Post by Grimm on Aug 28, 2017 10:21:23 GMT -5
Had he not been terrified beyond all reason, the man would have noticed that the birds were singing again. The squirrels had resumed their rambunctiousness among the boughs overhead. As it were, the man scrambled down the hill, ignoring the limbs whipping across his face and the throbbing of his hand. He looked back briefly, hoping not to see that which he was sure had followed. He tossed a filthy burlap sack, half full of roots, behind him. Stumbling over rocks, through briars, around stumps, he did not have the luxury of tending to the increasing number of cuts and bruises spreading over his body. Getting out alive took precedent over any number of indignities he might suffer in the process.
The hill leveled off and he burst through the undergrowth into a clearing. Still running, he didn’t notice as the leaves underfoot turned into a muddy path which eventually became a cobbled lane. Small blotches of smeared yellow lights in the distance marked a return to civilization, but he was comforted in knowing that he didn’t have to make it all the way into Hangtown. The small building growing larger on his right would surely serve as adequate sanctuary this evening. He yanked open the door, paying no mind as it crashed into the wooden sign announcing that he had arrived at The Rowdy Dwarf (the Owl & Eel being a bit too bourgeois for his tastes). Due to the late hour and an impending storm, the tavern was not as raucous as usual. The few customers on hand stopped in mid-sentence and turned their attention to the man. Even the fiddle and concertina in the corner grew silent.
They recognized him, gulping air, grimacing with his hands on his knees, as one of their own and circled around him, watching as he slumped into a chair by the door. A few more gasps and he spoke.
“He’s coming…right behind me.”
“Who?”
”Him.”
A murmur rushed through the crowd. Speculations flew. The Lord of Misrule? The Phantom of the Backwoods? Their thoughts turned to acts of brutality and disdain for their fellow man, remembering what they had hoped to forget…
Shovels whistling through the air…a man being force-fed his own beard like some disgusting foie gras abomination…abandoning reason, a series of headbutts that not only ended matches but ruined careers…and dear Lord, the Harvests…
The circle moved in closer. They prayed the man was wrong. “How do you know it was him? They say he left. They say this last loss was one too many…”
“I know what they say. That’s why I was hunting ginseng on his…on what I figured used to be his land. No one could be the wiser, after all. I came to the top of a hill and was digging under a rotten log when I heard footsteps in the leaves and some minor chords on the air (“…his mandolin…” came the consensus from nearly everyone in the tavern). I froze, the notes lingered like they wanted to make sure I never forgot them…and then I bolted.”
A few moments of no sound save the pop of a log shifting in the grate, until another question was raised. “So you didn’t actually see him?”
The man looked up at the crowd and wiped sweat and blood from his forehead. “Well…no, not exactly. But where there’s a tune, there’s…”
“Grimm?”
All eyes turned towards the direction of the voice, to the back of the tavern. A figure, obscured by shadow, sat next to the massive stone fireplace. “It’s like you said…Grimm left days ago for parts unknown. He disappeared into the forest. Hangtown reclaimed him. He’d had enough. ”
One of the more inebriated patrons stepped forward. “And what do you know of this, stranger?”
“Me?” The figure stood, a tall thin silhouette, and moved towards the crowd. He held out his hands and offered a slight nod. “I’m just a glutton for punishment, I suppose.”
He stepped into the light. The crowd shuffled back at the sight of shaggy red hair and the thick beard. The pale blue eyes darted about the room, piercing everyone to the marrow. He moved through the crowd, past the man in the chair, and stopped at the door.
“I get it. There’s the recent exodus of much of the roster, including some of our more stalwart names. Our legends, even. And in the match with Whitey Ford, well, we all saw what happened. But despite what happened at the pay per view, despite what has somehow managed to happen over the course of his career here, there’s no denying Ford’s days are measured, weighed, and found wanting. Whether it’s the drugs, the alcohol, the temper, or what-have-you, he won’t be cock-of-the-walk forever. And if the likes of Non Compos Mentis, LoKi, Murdoc, and Billy Sadistic can’t drive me out of the business, Whitey Ford most definitely won’t.”
Phinehas Dillinger rested his hand on the man in the chair. The man cinched his eyes shut and began mouthing Psalm 23 to himself.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…
Phinehas gave his shoulder a squeeze, and whistled a familiar tune from a windswept hilltop.
“Besides, I’m scheduled for a match. And I do not slack on my responsibilities. Especially now. I’m disappointed you think I would just up and leave like that. It’s unfortunate that you all think so little of me.”
At that accusation, several others in the tavern joined along in the prayer. As if it would stay his hand.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Phinehas wound his way through the crowd. Looking from one patron to the next, but none returned his gaze. As he passed, candles scattered among the tables guttered out.
“Kyle Shane and Alexa Black are formidable opponents. They’ve had their shares of successes and failures in their time in Pure Class Wrestling, just like any of us. But there have been states of infectious delusion surrounding the both of them. An unstoppable force of ultraviolence, said some. The fastest-rising superstar in recent memory, said the others. I admit I fell prey to it myself.”
Still walking. Still daring them to look at him.
“At first.”
He made his way back to the doorway, where he stood with his hand on the doorknob. The candles flickered back to life.
please don’t lock us in here please don’t lock us in here please don’t lock us in here
“But that was all based on their own personal narrative. It’s all talk. Once I stepped into the ring with them, I found them out. Look at us. Other than the occasional exchange of titles, at the end of the night nothing has changed. Go back and try to convince yourself that it has. Tell your stories, wave your hands, go out of your way to make believe you’ve got advantages in the ring the others do not. It’s nothing none of us haven’t heard before. So instead I’ll just walk down to the drone like I always do, step into the ring, and start swinging until I’m elbow deep in gore and hope for the best. It’s all I can do. It’s all I’ve ever done.”
Phinehas opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and exited without incident. The crowd released a collective sigh of extreme relief but remained where they were, unsure of how to proceed.
Until two arms shot through the window and seized the man in the chair by his collar, yanking him out of the tavern and into the night. The crowd rushed out into the street but saw nothing but broken glass and a sheen of blood in a mud puddle shining in the gas lights. The storm’s arrival relieved them of the burden of having to decide what to do next. The sky opened up and, as they rushed back inside, they came to the unspoken agreement that tonight would be just another entry in the ever-expanding collection of tales about their own Hangtown Horror. A tale fit for the Book of the Black Hand, even.
They raised a toast to their fallen friend and drank themselves to oblivion.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…
The hill leveled off and he burst through the undergrowth into a clearing. Still running, he didn’t notice as the leaves underfoot turned into a muddy path which eventually became a cobbled lane. Small blotches of smeared yellow lights in the distance marked a return to civilization, but he was comforted in knowing that he didn’t have to make it all the way into Hangtown. The small building growing larger on his right would surely serve as adequate sanctuary this evening. He yanked open the door, paying no mind as it crashed into the wooden sign announcing that he had arrived at The Rowdy Dwarf (the Owl & Eel being a bit too bourgeois for his tastes). Due to the late hour and an impending storm, the tavern was not as raucous as usual. The few customers on hand stopped in mid-sentence and turned their attention to the man. Even the fiddle and concertina in the corner grew silent.
They recognized him, gulping air, grimacing with his hands on his knees, as one of their own and circled around him, watching as he slumped into a chair by the door. A few more gasps and he spoke.
“He’s coming…right behind me.”
“Who?”
”Him.”
A murmur rushed through the crowd. Speculations flew. The Lord of Misrule? The Phantom of the Backwoods? Their thoughts turned to acts of brutality and disdain for their fellow man, remembering what they had hoped to forget…
Shovels whistling through the air…a man being force-fed his own beard like some disgusting foie gras abomination…abandoning reason, a series of headbutts that not only ended matches but ruined careers…and dear Lord, the Harvests…
The circle moved in closer. They prayed the man was wrong. “How do you know it was him? They say he left. They say this last loss was one too many…”
“I know what they say. That’s why I was hunting ginseng on his…on what I figured used to be his land. No one could be the wiser, after all. I came to the top of a hill and was digging under a rotten log when I heard footsteps in the leaves and some minor chords on the air (“…his mandolin…” came the consensus from nearly everyone in the tavern). I froze, the notes lingered like they wanted to make sure I never forgot them…and then I bolted.”
A few moments of no sound save the pop of a log shifting in the grate, until another question was raised. “So you didn’t actually see him?”
The man looked up at the crowd and wiped sweat and blood from his forehead. “Well…no, not exactly. But where there’s a tune, there’s…”
“Grimm?”
All eyes turned towards the direction of the voice, to the back of the tavern. A figure, obscured by shadow, sat next to the massive stone fireplace. “It’s like you said…Grimm left days ago for parts unknown. He disappeared into the forest. Hangtown reclaimed him. He’d had enough. ”
One of the more inebriated patrons stepped forward. “And what do you know of this, stranger?”
“Me?” The figure stood, a tall thin silhouette, and moved towards the crowd. He held out his hands and offered a slight nod. “I’m just a glutton for punishment, I suppose.”
He stepped into the light. The crowd shuffled back at the sight of shaggy red hair and the thick beard. The pale blue eyes darted about the room, piercing everyone to the marrow. He moved through the crowd, past the man in the chair, and stopped at the door.
“I get it. There’s the recent exodus of much of the roster, including some of our more stalwart names. Our legends, even. And in the match with Whitey Ford, well, we all saw what happened. But despite what happened at the pay per view, despite what has somehow managed to happen over the course of his career here, there’s no denying Ford’s days are measured, weighed, and found wanting. Whether it’s the drugs, the alcohol, the temper, or what-have-you, he won’t be cock-of-the-walk forever. And if the likes of Non Compos Mentis, LoKi, Murdoc, and Billy Sadistic can’t drive me out of the business, Whitey Ford most definitely won’t.”
Phinehas Dillinger rested his hand on the man in the chair. The man cinched his eyes shut and began mouthing Psalm 23 to himself.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…
Phinehas gave his shoulder a squeeze, and whistled a familiar tune from a windswept hilltop.
“Besides, I’m scheduled for a match. And I do not slack on my responsibilities. Especially now. I’m disappointed you think I would just up and leave like that. It’s unfortunate that you all think so little of me.”
At that accusation, several others in the tavern joined along in the prayer. As if it would stay his hand.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Phinehas wound his way through the crowd. Looking from one patron to the next, but none returned his gaze. As he passed, candles scattered among the tables guttered out.
“Kyle Shane and Alexa Black are formidable opponents. They’ve had their shares of successes and failures in their time in Pure Class Wrestling, just like any of us. But there have been states of infectious delusion surrounding the both of them. An unstoppable force of ultraviolence, said some. The fastest-rising superstar in recent memory, said the others. I admit I fell prey to it myself.”
Still walking. Still daring them to look at him.
“At first.”
He made his way back to the doorway, where he stood with his hand on the doorknob. The candles flickered back to life.
please don’t lock us in here please don’t lock us in here please don’t lock us in here
“But that was all based on their own personal narrative. It’s all talk. Once I stepped into the ring with them, I found them out. Look at us. Other than the occasional exchange of titles, at the end of the night nothing has changed. Go back and try to convince yourself that it has. Tell your stories, wave your hands, go out of your way to make believe you’ve got advantages in the ring the others do not. It’s nothing none of us haven’t heard before. So instead I’ll just walk down to the drone like I always do, step into the ring, and start swinging until I’m elbow deep in gore and hope for the best. It’s all I can do. It’s all I’ve ever done.”
Phinehas opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and exited without incident. The crowd released a collective sigh of extreme relief but remained where they were, unsure of how to proceed.
Until two arms shot through the window and seized the man in the chair by his collar, yanking him out of the tavern and into the night. The crowd rushed out into the street but saw nothing but broken glass and a sheen of blood in a mud puddle shining in the gas lights. The storm’s arrival relieved them of the burden of having to decide what to do next. The sky opened up and, as they rushed back inside, they came to the unspoken agreement that tonight would be just another entry in the ever-expanding collection of tales about their own Hangtown Horror. A tale fit for the Book of the Black Hand, even.
They raised a toast to their fallen friend and drank themselves to oblivion.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…
