Post by Grimm on Feb 23, 2018 8:39:21 GMT -5
On a hilltop overlooking Hangtown, Phinehas Dillinger sits on a stump, hickory stick in his left hand. The afternoon hangs cold and bright as Phinehas draws in the dirt. Maps of Hangtown. The routes of streams as they wind down to the river. The river’s course to the sea. He draws, rubs it out with his foot or scratches it away with the stick, then draws some more. Stops occasionally to stretch his back or watch a great black bird shake its ragged feathers. He winces as it croaks out curses on anyone within ear shot.
But then the crowd arrives.
The crowd comes up over the ridge and walks in one accord towards Phinehas. It comes within a respectable distance of him – not too threatening, but close enough to let him know it means business. Phinehas squints up at all of them, tapping the stick on his knee. Silence.
But then, from somewhere in the midst.
“A title shot again. What gives you the right?”
Phinehas smiles but says nothing. He could mention the logistics behind the rematch clause as explained by the announcers at Trauma 266. Or his records against any of the other would-be challengers. Or his championship histories. Or the fact he still holds the Battle Bowl. And although it has no direct bearing on title contentions, he could rattle off the terrible things Grimm has done to opponents over the years. How he disfigured Mr. Showtime in a Pain of Glass match. Paralyzed Billy Sadistic (among other atrocities inflicted upon his brother). Dead Reckoned Brenna Gordon right out of the federation the first time she walked those halls. Buried alive the man currently serving as PCW president, in a match filled with many other indignities.
Et cetera, et cetera.
He scans the faces in the crowd. Some no doubt are more interested in his answer than others. There among the rest stand two gentlemen with dueling goatees. One decked out in black from head to toe, no doubt staring at Phinehas from behind his dark shades. Holding a cigarette between his lips (so help me, if he so much as flicks an ash on my hill…). The other stands beside him in an outfit tailored so as to make it look like he’s not trying too hard, but clearly has money to burn. The two of them loom as though they bear him no ill will, but let’s be honest. They’d turn on him in a second if they felt it would advance their agenda – even though they seem to be figuring that out week by week this time around. But who is Grimm to judge.
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and whatnot.
Congregated together on the other side of the gathering stand three others. One whose shaved head glints in the sun. Another, more enormous by far than anyone else in Hangtown, watching as if a time-keeper at the lumberjack games. His multitude of watches tick-tick-ticking away the day. And the last, a Hot Topic window display come to life. All three open and close fists, crack knuckles, crick necks. None of the three make any attempt to hide the fact they want to hurt Phinehas, and hurt him bad.
Phinehas could offer up those answers. Instead, he looks down and begins writing the names from the roster. Once active member after another, written and scratched out, written and scratched out. Until no other names remain. He lifts his head, holds out his hands, and shrugs. Then catches the eyes of the lanky nerdcore hipster doofus and winks.
“Somebody has to fight. It seems to me you should be asking the booking committee. Maybe they see something between the lines. Maybe they know something you don’t. My question to you would be…”
“…why not?”
Another faceless voice from the masses.
“Ah, yes, the great and powerful Grimm. Why don’t you throw yourself off this hillside? Prove the Hangtown Horror is as invincible as they say he is.”
Phinehas sighs as he slowly rises to his feet. He tosses the branch into the underbrush. The bracing cold remains, but the sky is no longer as bright as it was when the crowd had first gathered. Back when this had seemed like a good idea.
“You’re tempting me?”
The world around them slows. A barge on the river floats in place, immune to the muddy currents. The soot belching from a train’s coal stack lingers in space. Phinehas weaves among the crowd.
He considers those five particular faces.
Matches such as this rarely end in clean decisions – but that isn’t their point. The puppet masters tugging on the strings yank champions and challengers alike together and, along with the rest of the Faithful, watch in perverse glee as they lace into one another. Wins and losses are negligible. The match will end in stare downs. Blindside attacks. Security force swarms. Roster-wide melees. All in the spirit of building interest in Mass Destruction. Or, horror of horrors, perhaps the committee is already looking ahead to possibilities after the pay per view. Fun for them, but a dangerous approach for those fighting it out in the ring. Looking beyond the person standing across from you is a fine way to find oneself wrecked at the end of the night.
Phinehas looks each of the five dead in the face. Greens, hazels, blacks, and browns reflect in sharp relief within those blue eyes carved from the deepest, oldest ice. Afterward, they will, to a man, recount the cold chill that overtakes them as they return to coherency. Someone must have walked on their graves. Or other versions of themselves died somewhere in the multiverse. Or, perhaps, it is the repercussion of Grimm turning his full regard on you.
But then the crowd arrives.
The crowd comes up over the ridge and walks in one accord towards Phinehas. It comes within a respectable distance of him – not too threatening, but close enough to let him know it means business. Phinehas squints up at all of them, tapping the stick on his knee. Silence.
But then, from somewhere in the midst.
“A title shot again. What gives you the right?”
Phinehas smiles but says nothing. He could mention the logistics behind the rematch clause as explained by the announcers at Trauma 266. Or his records against any of the other would-be challengers. Or his championship histories. Or the fact he still holds the Battle Bowl. And although it has no direct bearing on title contentions, he could rattle off the terrible things Grimm has done to opponents over the years. How he disfigured Mr. Showtime in a Pain of Glass match. Paralyzed Billy Sadistic (among other atrocities inflicted upon his brother). Dead Reckoned Brenna Gordon right out of the federation the first time she walked those halls. Buried alive the man currently serving as PCW president, in a match filled with many other indignities.
Et cetera, et cetera.
He scans the faces in the crowd. Some no doubt are more interested in his answer than others. There among the rest stand two gentlemen with dueling goatees. One decked out in black from head to toe, no doubt staring at Phinehas from behind his dark shades. Holding a cigarette between his lips (so help me, if he so much as flicks an ash on my hill…). The other stands beside him in an outfit tailored so as to make it look like he’s not trying too hard, but clearly has money to burn. The two of them loom as though they bear him no ill will, but let’s be honest. They’d turn on him in a second if they felt it would advance their agenda – even though they seem to be figuring that out week by week this time around. But who is Grimm to judge.
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and whatnot.
Congregated together on the other side of the gathering stand three others. One whose shaved head glints in the sun. Another, more enormous by far than anyone else in Hangtown, watching as if a time-keeper at the lumberjack games. His multitude of watches tick-tick-ticking away the day. And the last, a Hot Topic window display come to life. All three open and close fists, crack knuckles, crick necks. None of the three make any attempt to hide the fact they want to hurt Phinehas, and hurt him bad.
Phinehas could offer up those answers. Instead, he looks down and begins writing the names from the roster. Once active member after another, written and scratched out, written and scratched out. Until no other names remain. He lifts his head, holds out his hands, and shrugs. Then catches the eyes of the lanky nerdcore hipster doofus and winks.
“Somebody has to fight. It seems to me you should be asking the booking committee. Maybe they see something between the lines. Maybe they know something you don’t. My question to you would be…”
“…why not?”
Another faceless voice from the masses.
“Ah, yes, the great and powerful Grimm. Why don’t you throw yourself off this hillside? Prove the Hangtown Horror is as invincible as they say he is.”
Phinehas sighs as he slowly rises to his feet. He tosses the branch into the underbrush. The bracing cold remains, but the sky is no longer as bright as it was when the crowd had first gathered. Back when this had seemed like a good idea.
“You’re tempting me?”
The world around them slows. A barge on the river floats in place, immune to the muddy currents. The soot belching from a train’s coal stack lingers in space. Phinehas weaves among the crowd.
He considers those five particular faces.
Matches such as this rarely end in clean decisions – but that isn’t their point. The puppet masters tugging on the strings yank champions and challengers alike together and, along with the rest of the Faithful, watch in perverse glee as they lace into one another. Wins and losses are negligible. The match will end in stare downs. Blindside attacks. Security force swarms. Roster-wide melees. All in the spirit of building interest in Mass Destruction. Or, horror of horrors, perhaps the committee is already looking ahead to possibilities after the pay per view. Fun for them, but a dangerous approach for those fighting it out in the ring. Looking beyond the person standing across from you is a fine way to find oneself wrecked at the end of the night.
Phinehas looks each of the five dead in the face. Greens, hazels, blacks, and browns reflect in sharp relief within those blue eyes carved from the deepest, oldest ice. Afterward, they will, to a man, recount the cold chill that overtakes them as they return to coherency. Someone must have walked on their graves. Or other versions of themselves died somewhere in the multiverse. Or, perhaps, it is the repercussion of Grimm turning his full regard on you.
