Post by Grimm on Jun 6, 2016 15:48:08 GMT -5
The Red Headed Stranger whistled as he went to and fro upon the earth, and walked up and down on it. The tune had something of a lilt to it. He whistled it as a reaction against all he witnessed. He whistled because one could always find something to rage against and he strived to ignore such low-hanging fruit. The Stranger had a strict personal policy against concerning himself with those not directly involved in his day-to-day existence. The situation with Nathan Saniti and Kelli Starr and this…cult, however, threatened to bleed over into not only his but all their business. The cult gave the impression of The Darkness, in a way, and the threat of interference at any time inconvenienced him, whether he acted as The Stranger or anyone else. It appeared as if the carnie folk were running this circus known as the PCW.
Things were building. Dark things. Unpleasant things. And these things would get worse before they got better. Despite their alchemy and necromancy, despite all the talk of blood and death and whatnot, things would get better. They always did.
Eventually.
Let Chaos, Balance, Fate, and Chance work it out amongst themselves. The Stranger would continue to whistle, continue to roam, continue to watch. He’d hold out hope against hope that they wouldn’t force his hand. The pocket watch he held in that hand, though, suggested it was only a matter of time. The lone point wavered around the XII at the top as it always had, but it was wavering just a bit too much these days. Until it crossed that threshold…have you considered Grimm?
A king for a plowed field.
“Five- time World Champion” had a nice ring to it. It was not a bad claim. On the other hand, it meant the Hangtown Horror kept losing it. Win, loss, victory, defeat. There was nothing new under the sun. Whether it be yet another title reign, or wisdom, madness, or folly. All was vanity. And from vanity into darkness.
” In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powdered bones.“
Yet this was the world in which they lived. And fought. In that fight, both Justin Kaard and Grimm had gotten just a little bit reckless. They typically wouldn't have attempted such maneuvers at such questionable times, had it been any one else in that ring. But it was those two. And as such, the World Title match at Living a Legacy had been back and forth, touch and go.
Until it wasn’t.
There, under the arena lights, within their own phosphorescent pandemonium, all it took was a vestige of autumn, a raven’s croup, to make the match ripe for the Harvest. As was the way of nature, everything was suitable for its time. For every purpose, every work. It was not a judgment on Justin Kaard’s character. Nature didn’t care. Nature didn’t care if you accomplished something or not. When it’s time…it’s time. Realizing and accepting this removed complications. Embrace the indifference and the unequal balance.
The natural order proved there was always something greater, yet the race was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. Neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding. Nor yet favor to men of skill - but time and chance happened to them all. Sometimes rage and muscle could only do so much.
And so the Adrenaline King paid his debt to nature. It was the price of their original sin.
Thus it was that Phinehas Dillinger, aka Grimm, aka the PCW World Champion, entered The Owl and Eel. The tavern was empty, yet a pint of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar waited for him at the end of the counter. Lamps and candles lit the way to his usual table in the back corner. He ran his fingers through his beard and pulled out a white hair. As often as Phinehas had noticed them lately, it was inaccurate to describe them as ‘stray’. In his case, he was showing signs of cinnamon and sugar as opposed to salt and pepper.
He settled into his chair and felt a drop of sweat run down his back, even at this late hour. Up went the pint and he licked his upper lip. And thought.
They said familiarity bred contempt, but Phinehas didn’t believe that was always true. Andy D seemed like a decent enough fellow. The two them may not have the in-ring history between them like Andy had with Tyrone Smith, or Grimm had with Showtime or Sadistic, but they had seen enough of one another over the years to know what they were getting into. There would be no hiding behind masks, or flickering lights, or complete black outs. No veils to peek behind or curtains to part. What they offered up week after week was all there was.
Phinehas watched a candle gutter on the table. It cast a dappled light through the stratum of foam along the side of the glass. A view of his drink’s stratigraphy.
Grimm hadn’t had the opportunity to offer Andy a proper welcome back yet. Fortunately, Trauma 193 would provide him with just that, as well as the chance to finally discuss how he had taken the World Title from Grimm that one evening so long ago. It would be a cordial discussion. Make no mistake – Grimm and Andy D were not friends. They weren’t even acquaintances, really. The Lord of Misrule considered himself a well-wisher, in that he did not wish Andy D any specific harm. Just a general beating that would result in a Grimm victory. In order to do so he would have to successfully counter his opponent’s speed. Andy’s quickness made it difficult to forecast movements. Grimm would have to consult barometer readings and compare with multiple models of the fronts and pressure gradients.
He licked his finger and held it up to test the wind.
And now that his opponent had spent the last couple of weeks offering up the update, the lowdown, the skinny on all things Andy D, it was time to get to the business at hand. As Grimm had said ad nauseam, this was the work they have chosen. Sometimes that business got ugly. Unreasonable. Exceedingly painful. It was true the first two matches of Andy’s return had turned out splendidly. It was Grimm’s job to make sure this one did not.
He lifted his glass and all the wicks in the tavern snuffed out. Phinehas set his drink down, and there in front of him stood Jolly Roger. Or at least, the hazy approximation of Jolly Roger. The old man’s pipe moved within his bushy gray beard, as if he were speaking to his former charge. Phinehas gained control of his breathing, and he heard.
”All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they come again.”
With that the old sailor flickered and faded into nothing. In his place was a puddle of brine. Phinehas smelled the salt in the air and felt the spindrift on his face. He took another drink, and this time his brother Billy greeted him. Sadistic said nothing, only flashed a grin and a middle finger before disappearing in a whiff of brimstone and a pile of ash. Phinehas lifted his pint to toast them. The lights sputtered back to life, and Phinehas set the glass down next to a piece of paper.
The paper had been folded in three and sealed with a blot of wax (well, la dee da). He did not have to look at the seal pressed into the wax to know who had prepared it. It was a thick sheet with a full grain, and even though the man had taken Ruth, Phinehas appreciated his taste in stationary. He would of course have to add it to the Book of the Black Hand once all this was finished and documented.
Phinehas broke open the seal and unfolded the paper. The message inside had been written with a flourish in thick gall ink.
He that soweth the good seed is the son of man; the field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one; The enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels. As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of this world.
So not only did he not start off with a proper salutation, he cited the Bible at Phinehas. Well, everyone knew that even the Devil could quote Scripture for his purpose.
After a thorough investigation, I have uncovered a vast perpetration of sundry acts of witchcraft. Pernicious notions run rampant throughout the village of Hangtown. These foul thoughts and deeds originate with your wicked family.
But a compromise is not out of the question. After all, I am a reasonable man. I am a man of science. A man of learning. A man who knows how to buy the finest books.
As such, I recognized your sister. And it is how I know what you are, Phinehas Dillinger. I look forward to meeting you.
Respectfully submitted,
Edmond Mather
Phinehas touched the corner of the letter to the candle. It caught, and as the flame crawled its way towards his fingers he downed the last of his Mandrake’s Old Peculiar and stood up. On the way to the door Phinehas dropped what was left of the paper into the puddle. He stepped outside and listened to wind chimes tinkling somewhere down the lane. Moths congregated around the gas lamps burning in the winged darkness. Further off, lighting bugs flashed insults in Morse code.
So it went in the world.
Things were building. Dark things. Unpleasant things. And these things would get worse before they got better. Despite their alchemy and necromancy, despite all the talk of blood and death and whatnot, things would get better. They always did.
Eventually.
Let Chaos, Balance, Fate, and Chance work it out amongst themselves. The Stranger would continue to whistle, continue to roam, continue to watch. He’d hold out hope against hope that they wouldn’t force his hand. The pocket watch he held in that hand, though, suggested it was only a matter of time. The lone point wavered around the XII at the top as it always had, but it was wavering just a bit too much these days. Until it crossed that threshold…have you considered Grimm?
A king for a plowed field.
“Five- time World Champion” had a nice ring to it. It was not a bad claim. On the other hand, it meant the Hangtown Horror kept losing it. Win, loss, victory, defeat. There was nothing new under the sun. Whether it be yet another title reign, or wisdom, madness, or folly. All was vanity. And from vanity into darkness.
” In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powdered bones.“
Yet this was the world in which they lived. And fought. In that fight, both Justin Kaard and Grimm had gotten just a little bit reckless. They typically wouldn't have attempted such maneuvers at such questionable times, had it been any one else in that ring. But it was those two. And as such, the World Title match at Living a Legacy had been back and forth, touch and go.
Until it wasn’t.
There, under the arena lights, within their own phosphorescent pandemonium, all it took was a vestige of autumn, a raven’s croup, to make the match ripe for the Harvest. As was the way of nature, everything was suitable for its time. For every purpose, every work. It was not a judgment on Justin Kaard’s character. Nature didn’t care. Nature didn’t care if you accomplished something or not. When it’s time…it’s time. Realizing and accepting this removed complications. Embrace the indifference and the unequal balance.
The natural order proved there was always something greater, yet the race was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. Neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding. Nor yet favor to men of skill - but time and chance happened to them all. Sometimes rage and muscle could only do so much.
And so the Adrenaline King paid his debt to nature. It was the price of their original sin.
Thus it was that Phinehas Dillinger, aka Grimm, aka the PCW World Champion, entered The Owl and Eel. The tavern was empty, yet a pint of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar waited for him at the end of the counter. Lamps and candles lit the way to his usual table in the back corner. He ran his fingers through his beard and pulled out a white hair. As often as Phinehas had noticed them lately, it was inaccurate to describe them as ‘stray’. In his case, he was showing signs of cinnamon and sugar as opposed to salt and pepper.
He settled into his chair and felt a drop of sweat run down his back, even at this late hour. Up went the pint and he licked his upper lip. And thought.
They said familiarity bred contempt, but Phinehas didn’t believe that was always true. Andy D seemed like a decent enough fellow. The two them may not have the in-ring history between them like Andy had with Tyrone Smith, or Grimm had with Showtime or Sadistic, but they had seen enough of one another over the years to know what they were getting into. There would be no hiding behind masks, or flickering lights, or complete black outs. No veils to peek behind or curtains to part. What they offered up week after week was all there was.
Phinehas watched a candle gutter on the table. It cast a dappled light through the stratum of foam along the side of the glass. A view of his drink’s stratigraphy.
Grimm hadn’t had the opportunity to offer Andy a proper welcome back yet. Fortunately, Trauma 193 would provide him with just that, as well as the chance to finally discuss how he had taken the World Title from Grimm that one evening so long ago. It would be a cordial discussion. Make no mistake – Grimm and Andy D were not friends. They weren’t even acquaintances, really. The Lord of Misrule considered himself a well-wisher, in that he did not wish Andy D any specific harm. Just a general beating that would result in a Grimm victory. In order to do so he would have to successfully counter his opponent’s speed. Andy’s quickness made it difficult to forecast movements. Grimm would have to consult barometer readings and compare with multiple models of the fronts and pressure gradients.
He licked his finger and held it up to test the wind.
And now that his opponent had spent the last couple of weeks offering up the update, the lowdown, the skinny on all things Andy D, it was time to get to the business at hand. As Grimm had said ad nauseam, this was the work they have chosen. Sometimes that business got ugly. Unreasonable. Exceedingly painful. It was true the first two matches of Andy’s return had turned out splendidly. It was Grimm’s job to make sure this one did not.
He lifted his glass and all the wicks in the tavern snuffed out. Phinehas set his drink down, and there in front of him stood Jolly Roger. Or at least, the hazy approximation of Jolly Roger. The old man’s pipe moved within his bushy gray beard, as if he were speaking to his former charge. Phinehas gained control of his breathing, and he heard.
”All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they come again.”
With that the old sailor flickered and faded into nothing. In his place was a puddle of brine. Phinehas smelled the salt in the air and felt the spindrift on his face. He took another drink, and this time his brother Billy greeted him. Sadistic said nothing, only flashed a grin and a middle finger before disappearing in a whiff of brimstone and a pile of ash. Phinehas lifted his pint to toast them. The lights sputtered back to life, and Phinehas set the glass down next to a piece of paper.
The paper had been folded in three and sealed with a blot of wax (well, la dee da). He did not have to look at the seal pressed into the wax to know who had prepared it. It was a thick sheet with a full grain, and even though the man had taken Ruth, Phinehas appreciated his taste in stationary. He would of course have to add it to the Book of the Black Hand once all this was finished and documented.
Phinehas broke open the seal and unfolded the paper. The message inside had been written with a flourish in thick gall ink.
He that soweth the good seed is the son of man; the field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one; The enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels. As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of this world.
So not only did he not start off with a proper salutation, he cited the Bible at Phinehas. Well, everyone knew that even the Devil could quote Scripture for his purpose.
After a thorough investigation, I have uncovered a vast perpetration of sundry acts of witchcraft. Pernicious notions run rampant throughout the village of Hangtown. These foul thoughts and deeds originate with your wicked family.
But a compromise is not out of the question. After all, I am a reasonable man. I am a man of science. A man of learning. A man who knows how to buy the finest books.
As such, I recognized your sister. And it is how I know what you are, Phinehas Dillinger. I look forward to meeting you.
Respectfully submitted,
Edmond Mather
Phinehas touched the corner of the letter to the candle. It caught, and as the flame crawled its way towards his fingers he downed the last of his Mandrake’s Old Peculiar and stood up. On the way to the door Phinehas dropped what was left of the paper into the puddle. He stepped outside and listened to wind chimes tinkling somewhere down the lane. Moths congregated around the gas lamps burning in the winged darkness. Further off, lighting bugs flashed insults in Morse code.
So it went in the world.
