Post by Grimm on Jan 26, 2018 13:15:04 GMT -5
From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity. – Edvard Munch
The cellar had been there as long as Phinehas could remember. He didn’t know who had dug it. He didn’t know if it had been the work of a Dillinger, or if it predated even their arrival. Whoever had done it, though, had labored through eons of sandstone and shale. Chipped away at the limestone left behind by a primeval abyss. Dug deep enough into the clay so as to make it sufficient to the task. Strain and sweat and ache and, voila, you have space in which to store and preserve most anything.
Phinehas’s eyes diminished to a concentration of hoarfrost as he acclimated to the gloom. Scattered tallow candles or not, it was dark down here inside the earth. Even so he took inventory for the rest of the winter. The pickled goods in jars. Mementos. Totems, tokens, figments, and notions. Shifted things around to make room. He left the ceramic vases of plagues alone, but maybe he’d empty those out one of these days. Lord knows there were people in PCW who could use a good affliction.
As it were, he made preparations while ignoring the dirt caked under his fingernails. He zipped his hooded jacket up to his neck. And when Phinehas moved just right, he’d catch a whiff of the cloves that had been worked into his beard balm.
He may have gotten used to the dark and the chill, but he could not get used to the complete lack of sound. Nothing but the throbbing of blood in his ears. Even so it set the pace. He worked deliberately. Detached from all the distractions outside, up there, while he moved down below among the shelves and cabinets.
Phinehas’s cold indifference was common knowledge, as was the violence in his nature. He moved slowly and methodically, along with that nature.
Submit to it.
Its underlying principles were only observable to a certain degree. Its true mystery would never be known.
Phinehas whistled a nonsense tune. He remained a Stranger.
Grimm’s opponents, then as now, announced themselves with florid, extended entrances. They pranced around the ring. Threw themselves through the air with abandon. Shower me with kisses. Bombard me with boos. But for goodness’ sake, look at me.
Grimm, on the other hand…
”He departs without a second thought given to the two men laid to waste or the reception from the crowd.”
“…whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant as the familiar look of professional disinterest settles into the crags and crannies of Grimm’s countenance.”
The Lord of Misrule was a closed loop system, feeding off his own destructive energy. He stood as a perpetual motion machine of malevolence.
Even so, he stood as a Dillinger. And as such, regardless of whether he heard them or not he knew both Granny and Ruth worked upstairs on their ongoing preparations. They were always preparing, because even after that last debacle they did not trust her. What did they expect to accomplish from this? What was their end game?
What was anyone’s end game?
Despite her journeys along the sea routes, there would be a day, someday, when some lonely beachcomber would stumble upon Brenna Gordon’s bones. Whether drowned in a great cleansing flood or strangled by her mother’s puppet strings those bones would be buried in the sand until uncovered in a storm surge. That leering skull picked clean, smiling up at you. The beachcomber would shoo away a gull roosting in the crab-trap rib cage.
Seromine would blame Gabriel. He would blame Loki. He could continue pointing fingers at everyone but himself, but there would be a day of reckoning. And in a display of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, his followers would find him out. They would uncover all his falsehoods and misdirections. And like all prophets – false, true, or otherwise – they would have his head on a silver platter. A prophet has no honor in his own land.
Phinehas moved a roll of barbed wire to reach a shelf affixed to a wall of toadstools. He took up a utility knife and pushed the lever. The blade emerged with a snicker snack. He held it close and watched the flutter of candles as he turned it this way and that. Then Phinehas flicked the blade closed and pocketed it. He took a deep breath of rust and old water.
Some among them spoke of sin…sin, and little else…but Phinehas, nay, Grimm, would welcome it. Why, sin? He was silly with it. Sure, he’d bewail his manifold sins and wickedness as much as the next guy, but he knew full well that none were righteous.
No, not one!
If you’re a miserable sinner in one form, you’re a miserable sinner in another. Grimm walked among them the least of all the faithful and despised by many, and would confess it right freely.
But the devil could quote scripture according to his purpose. And Seromine had been willing to bet his legacy on it. That being said, Grimm knew his fair share. He’d seen the writing on the wall.
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.
Be ye World Champion, King, or what-have-you, you have been numbered and finished. Weighed and found wanting. And your kingdom divided among your enemies.
Brenna Gordon among the rest, if not the least. She’d returned as a tempest but had offered up something of a lackadaisical effort in last week’s match. Some had gone as far as to call it a, *gasp*, disappointment. One walks into the night on a list with the some of the biggest names currently fighting the good fight in Pure Class Wrestling, one should expect a battle on one’s hands. Past accomplishments and name recognition only got one so far. Such missed opportunities were one thing. We know what happens when you don’t bring your best to the table against Grimm. Because we’ve seen it. His restrained enthusiasm as he liquefied the gristle holding your cranial and facial bones in place. Maybe it could happen again. Maybe, if you weren’t careful, a certain sea witch born of myth would find herself nothing but a puddle of brine on the mat before it was all over.
Grimm’s opponents both subscribed to the power of dreams and visions, whether they be inspired by something divine, infernal, or occult. But this match would be no dream. It would not serve as a vision of a possible future. And there would be no sneak attacks. Grimm looked you dead in the eyes when he put you down. They both were well aware of that.
With a clapping of soil and ashes off his hands, Phinehas took one last look around the cellar. A place for everything. And everything in its place. The drawers and closets that should be kept locked were locked. He picked up a shovel by the door leading out into the hollow. Rolled it in his hands, this shovel that had administered beatings. Had written in letters of steel an account of fractures, concussions, and hemorrhages. It was a solid shovel. It remained a sturdy tool.
Like the dust motes in the candle flames, there floated around the annals of PCW a quote: “I have seen landscapes…which, under a particular light, made me feel that at any moment a giant might raise his head over the next ridge. Nature has that in her which compels us to invent giants: and only giants will do.” Whether true or not, it felt as though there had always been a Grimm in Pure Class Wrestling. The nature of the federation demanded it. And it demanded that there would always be a Grimm.
What difference does it make if the thing you’re scared of is real or not?
The cellar had been there as long as Phinehas could remember. He didn’t know who had dug it. He didn’t know if it had been the work of a Dillinger, or if it predated even their arrival. Whoever had done it, though, had labored through eons of sandstone and shale. Chipped away at the limestone left behind by a primeval abyss. Dug deep enough into the clay so as to make it sufficient to the task. Strain and sweat and ache and, voila, you have space in which to store and preserve most anything.
Phinehas’s eyes diminished to a concentration of hoarfrost as he acclimated to the gloom. Scattered tallow candles or not, it was dark down here inside the earth. Even so he took inventory for the rest of the winter. The pickled goods in jars. Mementos. Totems, tokens, figments, and notions. Shifted things around to make room. He left the ceramic vases of plagues alone, but maybe he’d empty those out one of these days. Lord knows there were people in PCW who could use a good affliction.
As it were, he made preparations while ignoring the dirt caked under his fingernails. He zipped his hooded jacket up to his neck. And when Phinehas moved just right, he’d catch a whiff of the cloves that had been worked into his beard balm.
He may have gotten used to the dark and the chill, but he could not get used to the complete lack of sound. Nothing but the throbbing of blood in his ears. Even so it set the pace. He worked deliberately. Detached from all the distractions outside, up there, while he moved down below among the shelves and cabinets.
Phinehas’s cold indifference was common knowledge, as was the violence in his nature. He moved slowly and methodically, along with that nature.
Submit to it.
Its underlying principles were only observable to a certain degree. Its true mystery would never be known.
Phinehas whistled a nonsense tune. He remained a Stranger.
Grimm’s opponents, then as now, announced themselves with florid, extended entrances. They pranced around the ring. Threw themselves through the air with abandon. Shower me with kisses. Bombard me with boos. But for goodness’ sake, look at me.
Grimm, on the other hand…
”He departs without a second thought given to the two men laid to waste or the reception from the crowd.”
“…whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant as the familiar look of professional disinterest settles into the crags and crannies of Grimm’s countenance.”
The Lord of Misrule was a closed loop system, feeding off his own destructive energy. He stood as a perpetual motion machine of malevolence.
Even so, he stood as a Dillinger. And as such, regardless of whether he heard them or not he knew both Granny and Ruth worked upstairs on their ongoing preparations. They were always preparing, because even after that last debacle they did not trust her. What did they expect to accomplish from this? What was their end game?
What was anyone’s end game?
Despite her journeys along the sea routes, there would be a day, someday, when some lonely beachcomber would stumble upon Brenna Gordon’s bones. Whether drowned in a great cleansing flood or strangled by her mother’s puppet strings those bones would be buried in the sand until uncovered in a storm surge. That leering skull picked clean, smiling up at you. The beachcomber would shoo away a gull roosting in the crab-trap rib cage.
Seromine would blame Gabriel. He would blame Loki. He could continue pointing fingers at everyone but himself, but there would be a day of reckoning. And in a display of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, his followers would find him out. They would uncover all his falsehoods and misdirections. And like all prophets – false, true, or otherwise – they would have his head on a silver platter. A prophet has no honor in his own land.
Phinehas moved a roll of barbed wire to reach a shelf affixed to a wall of toadstools. He took up a utility knife and pushed the lever. The blade emerged with a snicker snack. He held it close and watched the flutter of candles as he turned it this way and that. Then Phinehas flicked the blade closed and pocketed it. He took a deep breath of rust and old water.
Some among them spoke of sin…sin, and little else…but Phinehas, nay, Grimm, would welcome it. Why, sin? He was silly with it. Sure, he’d bewail his manifold sins and wickedness as much as the next guy, but he knew full well that none were righteous.
No, not one!
If you’re a miserable sinner in one form, you’re a miserable sinner in another. Grimm walked among them the least of all the faithful and despised by many, and would confess it right freely.
But the devil could quote scripture according to his purpose. And Seromine had been willing to bet his legacy on it. That being said, Grimm knew his fair share. He’d seen the writing on the wall.
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.
Be ye World Champion, King, or what-have-you, you have been numbered and finished. Weighed and found wanting. And your kingdom divided among your enemies.
Brenna Gordon among the rest, if not the least. She’d returned as a tempest but had offered up something of a lackadaisical effort in last week’s match. Some had gone as far as to call it a, *gasp*, disappointment. One walks into the night on a list with the some of the biggest names currently fighting the good fight in Pure Class Wrestling, one should expect a battle on one’s hands. Past accomplishments and name recognition only got one so far. Such missed opportunities were one thing. We know what happens when you don’t bring your best to the table against Grimm. Because we’ve seen it. His restrained enthusiasm as he liquefied the gristle holding your cranial and facial bones in place. Maybe it could happen again. Maybe, if you weren’t careful, a certain sea witch born of myth would find herself nothing but a puddle of brine on the mat before it was all over.
Grimm’s opponents both subscribed to the power of dreams and visions, whether they be inspired by something divine, infernal, or occult. But this match would be no dream. It would not serve as a vision of a possible future. And there would be no sneak attacks. Grimm looked you dead in the eyes when he put you down. They both were well aware of that.
With a clapping of soil and ashes off his hands, Phinehas took one last look around the cellar. A place for everything. And everything in its place. The drawers and closets that should be kept locked were locked. He picked up a shovel by the door leading out into the hollow. Rolled it in his hands, this shovel that had administered beatings. Had written in letters of steel an account of fractures, concussions, and hemorrhages. It was a solid shovel. It remained a sturdy tool.
Like the dust motes in the candle flames, there floated around the annals of PCW a quote: “I have seen landscapes…which, under a particular light, made me feel that at any moment a giant might raise his head over the next ridge. Nature has that in her which compels us to invent giants: and only giants will do.” Whether true or not, it felt as though there had always been a Grimm in Pure Class Wrestling. The nature of the federation demanded it. And it demanded that there would always be a Grimm.
What difference does it make if the thing you’re scared of is real or not?
