a worrisome endeavor
Nov 14, 2016 11:26:25 GMT -5
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Cory Steel, Nathan Saniti, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on Nov 14, 2016 11:26:25 GMT -5
Phinehas Dillinger sat in front of the first fire of the season. He sat in a chair of such [REDACTED] as to be [REDACTED]. He sat holding a wrought iron poker. The ashes and soot on the hearthstone matched the smudges on his fingers.
What’s that…a gloveless hand? Could it be? Pfft, of course. None wore their black glove at all times. There’s more to the Black Hand than are dreamt of in your philosophies.
No ancient books of forbidden knowledge. No mandolin. No mug of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar. Not even a whittlin’ stick and a pocket knife. Just a man alone with his ironmongery. And he sat bathed in the sole source of light. The supermoon did not penetrate the interior of the House of Grimm, but the fire flickered jigs and reels around the room. The lingering shadows took up the dance.
Phinehas jabbed the poker into the midst. Logs shifted and popped, throwing cinders up the chimney. He tapped the embers on the hearth and sat back with a sigh.
Trauma Two-Hundred-and-Two.
Unless his dastardly brother decided to make an unscheduled appearance, Phinehas would be arriving to the ring all by his lonesome. No brainwashed followers. No bodyguards. No business partners, significant others, entourage-of-any-sort, otherworldly associates, or crew looking forward only to rum, sodomy, and the lash.
Goodness, what a list. I didn’t think it would ever end.
Anyway…none of that. Only Grimm.
I don’t know what’s coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing. Does the rematch clause still exist? Will I invoke it even if it does? A title – any title - doesn’t change anything, not now. No belt can be the culmination of my life’s work, because my life’s work is ongoing. True, those titles contribute to the firm foundation on which my career has been built, but they cannot serve as the be-all-end-all. Otherwise, who can say whether this will end with a whimper or thunderous applause? We’ll find out one day.
But not yet.
The wind gusted. Skeleton-finger-branches tap tap tapped against a window. Something moved through a layer of dead leaves. Other hill noises bled into one another.
Sometimes these matches and opponents also bled into one another. Both figuratively and literally.
As it was, Grimm had both partook and witnessed countless of these types of tag matches, and he knew full well they rarely ended in a definitive decision. And so he also knew he could bide his time until he saw an opening to do whatever he wanted.
What was that this week? He’d certainly had differences with some of his opponents (and some of his teammates, for that matter) in the past. Maybe even some severe differences.
But now…what’s the motivation?
Motivation?
It was the certainty that He. Was. Grimm. The Lord of Misrule. The Abomination of Desolation. The Hangtown Horror. Half of the Brothers Gruesome. He fought anyone and everyone to the bitter end. He ruined dreams. Crushed aspirations. Ended careers. This was not hyperbole, this was what he did. And Grimm would continue to do so as long as he needed to do it. And then, let’s be honest, sometimes he’d do it a little bit more.
Of course, PCW or not, he could always just menace you in the dark.
I’ll bide my time in the closet or under the bed. The dark place at the top of the stairs, that one corner down in the coal cellar. We are approaching the longest night of the year, after all. And I am Seasonal Affective Disorder personified. A walking polar vortex, come forth out of the storehouses of snow.
He was Grimm. And sooner or later, everyone faced him.
…
Phinehas gazed unblinking into the fire.
What’s that…a gloveless hand? Could it be? Pfft, of course. None wore their black glove at all times. There’s more to the Black Hand than are dreamt of in your philosophies.
No ancient books of forbidden knowledge. No mandolin. No mug of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar. Not even a whittlin’ stick and a pocket knife. Just a man alone with his ironmongery. And he sat bathed in the sole source of light. The supermoon did not penetrate the interior of the House of Grimm, but the fire flickered jigs and reels around the room. The lingering shadows took up the dance.
Phinehas jabbed the poker into the midst. Logs shifted and popped, throwing cinders up the chimney. He tapped the embers on the hearth and sat back with a sigh.
Trauma Two-Hundred-and-Two.
Unless his dastardly brother decided to make an unscheduled appearance, Phinehas would be arriving to the ring all by his lonesome. No brainwashed followers. No bodyguards. No business partners, significant others, entourage-of-any-sort, otherworldly associates, or crew looking forward only to rum, sodomy, and the lash.
Goodness, what a list. I didn’t think it would ever end.
Anyway…none of that. Only Grimm.
I don’t know what’s coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing. Does the rematch clause still exist? Will I invoke it even if it does? A title – any title - doesn’t change anything, not now. No belt can be the culmination of my life’s work, because my life’s work is ongoing. True, those titles contribute to the firm foundation on which my career has been built, but they cannot serve as the be-all-end-all. Otherwise, who can say whether this will end with a whimper or thunderous applause? We’ll find out one day.
But not yet.
The wind gusted. Skeleton-finger-branches tap tap tapped against a window. Something moved through a layer of dead leaves. Other hill noises bled into one another.
Sometimes these matches and opponents also bled into one another. Both figuratively and literally.
As it was, Grimm had both partook and witnessed countless of these types of tag matches, and he knew full well they rarely ended in a definitive decision. And so he also knew he could bide his time until he saw an opening to do whatever he wanted.
What was that this week? He’d certainly had differences with some of his opponents (and some of his teammates, for that matter) in the past. Maybe even some severe differences.
But now…what’s the motivation?
Motivation?
It was the certainty that He. Was. Grimm. The Lord of Misrule. The Abomination of Desolation. The Hangtown Horror. Half of the Brothers Gruesome. He fought anyone and everyone to the bitter end. He ruined dreams. Crushed aspirations. Ended careers. This was not hyperbole, this was what he did. And Grimm would continue to do so as long as he needed to do it. And then, let’s be honest, sometimes he’d do it a little bit more.
Of course, PCW or not, he could always just menace you in the dark.
I’ll bide my time in the closet or under the bed. The dark place at the top of the stairs, that one corner down in the coal cellar. We are approaching the longest night of the year, after all. And I am Seasonal Affective Disorder personified. A walking polar vortex, come forth out of the storehouses of snow.
He was Grimm. And sooner or later, everyone faced him.
…
Phinehas gazed unblinking into the fire.
