Post by Grimm on Oct 9, 2017 12:11:53 GMT -5
Down here in the dark, one finally understands just how little nature cares about our plans. The stocking up for the lean months ahead is only part of the endless, inevitable cycle that governs our days. Tilling, sowing, reaping, dimming, and withering. Repeat ad nauseum until your husk joins the earth and becomes a negligible contribution to the process.
Down here in the dark, where the clay bears the scars from the bite of a shovel. Where the roots reach out from the sycamores and poplars looming above you. Where the occasional swirl of a brachiopod reminds you this was all once at the bottom of an ancient ocean. Where the air hangs stagnant and sepulchral at a constant 54 degrees.
Down here in the dark, where instead of the single routine light bulb swinging naked from the ceiling, Phinehas Dillinger holds up a lantern to check the mason jars. A flame fueled by rendered goat fat and mineral oil lights the way. Jars of pickled veggies, jars of vinegars, jars of…something so cloudy as to be indeterminate.
A jar, crystal clear, of grain alcohol or corn liquor. For when keeping one’s wits serves only to get in one’s way.
So says Whitey Ford, the dirty rotten scoundrel. Or is he the federation’s redeemer this week? Whichever it is, he continues chasing something. Something that can fill the hole deep in the center of him that self-abuse has failed to mask. Something like, say, a wrestling title which he hopes to hold onto, a belt that will aid him in accomplishing…something. Only Whitey can answer that.
One day.
Maybe.
Or maybe it’s strychnine. The odor tells the tale.
A jar of frankincense oil. Perfume fit for a priest’s sanctification. A jar of myrrh. To anoint the recently deceased.
(And where is the gold? That fit for a king. Or a champion. Look and see! It’s stashed there in the back, behind the slabs of salted ham swinging on hooks. Next to the crate of a slithering concentration smelling of cucumbers.)
Praise this, praise that. Praise: that which makes good men better and bad men worse. Seromine chases such praise. Something to give credence to his claims of salvation. Perhaps a certain title will provide that?
The World Title means something different for everyone. Approval of the unwashed masses. Validation that one’s pursuits are good enough. Anything to cover the desperation and insecurities of a fallen people. Whatever the reasoning, all World Champions cast their own influence on the federation during their title reigns, no matter how brief. We can only hope such influence is beneficial to the greater good, or at least faint and short-lived.
Though, at this point, were Grimm to walk out World Champion (again?!), what more could it mean? That he is still someone to be reckoned with. That his career still holds meaning, and that he isn’t just a warm body to be tossed into the ring under necessity. That he remains the Abomination of Desolation. The Crimson Demon. The Lord of Misrule. The Hangtown Horror. The Destroyer at Noonday. The Phantom of the Backwoods.
Their words, not his.
And maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s something no one has considered.
Whatever you call him, he pauses at the sound of footsteps overhead. He grins at the thought of Ruth and Granny milling about upstairs. No doubt preparing for the season at hand, with their hex dolls and beeswax candles.
In such a three person match as the main event at Deadly Intentions VIII, anything can happen. And if that anything is unfortunate, well, what does it mean? Not much. It changes nothing. They’ll continue to beat each other and all other comers beyond the limits of reason. All to prove their own points, whether they are aware of them or not, all with their own particular brands of violence. At Deadly Intentions, at Trauma, and so on and so forth.
The endless, inevitable cycle of Pure Class Wrestling.
Down here in the dark, where the clay bears the scars from the bite of a shovel. Where the roots reach out from the sycamores and poplars looming above you. Where the occasional swirl of a brachiopod reminds you this was all once at the bottom of an ancient ocean. Where the air hangs stagnant and sepulchral at a constant 54 degrees.
Down here in the dark, where instead of the single routine light bulb swinging naked from the ceiling, Phinehas Dillinger holds up a lantern to check the mason jars. A flame fueled by rendered goat fat and mineral oil lights the way. Jars of pickled veggies, jars of vinegars, jars of…something so cloudy as to be indeterminate.
A jar, crystal clear, of grain alcohol or corn liquor. For when keeping one’s wits serves only to get in one’s way.
So says Whitey Ford, the dirty rotten scoundrel. Or is he the federation’s redeemer this week? Whichever it is, he continues chasing something. Something that can fill the hole deep in the center of him that self-abuse has failed to mask. Something like, say, a wrestling title which he hopes to hold onto, a belt that will aid him in accomplishing…something. Only Whitey can answer that.
One day.
Maybe.
Or maybe it’s strychnine. The odor tells the tale.
A jar of frankincense oil. Perfume fit for a priest’s sanctification. A jar of myrrh. To anoint the recently deceased.
(And where is the gold? That fit for a king. Or a champion. Look and see! It’s stashed there in the back, behind the slabs of salted ham swinging on hooks. Next to the crate of a slithering concentration smelling of cucumbers.)
Praise this, praise that. Praise: that which makes good men better and bad men worse. Seromine chases such praise. Something to give credence to his claims of salvation. Perhaps a certain title will provide that?
The World Title means something different for everyone. Approval of the unwashed masses. Validation that one’s pursuits are good enough. Anything to cover the desperation and insecurities of a fallen people. Whatever the reasoning, all World Champions cast their own influence on the federation during their title reigns, no matter how brief. We can only hope such influence is beneficial to the greater good, or at least faint and short-lived.
Though, at this point, were Grimm to walk out World Champion (again?!), what more could it mean? That he is still someone to be reckoned with. That his career still holds meaning, and that he isn’t just a warm body to be tossed into the ring under necessity. That he remains the Abomination of Desolation. The Crimson Demon. The Lord of Misrule. The Hangtown Horror. The Destroyer at Noonday. The Phantom of the Backwoods.
Their words, not his.
And maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s something no one has considered.
Whatever you call him, he pauses at the sound of footsteps overhead. He grins at the thought of Ruth and Granny milling about upstairs. No doubt preparing for the season at hand, with their hex dolls and beeswax candles.
In such a three person match as the main event at Deadly Intentions VIII, anything can happen. And if that anything is unfortunate, well, what does it mean? Not much. It changes nothing. They’ll continue to beat each other and all other comers beyond the limits of reason. All to prove their own points, whether they are aware of them or not, all with their own particular brands of violence. At Deadly Intentions, at Trauma, and so on and so forth.
The endless, inevitable cycle of Pure Class Wrestling.
