Honeysuckle and ruin
May 18, 2016 14:03:56 GMT -5
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Stace Matthews, Eira, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on May 18, 2016 14:03:56 GMT -5
The hard truth, maybe, was that sometimes Grimm wanted to overwhelm his opponent. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. To immerse himself in the role and embrace the reputation. To make those watching wince and thank the god of skinny punks that it was not them being tossed into the thresher. The Lord of Misrule strived to make even those who would never admit it nod in acknowledgement of a performance worthy of the name Grimm. Of a job done exceedingly, maybe unnecessarily, well.
Other times Grimm welcomed the challenge. After all, the only way to learn and truly better yourself was to be tempered and honed against the smithy’s forge. To fine-tune one’s efficiencies. As he had heard it said, “In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.”
Phinehas Dillinger sat on what remained of a dry stone wall running along the side of a hill. He was not acting as The Stranger today. Unlike some of his fellow PCW competitors, he would not be popping pharmaceuticals like candy (or vice versa), nor riding a unicorn down the rainbow road into a psychedelic subconsciousness, nor traversing the land of swirly twirly gumdrops. No, Grimm sat on a stack of rock in the muted palette of the gloaming.
The wall had been replaced by a barbwire fence, but that too had succumbed to time and the elements. Rusted, collapsed, half buried in brush. No more effective than the briers and sticker bushes that crisscrossed these woods.
Phinehas sat, hands on his thighs, focused on his breath this unseasonably cool evening. Watching a daddy-long-legs skitter across the exposed roots of a fallen black walnut tree. Across the cankers and rot already settled in for their sole purpose of consummation. The final communion that awaited us all.
He buried his bare feet in the detritus of the forest’s indifference. Veins and tendons flexed beneath sodden leaves and the dust of insect carapaces.
The Hangtown Horror had been uncertain of what to expect of Brenna Gordon, having never faced her before. But, having watched her first couple of matches, he had expectations. She did not disappoint. Despite her relative inexperience, Born of Myth knew her way around a wrestling ring. And no mistake. Yet he’d found himself with the upper hand, and as he’d locked in the Winding Stair and pulled it tight, sweat ran down his face and into the corners of his mouth. He’d licked his lips, and something about the salt water tasted familiar.
As he’d leaned in to whisper he looked into her eyes, those dark pools, and had seen through them to the trenches at the bottom. Down in the depths of the abyss, with the crushing pressure, the freezing waters, all of it void of light. He saw what he heard in the music, what he felt with the rise and grind, when he rallied and cut on his fiberglass tips. Though there may have been appreciation and respect at the end of the night, grimm tidings recognized no man. Or woman. It did not discriminate.
Phinehas took a pocket watch out of, well, a pocket. He held it in his hand, and ran his thumb across the tarnished silver. He scratched off a touch of verdigris with a nail. And he caught a flash of mercury in his peripheral vision when he opened it. The face of the watch displayed only a second hand pointing straight up, twitching back and forth across the XII.
He shuddered as a cold chill ran the length of his body. A whiff of ozone blanketed the scent of a verdant Kentucky spring and freshly turned clay. For some reason, several of the others had been invoking his name more often than usual lately. Whether out of fear, arrogance, or deference, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Grimm’s essence had burrowed its way into their minds, and as long as they considered him, he would always have the edge, jagged and rusted as it may be.
Though Phinehas, as was his Nature, didn’t concern himself with the others’ preferences. As a rule he functioned objectively. He did not go out of his way to perform good deeds, and yet he also did not advocate evil for its own sake.
By any means necessary.
The federation’s collective actions may affect him, they may not. He was simply a part of a universal process of entropy that would have its way with you regardless. Grimm functioned as a process unto himself with no end goal and would continue in that function as long as his Nature saw fit.
Looking about, he took in the hollow’s sinister architecture. He worked himself ankle deep in mud and madness. He felt the cicadas stirring, preparing for their assault.
Soon.
While everyone else was preoccupied with the Icemann Invitational Tournament and Underground spectacles, while even the World Champion found himself distracted, Grimm had slipped in for yet another title shot. The booking committee, in all its wisdom and benevolence, had seen fit to scrawl his name in at the pay per view.
Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour. So it goes in the world.
And so it went with Living a Legacy.
Legacy? Where would we even begin? Title after title. Tag Titles, World Titles, yes, but their respective careers have followed different trajectories. Yes, those titles, but with despair, humor, and delirious points in between. Those expectations and delusions. Things were not as they seemed, nor were they otherwise. Grimm expected to whittle down Justin Kaard, that exaggerated mix of booze, failed dreams and a terminal identity crisis. Justin Kaard, the youngest two-time PCW World Champion in the federation’s illustrious existence. Grimm had now set out to become the oldest however-many-times-it was (five, right?) world champion. The only five time world champion, but none the less. He would whittle him down, and salt what was left so nothing would ever bloom again.
The sound of someone hammering on a horseshoe rang out further down the valley. An upstart crow croaked out above the other hill noises. According to both Granny and Ruth, the chant of such a crow was not to be trusted. The stars tumbled overhead ‘til they fell into place, unlocking mysteries and divinations and pointing the way. Some contained myriad manifolds but Grimm was as constant as the North Star. He was fixed so as to set your compass by him, and he wore his isolation well.
Depending on where along the Winding Stair one found oneself, one would either look at a steep ascent or descent. One would be brought face to face with one’s fears as one fought to remain conscious. As one did, Grimm would watch his or her agonal breaths as he cinched it in. Action and reaction. Even as the sense of desperation seeped in, it was very simple once you understood the rules.
A champion yet again, displaying the fine nuances of traipsing across the ropes on your twinkle toes. Then a pawn. Then an irrelevance. Wait, Justin or Phinehas? Why was he casting such disparaging remarks about his opponent? That wasn’t very Grimm of him.
And yet.
Quick and lively. Deliberate and solemn. Daredevil or disciplined. Just because one’s pain was understandable did not mean the behavior was acceptable.
From across the ring, the GRIMMSTARE would remind you of that one beating (you know the one). And of those critters your “friends” have convinced you that you’re hunting. Well, sometimes those fears aren't dreams. Sometimes they aren't hallucinations brought about in an alcoholic haze. Sometimes, it was standing right in front of you.
A hum grew louder, increasing to a buzz circling his head. A bee, swollen, drunk on Hangtown honey, lit on his finger. It wobbled its abdomen. Phinehas fixed it with a withering stare. The bee found its bearings and began to dance
Other times Grimm welcomed the challenge. After all, the only way to learn and truly better yourself was to be tempered and honed against the smithy’s forge. To fine-tune one’s efficiencies. As he had heard it said, “In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.”
Phinehas Dillinger sat on what remained of a dry stone wall running along the side of a hill. He was not acting as The Stranger today. Unlike some of his fellow PCW competitors, he would not be popping pharmaceuticals like candy (or vice versa), nor riding a unicorn down the rainbow road into a psychedelic subconsciousness, nor traversing the land of swirly twirly gumdrops. No, Grimm sat on a stack of rock in the muted palette of the gloaming.
The wall had been replaced by a barbwire fence, but that too had succumbed to time and the elements. Rusted, collapsed, half buried in brush. No more effective than the briers and sticker bushes that crisscrossed these woods.
Phinehas sat, hands on his thighs, focused on his breath this unseasonably cool evening. Watching a daddy-long-legs skitter across the exposed roots of a fallen black walnut tree. Across the cankers and rot already settled in for their sole purpose of consummation. The final communion that awaited us all.
He buried his bare feet in the detritus of the forest’s indifference. Veins and tendons flexed beneath sodden leaves and the dust of insect carapaces.
The Hangtown Horror had been uncertain of what to expect of Brenna Gordon, having never faced her before. But, having watched her first couple of matches, he had expectations. She did not disappoint. Despite her relative inexperience, Born of Myth knew her way around a wrestling ring. And no mistake. Yet he’d found himself with the upper hand, and as he’d locked in the Winding Stair and pulled it tight, sweat ran down his face and into the corners of his mouth. He’d licked his lips, and something about the salt water tasted familiar.
As he’d leaned in to whisper he looked into her eyes, those dark pools, and had seen through them to the trenches at the bottom. Down in the depths of the abyss, with the crushing pressure, the freezing waters, all of it void of light. He saw what he heard in the music, what he felt with the rise and grind, when he rallied and cut on his fiberglass tips. Though there may have been appreciation and respect at the end of the night, grimm tidings recognized no man. Or woman. It did not discriminate.
Phinehas took a pocket watch out of, well, a pocket. He held it in his hand, and ran his thumb across the tarnished silver. He scratched off a touch of verdigris with a nail. And he caught a flash of mercury in his peripheral vision when he opened it. The face of the watch displayed only a second hand pointing straight up, twitching back and forth across the XII.
He shuddered as a cold chill ran the length of his body. A whiff of ozone blanketed the scent of a verdant Kentucky spring and freshly turned clay. For some reason, several of the others had been invoking his name more often than usual lately. Whether out of fear, arrogance, or deference, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Grimm’s essence had burrowed its way into their minds, and as long as they considered him, he would always have the edge, jagged and rusted as it may be.
Though Phinehas, as was his Nature, didn’t concern himself with the others’ preferences. As a rule he functioned objectively. He did not go out of his way to perform good deeds, and yet he also did not advocate evil for its own sake.
By any means necessary.
The federation’s collective actions may affect him, they may not. He was simply a part of a universal process of entropy that would have its way with you regardless. Grimm functioned as a process unto himself with no end goal and would continue in that function as long as his Nature saw fit.
Looking about, he took in the hollow’s sinister architecture. He worked himself ankle deep in mud and madness. He felt the cicadas stirring, preparing for their assault.
Soon.
While everyone else was preoccupied with the Icemann Invitational Tournament and Underground spectacles, while even the World Champion found himself distracted, Grimm had slipped in for yet another title shot. The booking committee, in all its wisdom and benevolence, had seen fit to scrawl his name in at the pay per view.
Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour. So it goes in the world.
And so it went with Living a Legacy.
Legacy? Where would we even begin? Title after title. Tag Titles, World Titles, yes, but their respective careers have followed different trajectories. Yes, those titles, but with despair, humor, and delirious points in between. Those expectations and delusions. Things were not as they seemed, nor were they otherwise. Grimm expected to whittle down Justin Kaard, that exaggerated mix of booze, failed dreams and a terminal identity crisis. Justin Kaard, the youngest two-time PCW World Champion in the federation’s illustrious existence. Grimm had now set out to become the oldest however-many-times-it was (five, right?) world champion. The only five time world champion, but none the less. He would whittle him down, and salt what was left so nothing would ever bloom again.
The sound of someone hammering on a horseshoe rang out further down the valley. An upstart crow croaked out above the other hill noises. According to both Granny and Ruth, the chant of such a crow was not to be trusted. The stars tumbled overhead ‘til they fell into place, unlocking mysteries and divinations and pointing the way. Some contained myriad manifolds but Grimm was as constant as the North Star. He was fixed so as to set your compass by him, and he wore his isolation well.
Depending on where along the Winding Stair one found oneself, one would either look at a steep ascent or descent. One would be brought face to face with one’s fears as one fought to remain conscious. As one did, Grimm would watch his or her agonal breaths as he cinched it in. Action and reaction. Even as the sense of desperation seeped in, it was very simple once you understood the rules.
A champion yet again, displaying the fine nuances of traipsing across the ropes on your twinkle toes. Then a pawn. Then an irrelevance. Wait, Justin or Phinehas? Why was he casting such disparaging remarks about his opponent? That wasn’t very Grimm of him.
And yet.
Quick and lively. Deliberate and solemn. Daredevil or disciplined. Just because one’s pain was understandable did not mean the behavior was acceptable.
From across the ring, the GRIMMSTARE would remind you of that one beating (you know the one). And of those critters your “friends” have convinced you that you’re hunting. Well, sometimes those fears aren't dreams. Sometimes they aren't hallucinations brought about in an alcoholic haze. Sometimes, it was standing right in front of you.
A hum grew louder, increasing to a buzz circling his head. A bee, swollen, drunk on Hangtown honey, lit on his finger. It wobbled its abdomen. Phinehas fixed it with a withering stare. The bee found its bearings and began to dance
