Snake oil prophecies
Jan 30, 2017 10:35:16 GMT -5
via mobile
Nathan Saniti, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Jan 30, 2017 10:35:16 GMT -5
“Well, he said he was going to fix things.”
“They all say that. And besides, fix what? Nothing’s changed but the names since the last time he left. There’s still secret societies and magic books and false prophets and cults and grave felonies and…well, you get the point. And there’s always someone out to rescue the federation, whether it’s from poor ratings or corruption or sin or a lack of class or whatever. It’s exhausting.”
A swallow. A thunk of glass on a table.
“So, no, he ain’t fixing anything.”
The two gentlemen take an unspoken yet mutually agreed upon break. They take turns looking out a greasy window onto one of the more unpleasant gloom-and-doom days of winter, the days that drag on between Christmas and the onset of Spring. They watch their neighbors shuffle by leaning into the wind, eyes narrowed and heads cocked against a drizzle of rain and snow spitting sideways down the street. They know they’ll have to join the ranks of those sodden wretches soon enough, but for now they’re thankful for this table near the fire.
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But he’s had you-know-who’s number in the past. And Saniti just beat him last week, so I gotta say I don’t care much for his chances.”
It was a subdued day, with nothing but hushed conversations filling the space. The occasional creak of a shifting chair or boots across the wooden floor. But he still leans forward and whispers as though to a fellow conspirator.
“Are you listening to yourself? Grimm’s lost plenty and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s lost to lots of people. Besides, he and Ford have only faced off one-on-one, what, a handful of times, if that? That’s nothing. And, sure, Nathan Saniti bested him last time, but I guarantee Grimm will never fall to that particular move ever again.”
“Perhaps, but let’s not kid ourselves. He’s been at this for a while. The age has to show at some point.”
“He’s a five-time world champion. He’s the current number one contender for that yet again. And that’s not to mention all those other titles. The guy knows the ins-and-outs of the federation like no one else.”
“Yes, but…” the man pauses to cast about. No Phinehas. No William. No Ruth to place a hex upon him for speaking ill of her brother. “…he’s got nowhere to go but down. Look, I’ll be the first to admit he’s been a force for more than a decade, nearly two, but a person can only keep up that pace for so long. Even Grimm.”
“And I suppose Nathan Saniti and Whitey Ford are going to be the ones to show him the door?”
“Nathan Saniti is the North American champion. He just beat Grimm, like I said, and before that he defeated Alexa Black in…well, I don’t know what that was, other than something way beyond the usual wrestling match, but Saniti won. He’s got the Harvesters…”
“Harvesters. Pfft. There’s only one Harvest in PCW and you know it.”
“He’s got that group of his and those hat pins and all that other hocus pocus. So, yes, Nathan Saniti could be the one.”
The other rolls his eyes and leans back.
“Saniti is the North American champion - which has no bearing on this match, by the way - but he doesn’t seem too enthused about it one way or the other. Indifference of the wrong sort is dangerous. As is uncertainty. All those missions or quests or whatever, the fallout with Kelli Starr…it’s all got to weigh on his mind. One lapse of judgment at Trauma and he’s out of the picture. And I don’t expect any deus ex machina is going to fall from the sky or appear in one of his lackey's pockets to suddenly save the day. ”
grimmmmm…
They freeze. Their eyes dart from one corner of the tavern to another. They strain against the dark.
grimmmmm…
It is only the door crawling closed against the wind and the cold. Outside, a half-frozen paper boy covered in soot stomps his feet, offering up a soggy mass of ink-stained pulp to passersby.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it! William Dillinger still missing! Townspeople still relieved!”
The men regain their composure.
“Okay. But that still leaves Whitey Ford.” He begins counting off with his fingers. “Back with a vengeance. Held his own against Dan Fierce. Former World Champion. Longest running International Champion. And, again, had Grimm’s number before.”
“And again, lots of people have done that. That doesn’t mean anything. As for Ford, we’ll see how long this comeback lasts. Longest-reigning this, most successful-something that, greatest of these…yet he can’t bring himself to stick around for more than a few months at a time. Can anyone really say they’re the greatest when their career is marked with intentional disqualifications and no-shows? A career isn’t built with pay per view appearances and title shots or defenses alone. You have to have the self-respect, the moral fiber, even, to give your all each and every time. It’s a reflection of your character in and out of the arena. Otherwise, you’re nothing but a cautionary tale once they find you in a gutter, choking on your own puke. Woulda coulda shoulda.”
He holds his glass up to the candle and swirls his drink. Momentarily lost in the amber storm.
“‘For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: It might have been!’ ”
He takes a drink and sighs. Breathes deep of the low-hanging funk of old barley and stale malt.
“Grimm is the underlying catalyst of the PCW. Champion or not, it means something when someone so much as stands toe-to-toe with him. They still sometimes feed the new members to him as a test. So I have to ask, why this sudden animosity towards him? Especially here. It kind of came out of nowhere.”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Just keeping the conversation going. The sooner it ends, the sooner we go our separate ways.”
He looks away, into the fireplace. Watches his life smolder up the chimney.
“And I’m so lonely.”
“…”
A great breath within the tavern, an all-encompassing pause. The sound of a chair scooting against the floor, at a table that had been empty when they’d walked in. They turn to see a figure stand, adjust his coat, check his pockets, and step around them. They know who it is. They recognize the son of Hangtown. The red hair, the Beard, the carriage of the man. They brace themselves for a beating or a toss through the nearest window. Tensed as they are, preparing for the worst, he moves past and steps up to the bar. The tender leans in and looks at them when Phinehas Dillinger points their direction. The bartender flips through a stack of tabs by the register and slips one across the counter. Phinehas reaches into a coat pocket, counts out a few bits of paper money for the bartender, and exits without further acknowledgement.
A great exhale.
Or, no, had there been a pause at their table? Had he feinted, then grinned at their flinching? Maybe he put his hands on the table and leaned in. Maybe he whispered. Maybe they still hear his voice in their heads. Maybe their looks to one another confirm it.
“Go back to sleep.”
“They all say that. And besides, fix what? Nothing’s changed but the names since the last time he left. There’s still secret societies and magic books and false prophets and cults and grave felonies and…well, you get the point. And there’s always someone out to rescue the federation, whether it’s from poor ratings or corruption or sin or a lack of class or whatever. It’s exhausting.”
A swallow. A thunk of glass on a table.
“So, no, he ain’t fixing anything.”
The two gentlemen take an unspoken yet mutually agreed upon break. They take turns looking out a greasy window onto one of the more unpleasant gloom-and-doom days of winter, the days that drag on between Christmas and the onset of Spring. They watch their neighbors shuffle by leaning into the wind, eyes narrowed and heads cocked against a drizzle of rain and snow spitting sideways down the street. They know they’ll have to join the ranks of those sodden wretches soon enough, but for now they’re thankful for this table near the fire.
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But he’s had you-know-who’s number in the past. And Saniti just beat him last week, so I gotta say I don’t care much for his chances.”
It was a subdued day, with nothing but hushed conversations filling the space. The occasional creak of a shifting chair or boots across the wooden floor. But he still leans forward and whispers as though to a fellow conspirator.
“Are you listening to yourself? Grimm’s lost plenty and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s lost to lots of people. Besides, he and Ford have only faced off one-on-one, what, a handful of times, if that? That’s nothing. And, sure, Nathan Saniti bested him last time, but I guarantee Grimm will never fall to that particular move ever again.”
“Perhaps, but let’s not kid ourselves. He’s been at this for a while. The age has to show at some point.”
“He’s a five-time world champion. He’s the current number one contender for that yet again. And that’s not to mention all those other titles. The guy knows the ins-and-outs of the federation like no one else.”
“Yes, but…” the man pauses to cast about. No Phinehas. No William. No Ruth to place a hex upon him for speaking ill of her brother. “…he’s got nowhere to go but down. Look, I’ll be the first to admit he’s been a force for more than a decade, nearly two, but a person can only keep up that pace for so long. Even Grimm.”
“And I suppose Nathan Saniti and Whitey Ford are going to be the ones to show him the door?”
“Nathan Saniti is the North American champion. He just beat Grimm, like I said, and before that he defeated Alexa Black in…well, I don’t know what that was, other than something way beyond the usual wrestling match, but Saniti won. He’s got the Harvesters…”
“Harvesters. Pfft. There’s only one Harvest in PCW and you know it.”
“He’s got that group of his and those hat pins and all that other hocus pocus. So, yes, Nathan Saniti could be the one.”
The other rolls his eyes and leans back.
“Saniti is the North American champion - which has no bearing on this match, by the way - but he doesn’t seem too enthused about it one way or the other. Indifference of the wrong sort is dangerous. As is uncertainty. All those missions or quests or whatever, the fallout with Kelli Starr…it’s all got to weigh on his mind. One lapse of judgment at Trauma and he’s out of the picture. And I don’t expect any deus ex machina is going to fall from the sky or appear in one of his lackey's pockets to suddenly save the day. ”
grimmmmm…
They freeze. Their eyes dart from one corner of the tavern to another. They strain against the dark.
grimmmmm…
It is only the door crawling closed against the wind and the cold. Outside, a half-frozen paper boy covered in soot stomps his feet, offering up a soggy mass of ink-stained pulp to passersby.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it! William Dillinger still missing! Townspeople still relieved!”
The men regain their composure.
“Okay. But that still leaves Whitey Ford.” He begins counting off with his fingers. “Back with a vengeance. Held his own against Dan Fierce. Former World Champion. Longest running International Champion. And, again, had Grimm’s number before.”
“And again, lots of people have done that. That doesn’t mean anything. As for Ford, we’ll see how long this comeback lasts. Longest-reigning this, most successful-something that, greatest of these…yet he can’t bring himself to stick around for more than a few months at a time. Can anyone really say they’re the greatest when their career is marked with intentional disqualifications and no-shows? A career isn’t built with pay per view appearances and title shots or defenses alone. You have to have the self-respect, the moral fiber, even, to give your all each and every time. It’s a reflection of your character in and out of the arena. Otherwise, you’re nothing but a cautionary tale once they find you in a gutter, choking on your own puke. Woulda coulda shoulda.”
He holds his glass up to the candle and swirls his drink. Momentarily lost in the amber storm.
“‘For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: It might have been!’ ”
He takes a drink and sighs. Breathes deep of the low-hanging funk of old barley and stale malt.
“Grimm is the underlying catalyst of the PCW. Champion or not, it means something when someone so much as stands toe-to-toe with him. They still sometimes feed the new members to him as a test. So I have to ask, why this sudden animosity towards him? Especially here. It kind of came out of nowhere.”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Just keeping the conversation going. The sooner it ends, the sooner we go our separate ways.”
He looks away, into the fireplace. Watches his life smolder up the chimney.
“And I’m so lonely.”
“…”
A great breath within the tavern, an all-encompassing pause. The sound of a chair scooting against the floor, at a table that had been empty when they’d walked in. They turn to see a figure stand, adjust his coat, check his pockets, and step around them. They know who it is. They recognize the son of Hangtown. The red hair, the Beard, the carriage of the man. They brace themselves for a beating or a toss through the nearest window. Tensed as they are, preparing for the worst, he moves past and steps up to the bar. The tender leans in and looks at them when Phinehas Dillinger points their direction. The bartender flips through a stack of tabs by the register and slips one across the counter. Phinehas reaches into a coat pocket, counts out a few bits of paper money for the bartender, and exits without further acknowledgement.
A great exhale.
Or, no, had there been a pause at their table? Had he feinted, then grinned at their flinching? Maybe he put his hands on the table and leaned in. Maybe he whispered. Maybe they still hear his voice in their heads. Maybe their looks to one another confirm it.
“Go back to sleep.”
