Cross-picking catastrophe
Jan 14, 2017 17:40:22 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti, Alexa Black, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Jan 14, 2017 17:40:22 GMT -5
The luthier is presumed deceased. His name is lost to the annals of Hangtown (which you do not want to read). But the instrument, the result of weeks and months of labor, plays on. He harvested the wood from limbs shed by the Hanging Tree. Whittled and carved and planed until the myriad pieces were, by his Dead Reckoning, just right. Joined together, wiped down with an elixir of linseed oil, tree resin, and ground limestone. Fitted with a bone nut - What bone? That’s a trade secret – and strung with, well, flatwound strings. The tale is that the instrument molds to the whims of its master. And so it has served as a left-handed instrument for some time.
Phinehas Dillinger picks out a tune sinister-handed on his mandolin. A tune composed by a blind harpist a couple centuries ago in the olde country. He picks out the season, while he sits watching the red and white berries of the holly and mistletoe consigned to the fires. Phinehas watches those berries, the prickly leaves, the waxy greens, the garlands, become no more festoons marking the festivities of Advent and Christmas and the Twelve Days and Epiphany…but heaps of ash. The Burning of the Greens ushers in the melancholy anticlimactic days of ordinary time in winter. Things can only get colder from here.
But even in the face of this, Phinehas sits grinning on a bench on a street corner on the edge of town. This early morning isn’t too early, but the more frequented establishments greet customers farther up the street. For now, Phinehas sits alone as if within a protective circle of salt. He plays those ancient tones encoded in his DNA. Songs embraced by the Dillingers and the people of Hangtown. They have not abandoned any of it out of shame or the ravages of time. Much of it is as though they’d crossed the mountains, just drifted down the river, only days ago.
As Phinehas plays, his muscle memory takes over and his thoughts waver elsewhere. Unsurprisingly (or maybe not), Pure Class Wrestling muscles its way to the front. A new year, with new members, and new champions. Like, say, a new North American champion.
Congratulations, Nathan.
Nathan. Neville. Nicodemus. Nebuchadnezzar. Whatever version of the Saniti line is to prance into the arena at Trauma, Grimm (that’s me) feels compelled to remind his opponent of something. Usually (**wink wink nudge nudge**) such a match consists of two bodies (number of souls notwithstanding) in a ring trying to pummel one another to the point of pinability or submission. Most matches do not determine whether or not existence as we know it continues or burns into oblivion. This is not the Faraway, the Underneath, or even Balance. This is Greenville, South Carolina. But mirror world or not, you must still be recovering from that match at the Iceys. There isn’t enough thyme in Hangtown or Wonderland to heal those wounds, physical, spiritual, or otherwise. Am I right?
Phinehas leans to his left and picks a pint glass off the ground. He reaches up with his other hand and plucks Yuletide ash out of the air. He drops it in his breakfast ale, swirls the concoction, and drinks.
And so, in the sprit of Class Most Pure and sportsmanship and whatnot, I have a proposal. Or more of a reminder, really, since this is how events will unfold whether you agree to them or not. This match will serve as a palate cleanser of sorts. In one corner we have you and your new title, and possibly-maybe even an end, or at least a pause, to your extraordinary feud with Alexa Black. A move away from your recent trials and tribulations with both Ms. Black and, I’m sorry but I have to mention her, Kelli Starr.
Hey, at least you got a championship out of it.
In my corner I’m coming off months of dealing with Justin Kaard, Murdoc, and the before-mentioned Dollface. I expect nothing less than your best, Nathan…or whatever passes for your best since you and Alexa tried to murder one another. Trauma 205 will be a deep breath before we both rush headlong into whatever this federation throws at us. Because we both know that’s coming.
For the Time Being, Phinehas remains alone. A Stranger in his own land. He strums a random arrangement of chords that unlock a new day. These tones are not bright. They do not cut through the hum of the background world. These notes rumble rich and dark through time to reach the ears today. A subsonic drone that soothes the anxiety that results from staring down one's mortality. They peal out like a bell swinging atop the first cathedral. One that has withstood the elements and waves of misguided marauders from the beginning.
Phinehas Dillinger picks out a tune sinister-handed on his mandolin. A tune composed by a blind harpist a couple centuries ago in the olde country. He picks out the season, while he sits watching the red and white berries of the holly and mistletoe consigned to the fires. Phinehas watches those berries, the prickly leaves, the waxy greens, the garlands, become no more festoons marking the festivities of Advent and Christmas and the Twelve Days and Epiphany…but heaps of ash. The Burning of the Greens ushers in the melancholy anticlimactic days of ordinary time in winter. Things can only get colder from here.
But even in the face of this, Phinehas sits grinning on a bench on a street corner on the edge of town. This early morning isn’t too early, but the more frequented establishments greet customers farther up the street. For now, Phinehas sits alone as if within a protective circle of salt. He plays those ancient tones encoded in his DNA. Songs embraced by the Dillingers and the people of Hangtown. They have not abandoned any of it out of shame or the ravages of time. Much of it is as though they’d crossed the mountains, just drifted down the river, only days ago.
As Phinehas plays, his muscle memory takes over and his thoughts waver elsewhere. Unsurprisingly (or maybe not), Pure Class Wrestling muscles its way to the front. A new year, with new members, and new champions. Like, say, a new North American champion.
Congratulations, Nathan.
Nathan. Neville. Nicodemus. Nebuchadnezzar. Whatever version of the Saniti line is to prance into the arena at Trauma, Grimm (that’s me) feels compelled to remind his opponent of something. Usually (**wink wink nudge nudge**) such a match consists of two bodies (number of souls notwithstanding) in a ring trying to pummel one another to the point of pinability or submission. Most matches do not determine whether or not existence as we know it continues or burns into oblivion. This is not the Faraway, the Underneath, or even Balance. This is Greenville, South Carolina. But mirror world or not, you must still be recovering from that match at the Iceys. There isn’t enough thyme in Hangtown or Wonderland to heal those wounds, physical, spiritual, or otherwise. Am I right?
Phinehas leans to his left and picks a pint glass off the ground. He reaches up with his other hand and plucks Yuletide ash out of the air. He drops it in his breakfast ale, swirls the concoction, and drinks.
And so, in the sprit of Class Most Pure and sportsmanship and whatnot, I have a proposal. Or more of a reminder, really, since this is how events will unfold whether you agree to them or not. This match will serve as a palate cleanser of sorts. In one corner we have you and your new title, and possibly-maybe even an end, or at least a pause, to your extraordinary feud with Alexa Black. A move away from your recent trials and tribulations with both Ms. Black and, I’m sorry but I have to mention her, Kelli Starr.
Hey, at least you got a championship out of it.
In my corner I’m coming off months of dealing with Justin Kaard, Murdoc, and the before-mentioned Dollface. I expect nothing less than your best, Nathan…or whatever passes for your best since you and Alexa tried to murder one another. Trauma 205 will be a deep breath before we both rush headlong into whatever this federation throws at us. Because we both know that’s coming.
For the Time Being, Phinehas remains alone. A Stranger in his own land. He strums a random arrangement of chords that unlock a new day. These tones are not bright. They do not cut through the hum of the background world. These notes rumble rich and dark through time to reach the ears today. A subsonic drone that soothes the anxiety that results from staring down one's mortality. They peal out like a bell swinging atop the first cathedral. One that has withstood the elements and waves of misguided marauders from the beginning.
