Old blood noise endeavors
Feb 10, 2017 16:55:12 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Feb 10, 2017 16:55:12 GMT -5
The same day that Granny summoned Phinehas Dillinger to her hut, a coal barge ran aground downstream of Hangtown.
Same old Whitey Ford.
Maybe you’re “clean,” maybe you aren’t. And maybe you’ve managed so far to resist your natural inclination for blatant, rampant cheating. None of this proves anything. There’s nothing new under the sun. I can no more shave my beard or a leopard change its spots than some do “good” who are accustomed to wickedness. Whether nature or nurture, it’s your lot. Sure, sitting and watching your opponents wear each other down is perfectly legal and may be considered “smart” in some circles, but there will be no sitting this week.
The hut gave the impression that it was part of the hill. That it had grown out of the sandstone. A person would miss it if they didn’t know what to look for. As it was, Phinehas was quite familiar with the lichen patterns across the stones, the moss spread just so over the cedar shingles. The ribbon of smoke twisting upward from the chimney didn’t hurt, either.
He stepped through the heavy wooden door without announcing himself and into a gloom, even now in midday. The seemingly random scattering of windows and spread of tallow candles cut the darkness just enough, but only just enough. The fiery grin of a soapstone stove greeted him, as did the aroma of something autumnal simmering in a cast iron pot. Say what you will about Granny’s avocations and tendencies, her home was warm and dry no matter the conditions out there, and it was a welcoming one. Once Phinehas’s glacier eyes adjusted, he saw the glassware of various dimensions, the jars of canned goods, the books and papers scattered most everywhere.
Granny sat at a table with a pewter bowl full of water in front of her. Water…and coagulated blood. She stirred the emulsion with a long bony finger, and the old dark clots eddied about. Merging and departing, sinking and rising.
And beside her, Ruth sat turning over cards. She laid them out in spreads of three, and seven, and eight, then returned them to the deck, shuffled, and repeated the process. Ruth glanced up at her brother.
“What happened to your face?”
Phinehas passed a hand over the bridge of his nose, currently a curious shade of green-purple-yellow. It was a bruise anyone would be proud of.
“An ill-timed headbutt, that’s what.”
Ruth nodded. “Hmph.”
The question is, why the insistence on proving this change of heart? Are you not satisfied? Are you not entertained? The other personas – the comedian, the fan favorite, the ultra heel – were all measured and found wanting, perhaps. This return, this shift, is meant to “save” PCW. Save it from what? This return, this shift, is meant to save yourself, most likely. After something like 38 years Whitey Ford continues to go to great lengths to avoid the cold hard truth of the matter. Thus the time spent whiskey bent and drug addled. And now, after a day spent molesting the drunk, the feeble, and the afflicted, with no crowd, no microphone, and no chat rooms, you’re all you’ve got. Just you and your mundane existence.
I’d want to numb that, too.
You are who you are, but we can tolerate it until you leave again. We’ve all gotten pretty good at that.
Phinehas sat down across from them and slid a candle to the side. He leaned forward in the chair, eyes shifting to take them both in.
“So…what do you see?”
Granny peered into the bowl. “Broken mirrors. Doors that should have stayed closed.” She sniffed. “Rotten apples.”
Ruth ran her fingers over the cards. The Green Man. The Wheel. The Great Bear. The Blasted Oak. The Pole Star. The Stag. The Ancestor.
Phinehas, youngest son of the Dillingers, brother to William and Ruth, had been put to the test by the alchemy of Hangtown. Transmuted by the shale and siltstone under the hills. Purified by the flowing river. Perfected by the Hanging Tree. Distilled until only the pure essence of Grimm remained.
“A greater conflict than it looks,” said Ruth.
Granny looked up from the bowl. “Unnatural forces are on the move. The time for foolishness in Hangtown is over. We can't afford to allow things to play out and resolve themselves on their own anymore. The occasional act of judgment is no longer enough. You need to put everyone on notice: we’re purging the bad humors. “
“So this is my fortune, then.”
“Are you asking if you’re destined for this? I suppose that depends on your views on destiny and fate and whatnot. “
Granny removed her finger from the bowl and flicked blood into the water. It churned in swirls and knots.
“But this is happening now. And here we are.”
So what does any of this have to do with our actual match? Not much. But so far we’ve witnessed you and Eira treading water, a double countout, and your front row seat at the last Trauma. We don’t know what 207 will hold. Over the years, though, we have all seen that the race is not always to the swift. The battle is not always to the strong. Riches aren’t always gained by the intelligent, and favor is not always found by the skillful. Time and chance happen to us all, and that’s okay. Because until Salvation or the Harvesters run down, or Dan Fierce interjects himself in the match – let’s face it, he has unfinished business with you and I whacked him with a shovel – or any number of other things that can happen in PCW, it’ll be just the two of us. And no matter the past, present, or future outcomes, there’s not enough skunky beer and fruity cocktails in Maine to numb you to that.
Ruth stacked her cards and returned the deck to the folds of her skirt. She removed her hand, and in place of the cards she held up a tarnished silver pocket watch. Phinehas recognized it even in the half-light.
“Here, take this.”
Ruth underhanded the watch and Phinehas caught it. He held it in the guttering light of a candle. He ran his thumb over the etchings.
“I last saw this in the pocket of a dead man.”
“A hanged witch hunter, if I’m not mistaken.”
Phinehas raised it to his ear. The springs and cogs and wheels clicked into place and turned in all their ticking glory. He pressed the crown and let out a low whistle when the watch popped open. Unlike before, there were hands now, and they moved across the pale face to mark the Roman numerals.
“You don’t want to be late,” said Ruth.
Same old Whitey Ford.
Maybe you’re “clean,” maybe you aren’t. And maybe you’ve managed so far to resist your natural inclination for blatant, rampant cheating. None of this proves anything. There’s nothing new under the sun. I can no more shave my beard or a leopard change its spots than some do “good” who are accustomed to wickedness. Whether nature or nurture, it’s your lot. Sure, sitting and watching your opponents wear each other down is perfectly legal and may be considered “smart” in some circles, but there will be no sitting this week.
The hut gave the impression that it was part of the hill. That it had grown out of the sandstone. A person would miss it if they didn’t know what to look for. As it was, Phinehas was quite familiar with the lichen patterns across the stones, the moss spread just so over the cedar shingles. The ribbon of smoke twisting upward from the chimney didn’t hurt, either.
He stepped through the heavy wooden door without announcing himself and into a gloom, even now in midday. The seemingly random scattering of windows and spread of tallow candles cut the darkness just enough, but only just enough. The fiery grin of a soapstone stove greeted him, as did the aroma of something autumnal simmering in a cast iron pot. Say what you will about Granny’s avocations and tendencies, her home was warm and dry no matter the conditions out there, and it was a welcoming one. Once Phinehas’s glacier eyes adjusted, he saw the glassware of various dimensions, the jars of canned goods, the books and papers scattered most everywhere.
Granny sat at a table with a pewter bowl full of water in front of her. Water…and coagulated blood. She stirred the emulsion with a long bony finger, and the old dark clots eddied about. Merging and departing, sinking and rising.
And beside her, Ruth sat turning over cards. She laid them out in spreads of three, and seven, and eight, then returned them to the deck, shuffled, and repeated the process. Ruth glanced up at her brother.
“What happened to your face?”
Phinehas passed a hand over the bridge of his nose, currently a curious shade of green-purple-yellow. It was a bruise anyone would be proud of.
“An ill-timed headbutt, that’s what.”
Ruth nodded. “Hmph.”
The question is, why the insistence on proving this change of heart? Are you not satisfied? Are you not entertained? The other personas – the comedian, the fan favorite, the ultra heel – were all measured and found wanting, perhaps. This return, this shift, is meant to “save” PCW. Save it from what? This return, this shift, is meant to save yourself, most likely. After something like 38 years Whitey Ford continues to go to great lengths to avoid the cold hard truth of the matter. Thus the time spent whiskey bent and drug addled. And now, after a day spent molesting the drunk, the feeble, and the afflicted, with no crowd, no microphone, and no chat rooms, you’re all you’ve got. Just you and your mundane existence.
I’d want to numb that, too.
You are who you are, but we can tolerate it until you leave again. We’ve all gotten pretty good at that.
Phinehas sat down across from them and slid a candle to the side. He leaned forward in the chair, eyes shifting to take them both in.
“So…what do you see?”
Granny peered into the bowl. “Broken mirrors. Doors that should have stayed closed.” She sniffed. “Rotten apples.”
Ruth ran her fingers over the cards. The Green Man. The Wheel. The Great Bear. The Blasted Oak. The Pole Star. The Stag. The Ancestor.
Phinehas, youngest son of the Dillingers, brother to William and Ruth, had been put to the test by the alchemy of Hangtown. Transmuted by the shale and siltstone under the hills. Purified by the flowing river. Perfected by the Hanging Tree. Distilled until only the pure essence of Grimm remained.
“A greater conflict than it looks,” said Ruth.
Granny looked up from the bowl. “Unnatural forces are on the move. The time for foolishness in Hangtown is over. We can't afford to allow things to play out and resolve themselves on their own anymore. The occasional act of judgment is no longer enough. You need to put everyone on notice: we’re purging the bad humors. “
“So this is my fortune, then.”
“Are you asking if you’re destined for this? I suppose that depends on your views on destiny and fate and whatnot. “
Granny removed her finger from the bowl and flicked blood into the water. It churned in swirls and knots.
“But this is happening now. And here we are.”
So what does any of this have to do with our actual match? Not much. But so far we’ve witnessed you and Eira treading water, a double countout, and your front row seat at the last Trauma. We don’t know what 207 will hold. Over the years, though, we have all seen that the race is not always to the swift. The battle is not always to the strong. Riches aren’t always gained by the intelligent, and favor is not always found by the skillful. Time and chance happen to us all, and that’s okay. Because until Salvation or the Harvesters run down, or Dan Fierce interjects himself in the match – let’s face it, he has unfinished business with you and I whacked him with a shovel – or any number of other things that can happen in PCW, it’ll be just the two of us. And no matter the past, present, or future outcomes, there’s not enough skunky beer and fruity cocktails in Maine to numb you to that.
Ruth stacked her cards and returned the deck to the folds of her skirt. She removed her hand, and in place of the cards she held up a tarnished silver pocket watch. Phinehas recognized it even in the half-light.
“Here, take this.”
Ruth underhanded the watch and Phinehas caught it. He held it in the guttering light of a candle. He ran his thumb over the etchings.
“I last saw this in the pocket of a dead man.”
“A hanged witch hunter, if I’m not mistaken.”
Phinehas raised it to his ear. The springs and cogs and wheels clicked into place and turned in all their ticking glory. He pressed the crown and let out a low whistle when the watch popped open. Unlike before, there were hands now, and they moved across the pale face to mark the Roman numerals.
“You don’t want to be late,” said Ruth.
