Post by Grimm on Aug 5, 2016 10:17:26 GMT -5
The perennial quilt, patched together from wasp nests, honeysuckle vines, and humidity, draped over Hangtown and the surrounding river valley. It served to suffocate, and to both dull and elevate the senses. The trickle of sweat down the small of the back. The hum of no-see-ums, of honeybees darting among the beardtongue and baneberry. The intensity and variety of mantles of green found nowhere else and at no other time. The juice of a pear as it ran down your chin. The bouquet of cold water and old dirt. And freshly turned earth.
He’d driven the shovel through primeval roots and sparked it against fossils left behind by the retreat of an ancient seabed. Break time. Shovel stabbed into the clay, he picked up a handful of rocks and tossed them one by one into the river. Darning needle dragon flies threatened to sew up his eyes and mouth. Phinehas waved them away. The gaping hole in the ground behind him demanded satisfaction but he did not acknowledge it.
After all, it was but one of a number of open graves in these parts. Unconsecrated, one and all. Phinehas left them scattered deep in the hills, along the railroad tracks, down in the creek beds. Open graves for folks and fellers, and for abandoned stories. Unwelcome troublemakers, ghosts and goblins. That whole thing with Ruth and the Witch Hunter. The Stranger and his pocket watch. The big payoff from his brother’s sudden disappearance. It was up to you to decide whether these were literal or figurative – only Granny knew for sure – but regardless they begged for resolution. It wasn’t that Grimm was easily distracted. On the contrary, he was so focused he would, at times, step over the graves and the carcasses laid inside to march on towards his intention.
And just as these unfulfilled offerings pockmarked the landscape, so did a number of dead horses, beaten to a pulp and dumped unceremoniously in a field. Grimm would return to them, even now, even those pummeled into a barely recognizable mass of bone and sinew, and vent his frustrations upon them. He would expend himself until he collapsed, spent and exhausted. And at some point he would do it over and again.
The question of the moment was, where did Justin Kaard fit into this? One or the other, or perhaps both (which was possible, depending on the sequence). Despite being a more recent addition to the annals of PCW lore, Kaard was well on his way to joining Grimm’s personal Pantheon of Foes. The Adrenaline King may not have the history of Mr. Showtime or Sadistic (who did, really?), but in his short career he had racked up an impressive number of matches against the Lord of Misrule. And many of those had been for a certain PCW title.
Well, would you look at that…just like this upcoming match.
So many matches for this championship. So many times they’d traded it back and forth. So much so that, if they weren’t careful, they might forget what it meant. To those scratching and clawing to someday get that opportunity. To those who, be it ever so brief, had it within their grasp. To that historic list of names: Ace Anderson, Lantlas, Sadistic, etc., etc.
This was not just another fight.
So Kaard was getting his rematch. How many more would they offer before they shuffled him around to some other division? Until his brother, his trainer, or some other mentor advised him to shift his focus elsewhere? Look here, Justin. You’re approaching this wrong, Justin. Get your mind right, Justin.
Someday he would have to make his own decisions. He would have to live his own life. Kill your darlings.
Sorry, Phinehas forgot himself for a moment. “You show respect to everyone you face.” Sound familiar, Justin?
The Hangtown Horror stood in the corner of his own open grave. The root cellar stayed cool and dry all the year round and offered a respite after a summer day spent digging. Down there among the roots and grave dust, candles and matches, honey and hardening apple cider, scythe and shovel, sat a wooden box with a chicken wire lid. Something…somethings…moved inside. An ancient writhing within the box. The heavy scent of cucumbers and a constant buzz more unnerving than the Haitian voodoo rattle torture filled the dirtvault.
And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents…
Phinehas took a mason jar off the shelf. He unscrewed the lid and turned it up. Clear liquid trickled from the sides of his mouth and down his beard. Insatiable. All that he spilled puddled at his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and licked the bitterness from his fingers.
…and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.
Glory, hallelujah.
For some, the monster was a person meant to protect you, a person of trust, who robbed you of your innocence and left scars reaching far below the surface. It was the pervert in the park with a present in his pocket. For others it’s an interdimensional creature come here from another plane of existence meant to tear you to pieces, leaving you a ruinous mockery of creation. Phinehas Dillinger may just be a man. And maybe you can shrug off the tales, ignore the cold hard facts, overlook the PCW records, block the memories of your own experiences. Maybe you respect him, maybe you don’t.
But at Return to Glory, Justin, Grimm is your monster.
He’d driven the shovel through primeval roots and sparked it against fossils left behind by the retreat of an ancient seabed. Break time. Shovel stabbed into the clay, he picked up a handful of rocks and tossed them one by one into the river. Darning needle dragon flies threatened to sew up his eyes and mouth. Phinehas waved them away. The gaping hole in the ground behind him demanded satisfaction but he did not acknowledge it.
After all, it was but one of a number of open graves in these parts. Unconsecrated, one and all. Phinehas left them scattered deep in the hills, along the railroad tracks, down in the creek beds. Open graves for folks and fellers, and for abandoned stories. Unwelcome troublemakers, ghosts and goblins. That whole thing with Ruth and the Witch Hunter. The Stranger and his pocket watch. The big payoff from his brother’s sudden disappearance. It was up to you to decide whether these were literal or figurative – only Granny knew for sure – but regardless they begged for resolution. It wasn’t that Grimm was easily distracted. On the contrary, he was so focused he would, at times, step over the graves and the carcasses laid inside to march on towards his intention.
And just as these unfulfilled offerings pockmarked the landscape, so did a number of dead horses, beaten to a pulp and dumped unceremoniously in a field. Grimm would return to them, even now, even those pummeled into a barely recognizable mass of bone and sinew, and vent his frustrations upon them. He would expend himself until he collapsed, spent and exhausted. And at some point he would do it over and again.
The question of the moment was, where did Justin Kaard fit into this? One or the other, or perhaps both (which was possible, depending on the sequence). Despite being a more recent addition to the annals of PCW lore, Kaard was well on his way to joining Grimm’s personal Pantheon of Foes. The Adrenaline King may not have the history of Mr. Showtime or Sadistic (who did, really?), but in his short career he had racked up an impressive number of matches against the Lord of Misrule. And many of those had been for a certain PCW title.
Well, would you look at that…just like this upcoming match.
So many matches for this championship. So many times they’d traded it back and forth. So much so that, if they weren’t careful, they might forget what it meant. To those scratching and clawing to someday get that opportunity. To those who, be it ever so brief, had it within their grasp. To that historic list of names: Ace Anderson, Lantlas, Sadistic, etc., etc.
This was not just another fight.
So Kaard was getting his rematch. How many more would they offer before they shuffled him around to some other division? Until his brother, his trainer, or some other mentor advised him to shift his focus elsewhere? Look here, Justin. You’re approaching this wrong, Justin. Get your mind right, Justin.
Someday he would have to make his own decisions. He would have to live his own life. Kill your darlings.
Sorry, Phinehas forgot himself for a moment. “You show respect to everyone you face.” Sound familiar, Justin?
The Hangtown Horror stood in the corner of his own open grave. The root cellar stayed cool and dry all the year round and offered a respite after a summer day spent digging. Down there among the roots and grave dust, candles and matches, honey and hardening apple cider, scythe and shovel, sat a wooden box with a chicken wire lid. Something…somethings…moved inside. An ancient writhing within the box. The heavy scent of cucumbers and a constant buzz more unnerving than the Haitian voodoo rattle torture filled the dirtvault.
And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents…
Phinehas took a mason jar off the shelf. He unscrewed the lid and turned it up. Clear liquid trickled from the sides of his mouth and down his beard. Insatiable. All that he spilled puddled at his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and licked the bitterness from his fingers.
…and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.
Glory, hallelujah.
For some, the monster was a person meant to protect you, a person of trust, who robbed you of your innocence and left scars reaching far below the surface. It was the pervert in the park with a present in his pocket. For others it’s an interdimensional creature come here from another plane of existence meant to tear you to pieces, leaving you a ruinous mockery of creation. Phinehas Dillinger may just be a man. And maybe you can shrug off the tales, ignore the cold hard facts, overlook the PCW records, block the memories of your own experiences. Maybe you respect him, maybe you don’t.
But at Return to Glory, Justin, Grimm is your monster.
