening was an accomplishment in itself. And I’m sure we’re all very impressed.
Muttered prayers while running his finger across passages well marked and thoroughly annotated. Sinners in the hands of an angry God. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…an abomination before the Lord…drive them out from before thee.
…a witch…
”Phinehas.”
Defiled and ashamed, Grimm would enter the ring admitting he did not know his opponents’ respective mindsets. They both held fresh victories over him, after all. But he did know that the results of their last meetings were unacceptable. Kickouts at the last seconds. Another title come and gone. Grimm had not lived up to expectations, or his own assumptions. And you know what happens when you assume.
Sometimes you’re wrong.
And thus they had forced his Hand.
The two of them could discuss the finer points of monsters and eldritch fogs. They could trade quips and snickers and scoffing. Grimm would be the red-headed guy with the beard, standing in the corner, waiting to fight.
”PHINEHAS!”
He hoped that was a daddy-long-legs scurrying across his arm. Phinehas Dillinger’s eyes focused, pinpricks of glacial ice settling upon his hard cold knuckles wringing the steering wheel. He sat in his idle vehicle, still in its space in the arena’s parking garage. He immediately felt not one, but two presences in the seat behind him.
“Ruth’s going to need you. Go home.”
The antifreeze green eyes of his brother William flashed in the dark, but they were just reflections of the lights atop the hospital across the way. The Man in Black’s teeth glinted beside him. He was not smiling.
The presences departed, leaving Phinehas with a moment of clarity. Going up against two foes, let alone these two, would not end in success were he to utilize a conventional approach. One must adapt unconventional tactics if one was to make them panic. Knock them out of their tempo, away from their game plan. Only a relentless effort could make them question their decisions. Their plan. Their abilities. Themselves.
A growl rumbled in Grimm’s chest and worked its way up his throat. He turned the key in the ignition.
“Go home.”
“Now."
