20 months (or so) in the making
Nov 14, 2017 11:41:06 GMT -5
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Stace Matthews and The Anarchist like this
Post by Grimm on Nov 14, 2017 11:41:06 GMT -5
It was still dark, and it was cold. The moon glinted off the hoarfrost with the luster of midday below. The grasses and the leaves, all brown and red and orange, now covered in white and silver. Phinehas Dillinger watched his breath plume out, and up, and dissipate among the stars. His very essence now out there, a part of the signs and the stories.
He stood perched in the bough of a hickory tree. Phinehas listened to the creek behind him, the water gurgling over the stones, a rush of voices whispering the very thought repeating in his head.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
They could do what they wanted outside of Grimm’s realm. They could hunt ginseng and shoot turkeys. They could extend the excruciating inanity of Club V until that was all that remained of Pure Class Wrestling. They could challenge the whole of PCW’s roster all at once for one single bloated mega-merged title. That was their prerogative.
But here in All Soul’s Hollow…there while inside the ring with the Lord of Misrule…they all answered to him.
A colder wind arrived from the deepest corner of the hollow. Phinehas stopped to sniff and listen. Wood smoke from the fire of his own hearth. The clack of dead trees rattling against one another. A raven conspiring against all the rest.
Johnny Vivacious had come flying back at them like some jittery mockingbird – only, it seemed a mockery of himself. Something was off this time. This Johnny V. was convinced They (whoever They were) were oh-so-concerned about his very presence that They were always on the verge of, what, fining him an exorbitant amount of money? Terminating his contract? All for his alleged antics, the bulk of which had always been relegated to that talk show segment of his…
CLUB V!!!
…in which he insisted on prattling on about how dangerous he was, both to his eventual opponents and to the moral fiber of the community-at-large. Other than this “show,” though, Phinehas didn’t see it. Choice words and obscene gestures had been the extent of it.
But we would see. If the matches leading up to it didn’t reveal anything, Collision Course most certainly would.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
And Razor Blade had to have come from somewhere.
(Phinehas had a lot of time to think while he waited.)
Some wrestling background, some stint in a previous federation, perhaps even with some semblance of success. While in PCW, though, his tenure spoke for itself. Backstage bantering with Shane Dodge and Kassandra Black. Demands for title shot after title shot. And nothing more to show for it than one embarrassing whuppin’ after another. But now he had finally…finally, I tell you…gotten his wish. A match against Grimm. Granted, it was Grimm without the World Title, but there you had it.
A gunshot from over the hill and a murder of crows erupted from the trees with an impatient rasp.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Which is why Phinehas stood there in the tree. Waiting. It didn’t matter if it was rabbit season or duck season or deer season. He did not acknowledge their seasons. But others did, and these others claimed ignorance sometimes. Or they refused to believe the tales.
“No way that ever really happened. I’d have heard of it.”
So they emerged from the underbrush all decked out in their ghillie suits and toting their unnecessarily high-powered rifles. As if they were hunting terrorists instead of that elusive trophy buck. And they walked right by the hickory tree, and Phinehas watched them pass below him. He dropped down, landing in a crouch, then stood.
“You shouldn’t be here, gents.”
The two hunters looked at each other as they turned, then raised their guns to their shoulders. Their thumbs flicked off the safeties and they drew a bead on the Hangtown Horror. Phinehas smiled.
They really shouldn’t be here.
The crows came back to watch.
He stood perched in the bough of a hickory tree. Phinehas listened to the creek behind him, the water gurgling over the stones, a rush of voices whispering the very thought repeating in his head.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
They could do what they wanted outside of Grimm’s realm. They could hunt ginseng and shoot turkeys. They could extend the excruciating inanity of Club V until that was all that remained of Pure Class Wrestling. They could challenge the whole of PCW’s roster all at once for one single bloated mega-merged title. That was their prerogative.
But here in All Soul’s Hollow…there while inside the ring with the Lord of Misrule…they all answered to him.
A colder wind arrived from the deepest corner of the hollow. Phinehas stopped to sniff and listen. Wood smoke from the fire of his own hearth. The clack of dead trees rattling against one another. A raven conspiring against all the rest.
Johnny Vivacious had come flying back at them like some jittery mockingbird – only, it seemed a mockery of himself. Something was off this time. This Johnny V. was convinced They (whoever They were) were oh-so-concerned about his very presence that They were always on the verge of, what, fining him an exorbitant amount of money? Terminating his contract? All for his alleged antics, the bulk of which had always been relegated to that talk show segment of his…
CLUB V!!!
…in which he insisted on prattling on about how dangerous he was, both to his eventual opponents and to the moral fiber of the community-at-large. Other than this “show,” though, Phinehas didn’t see it. Choice words and obscene gestures had been the extent of it.
But we would see. If the matches leading up to it didn’t reveal anything, Collision Course most certainly would.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
And Razor Blade had to have come from somewhere.
(Phinehas had a lot of time to think while he waited.)
Some wrestling background, some stint in a previous federation, perhaps even with some semblance of success. While in PCW, though, his tenure spoke for itself. Backstage bantering with Shane Dodge and Kassandra Black. Demands for title shot after title shot. And nothing more to show for it than one embarrassing whuppin’ after another. But now he had finally…finally, I tell you…gotten his wish. A match against Grimm. Granted, it was Grimm without the World Title, but there you had it.
A gunshot from over the hill and a murder of crows erupted from the trees with an impatient rasp.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Which is why Phinehas stood there in the tree. Waiting. It didn’t matter if it was rabbit season or duck season or deer season. He did not acknowledge their seasons. But others did, and these others claimed ignorance sometimes. Or they refused to believe the tales.
“No way that ever really happened. I’d have heard of it.”
So they emerged from the underbrush all decked out in their ghillie suits and toting their unnecessarily high-powered rifles. As if they were hunting terrorists instead of that elusive trophy buck. And they walked right by the hickory tree, and Phinehas watched them pass below him. He dropped down, landing in a crouch, then stood.
“You shouldn’t be here, gents.”
The two hunters looked at each other as they turned, then raised their guns to their shoulders. Their thumbs flicked off the safeties and they drew a bead on the Hangtown Horror. Phinehas smiled.
They really shouldn’t be here.
The crows came back to watch.
