Post by Grimm on Apr 10, 2017 11:53:15 GMT -5
Imagine, if you will, an 8mm film projector aimed at a whitewashed cinder block wall. Please excuse the water stains on the wall, as well as the general odor of the room. Try not to think about why the carpet is wet. The projector clicks on, the film reels sync up into place, and the flickering lights signal the beginning of an evening’s entertainment. The film, washed out and corrupted by its time sitting in a poorly ventilated warehouse, jumps across missing frames. Blobs of nitrate decay mar the continuity, and vinegar syndrome casts everything in a sick shade of yellow. A whistle blows off-key and announces the funeral black steam engine rolling into the scene.
Engine, passenger car festooned in Hangtown livery, and a caboose, all staffed by a skeleton crew working off camera. The stoker feeds the coal fires. The engineer and brakeman keep the train on the straight and narrow.
No one comes through offering coffee or bags of unsalted peanuts
Pistons push the drive train. The running gear turns the driving wheels. An oil lamp swings from the front of the engine, in time with the swaying of the train. Smoke and sparks and ash pour out of the blast pipe and leave a trail a mile long. The train started back there somewhere, and will end up yonder.
Phinehas Dillinger stands in the passenger car. He holds onto an overhead steel bar running the length of it. A second man in a tweed coat and fedora sits on a bench near him. A card stuck in the fedora’s band announces him as a member of the “PRESS” in meticulously printed letters. The reporter sits with a notebook flipped open, pencil poised at the ready.
“I’m not sure what I have to gain by taking part in this tournament, either, but there you have it. A night of frenzied violence for the masses. Though, maybe it’s more for Kyle Shane’s benefit. He has been on a tear since he arrived in PCW. And he is the Underground Champion. It could be a way for the front office to see if he’s really as talented as he seems to be. They missed their chance to feed him to Grimm when he first signed on, so what better time to make up for it than the Icemann Invitational Tournament? Seems like as good a way to get his full measure as any other.”
Cold steel rings. The hammer strikes fire. The train pushes ahead with the red-headed harbinger on board.
“No doubt Kyle Shane will share his opinions about this match. His many, many opinions. But they’re just words, no better or worse than anything I’ve heard before.”
A historical marker for the Bogside Massacre flashes past.
Oh, the humanity!
“Take Dan Fierce. Here is a man who went through trials and tribulations the likes of which we hadn’t seen to become World Champion. He became the number one contender. Then, somehow, he lost that position. He won it back. He defeated Murdoc of all people to become that champion. And once he did, you know what Fierce said leading up to Mass Destruction. We all heard it. He told me he would keep that crown right where it was. He’d prove there was nothing to fear. That Grimm hadn’t the slightest chance of winning.”
Phinehas picks at a massive scab covering much of his chinny-chin-chin. The hair has started to grow back (I will it into existence), but the injury remains, all vivid and bruised. It weeps. Phinehas pulls away and looks at his fingers. He becomes a six-foot-three-inch scowl and flicks off the gruesome bits.
“Sure, he delivered a sound beating. And maybe he still isn’t afraid of me.”
Eyes narrow to focus the ice and the cold. The corners of his mouth tick upward under the unconquerable Beard.
“But he ain’t the World Champion anymore, either.”
Through the windows a debris field comes into view. Plows sit half buried in the clay. Threshers with missing tongs wait for a harvest that will never come. Vines reach and tangle the remaining broken fragments. Jagged cornstalks, left behind for scavengers, leer at the train. The field sits fallow, rusted, wasted. Scales and corrosion work to consume it all.
“I understand that Kyle Shane isn’t Dan Fierce. I’m sure he’d be happy to break down all the ways in which he isn’t. Kyle has spread some carnage, true, but he has also taken some useless detours. And I believe once he works out his vulgar fractions, he’ll discover I’m not Oliva Xavier. Or Crazy Boy. Or Lunacy, or any of the other poor wretches he’s faced thus far.”
The train shudders.
“I’m Grimm.”
Rivets strain.
“Kyle Shane’s path has become a strange and difficult one. And this isn’t one of his video games.”
The train’s whistle reaches a fevered pitch. It hits a beautiful melody telling of terrible things. The most minor of minor keys. The world outside slows and the iron horse passes a crossroads. A pale man in a black suit stands with one hand on a silver-tipped cane, one hand resting on the head of an enormous hound the same color of its master’s suit. The man flashes a dreadful smile.
The reporter licks the tip of his pencil and raises a finger, but Phinehas doesn’t notice.
“Now, I’m sure the talking heads may all go on their usual spiel about how the match pits an established member of the federation against a relative newcomer. About how no matter the outcome, Kyle Shane will walk out with a feather in his cap. If he loses, well, who hasn’t lost to Grimm? That’s nothing to be ashamed of. But he if wins, oh my, not only does he advance in the tournament, but he beat the Hangtown Horror. Hypothetically speaking, of course. These events have neither divine nor natural sanction."
A long exhale, either from Phinehas or a regulator valve.
“Then again, at the end of the night, regardless of what Kyle Shane does or does not accomplish, I’m walking out of that arena with the World Title firmly in my grasp. No one is taking that away from me at Trauma.”
The train slows, rumbles to a stop. Outside a distorted voice announces something about “...Desolation….Champion…tour…welcome…” The garbling ends soon enough. Phinehas steps out onto a small platform. Gray sky racked with clouds or not, he takes a second to let his eyes adjust. A tiding of magpies roosting in a bare ash tree greets him. Phinehas tips an imaginary cap.
“Hello, Boneyfiddle!”
Without unspooling, the film rewinds and restarts. The train’s route loops over and around. Again and again.
Engine, passenger car festooned in Hangtown livery, and a caboose, all staffed by a skeleton crew working off camera. The stoker feeds the coal fires. The engineer and brakeman keep the train on the straight and narrow.
No one comes through offering coffee or bags of unsalted peanuts
Pistons push the drive train. The running gear turns the driving wheels. An oil lamp swings from the front of the engine, in time with the swaying of the train. Smoke and sparks and ash pour out of the blast pipe and leave a trail a mile long. The train started back there somewhere, and will end up yonder.
Phinehas Dillinger stands in the passenger car. He holds onto an overhead steel bar running the length of it. A second man in a tweed coat and fedora sits on a bench near him. A card stuck in the fedora’s band announces him as a member of the “PRESS” in meticulously printed letters. The reporter sits with a notebook flipped open, pencil poised at the ready.
“I’m not sure what I have to gain by taking part in this tournament, either, but there you have it. A night of frenzied violence for the masses. Though, maybe it’s more for Kyle Shane’s benefit. He has been on a tear since he arrived in PCW. And he is the Underground Champion. It could be a way for the front office to see if he’s really as talented as he seems to be. They missed their chance to feed him to Grimm when he first signed on, so what better time to make up for it than the Icemann Invitational Tournament? Seems like as good a way to get his full measure as any other.”
Cold steel rings. The hammer strikes fire. The train pushes ahead with the red-headed harbinger on board.
“No doubt Kyle Shane will share his opinions about this match. His many, many opinions. But they’re just words, no better or worse than anything I’ve heard before.”
A historical marker for the Bogside Massacre flashes past.
Oh, the humanity!
“Take Dan Fierce. Here is a man who went through trials and tribulations the likes of which we hadn’t seen to become World Champion. He became the number one contender. Then, somehow, he lost that position. He won it back. He defeated Murdoc of all people to become that champion. And once he did, you know what Fierce said leading up to Mass Destruction. We all heard it. He told me he would keep that crown right where it was. He’d prove there was nothing to fear. That Grimm hadn’t the slightest chance of winning.”
Phinehas picks at a massive scab covering much of his chinny-chin-chin. The hair has started to grow back (I will it into existence), but the injury remains, all vivid and bruised. It weeps. Phinehas pulls away and looks at his fingers. He becomes a six-foot-three-inch scowl and flicks off the gruesome bits.
“Sure, he delivered a sound beating. And maybe he still isn’t afraid of me.”
Eyes narrow to focus the ice and the cold. The corners of his mouth tick upward under the unconquerable Beard.
“But he ain’t the World Champion anymore, either.”
Through the windows a debris field comes into view. Plows sit half buried in the clay. Threshers with missing tongs wait for a harvest that will never come. Vines reach and tangle the remaining broken fragments. Jagged cornstalks, left behind for scavengers, leer at the train. The field sits fallow, rusted, wasted. Scales and corrosion work to consume it all.
“I understand that Kyle Shane isn’t Dan Fierce. I’m sure he’d be happy to break down all the ways in which he isn’t. Kyle has spread some carnage, true, but he has also taken some useless detours. And I believe once he works out his vulgar fractions, he’ll discover I’m not Oliva Xavier. Or Crazy Boy. Or Lunacy, or any of the other poor wretches he’s faced thus far.”
The train shudders.
“I’m Grimm.”
Rivets strain.
“Kyle Shane’s path has become a strange and difficult one. And this isn’t one of his video games.”
The train’s whistle reaches a fevered pitch. It hits a beautiful melody telling of terrible things. The most minor of minor keys. The world outside slows and the iron horse passes a crossroads. A pale man in a black suit stands with one hand on a silver-tipped cane, one hand resting on the head of an enormous hound the same color of its master’s suit. The man flashes a dreadful smile.
The reporter licks the tip of his pencil and raises a finger, but Phinehas doesn’t notice.
“Now, I’m sure the talking heads may all go on their usual spiel about how the match pits an established member of the federation against a relative newcomer. About how no matter the outcome, Kyle Shane will walk out with a feather in his cap. If he loses, well, who hasn’t lost to Grimm? That’s nothing to be ashamed of. But he if wins, oh my, not only does he advance in the tournament, but he beat the Hangtown Horror. Hypothetically speaking, of course. These events have neither divine nor natural sanction."
A long exhale, either from Phinehas or a regulator valve.
“Then again, at the end of the night, regardless of what Kyle Shane does or does not accomplish, I’m walking out of that arena with the World Title firmly in my grasp. No one is taking that away from me at Trauma.”
The train slows, rumbles to a stop. Outside a distorted voice announces something about “...Desolation….Champion…tour…welcome…” The garbling ends soon enough. Phinehas steps out onto a small platform. Gray sky racked with clouds or not, he takes a second to let his eyes adjust. A tiding of magpies roosting in a bare ash tree greets him. Phinehas tips an imaginary cap.
“Hello, Boneyfiddle!”
Without unspooling, the film rewinds and restarts. The train’s route loops over and around. Again and again.
