Post by Grimm on Jun 29, 2018 12:10:21 GMT -5
These crossroads have been traced on this particular landscape far from another set of crossroads – those ones laid out upon a coastal plain farther east – but they remain a crossroads none the less. Here, between the hills and the river. Here, on one of the rare flat places left behind by the conjunction of a receding primordial sea and the southern terminus of the last great glacial sheet. Here, where stands one Phinehas Dillinger leaning on a shovel well-worn by affection and any number of beatings. Standing bathed in a green tint suggesting an impending summer thunderstorm. One of those storms that do not bring relief.
Standing alongside a figure who has been absent from Hangtown for lo these many years.
Well, make that physically absent, for the aftertaste of his presence, his influence, can be felt by all in Hangtown whether they recognize or dare acknowledge it for what it is. The man stands next to Phinehas, both of them looking over the muddy river as it pursues its languid course. The man stands pale – paler than Phinehas, even! – and decked out in an impeccable black suit (topped with a dapper wide-brimmed hat) so dark as to have swallowed the light, green-hued or otherwise. He rests one hand on an ebony stick tipped with a silver knob, glistening in whatever light could escape his person. The other hand rests on the head of a grizzled hound as black as the outfit. Its eyes stare as pits of ash, reflecting nothing. It has the same eyes as its master.
The man carries with him his own frigid atmosphere. Even now, here in the depths of a Hangtown summer, Phinehas watches his breath plume away into a vision of frosted pumpkins. The man and his dog do not exhibit such affectations.
“It’s good to be back, Phinehas. I always liked it here. You Hangtown folk are good people,” says the man in his deep hollow voice, a voice that reverberates through Phinehas’s very being.
“My answer is still ‘no.’ It’s always going to be ‘no.’”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, that. That’s fair. But your brother didn’t feel the same way, and his ‘okay’ was all I needed.”
Phinehas’s brother. William. Billy Sadistic. One of, if not the, most ruthless people to ever set foot in PCW arena. His last World Championship title reign was arguably the most impressive feat in the federation’s history. Phinehas had always been able to deflect the man in black’s temptations. The promises. But his brother…not so much.
They keep their eyes on the river as they continue their discussion.
“How is Billy these days?”
“No more unhinged than usual. I mean, good. Off gallivanting around on my behalf. He’s quite the emissary, your brother. Just the kind of person I needed.”
Phinehas clinches his jaw, exhales, then relaxes. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing that’s permanent. I think the question is, what have you done to him? It would break his heart to see how you’ve moved on. How you’ve reformed the Black Hand without him. He was so proud of that group, you know. And here you are, turning your back on Billy and everything the two of you accomplished. Shameful.”
“Nice try, but we both know the Black Hand is bigger than even Grimm and Sadistic .”
“Maybe. But you have to admit the Brothers Gruesome were definitely the most…efficient in furthering the cause in some time.”
“True…but with ‘in some time’ being the key phrase. The Black Hand has always been. It always will be. Even when there doesn’t seem to be a trace of it, it’s there, just below the surface. Unseen, yet steady in its course. Even now, as we speak, Ruth is away on business. She has her own role to play in all this, and she knows it well.”
“Mmm. Ruth.” The man smiles. His teeth flawless, a sparkling set of white against a field of deep red gums. A low rumble, something like a layering of a chuckle and an inhuman growl, slips out from behind the too-perfect smile.
“That’s enough.” Phinehas casts a look that would freeze most to their marrow, yet he finds the man in black utterly dead inside.
“Perhaps.” The man winks at the hound and they both lick their lips. “On business, you say. No doubt conspiring with that Horatio Mortimer fellow…and that enormous oaf that’s always at his side.”
“That’s for us to know and you to find out.”
The man in black snorts. An image of a huge boar, bristling, pawing at the ground, comes unbidden to Phinehas, along with the corpses littering its den.
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I know. I’m just trying to make conversation. I know there’s more between you two than the mere advancement of opportunities within the federation. I know how deep and how far this may or may not go. But I also know that I could summon dear Billy here in an instant and watch the Dillinger boys go at each other for old time’s sake. That’s always good for a laugh. Or I might wait until a most inopportune time. Like, say, during a very important match, for instance.”
Phinehas’s left hand slips from the shovel to his pocket. He fingers the lever on the utility knife currently resting comfortably in his trousers. Would it work? Who knows. It’s worked on others. Even on Billy, who found himself with the devil’s own luck on plenty of occasions. They’d seemingly destroyed not only an ancient organization but their own blood-bound bonds more than once, but c’mon, that isn’t really possible. It’s just how those Dillinger boys worked. Be it obscene beatings within the confines of the arena, or their annual Christmas brawls, or the Harvest-time pie eating contests, well, Phinehas and Billy showed no mercy and expected none in return. And they loved each other for it.
Not that Dominator is a slouch by any means. Far from it. Just look at him. Look at what he’s done…
A piercing creak, and Phinehas jerks his attention to the crows cage swaying in the wind. The cage, once used as both warning and deterrent, now all rust and rotten wood. So familiar as to blend into the background there at the crossroads until it insists upon itself. Swinging from a gibbet held together only by lichen and malice. Ah, the mischief Phinehas and Billy had gotten into with that thing.
“I said, maybe he’ll come back just in time to ruin a perfectly good match,” says the man. Again.
“First of all, despite what you’re thinking, that perfectly good match to which you’re oh-so-obviously referring will not necessarily be against Justin Michaels. I’m not after him. I’m after the North American championship. I’m after the title. If this match is to be against Stormm, it’s going to depend on whether he can keep his wits along with that belt.”
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
NOTORIOUS may have convinced themselves that they have orchestrated these events. That they are the puppet masters pulling our collective strings. But look, really look, at how long they’ve been backpedaling, stumbling on their heels, just trying to keep their balance.
John Matthews had his spirit crushed by Grimm, and now has Dominator thundering down upon him. Justin Michaels has kindled the wrath of World Champion Kyle Shane. And, even though it’s solely due to his current status as North American champion, has one Hangtown Horror waiting for his chance to Harvest him into oblivion. The two of them, this self-proclaimed notorious duo, have been through much in life. But much of it, at least professionally speaking, was brought on themselves by themselves. Think back on their antics. It’s hard to say who’s the worse influence, but neither has done the other any favors. These are not the workings of masterminds. If they are, they have succeeded in confusing Grimm with their tactics. But far be it for him to question NO-TOR-I-OUS.
“I’m fighting somebody for that belt.”
“Or, and hear me out, maybe it’ll be this next match. Remember, the one against this Muscles Malone character?”
A sigh, and a shake of the head. “Pfft.”
The man taps his walking stick into the ground. “Oh, now, Phinehas, don’t go down that path. You know how dangerous that can be. Malone may be a bit of a buffoon, but he’s a strong buffoon. And, let’s call a spade a spade.” Phinehas removes his hand from his pocket and tightens his grip on the shovel. This does not escape the man in black. “You’ve been at this for years. Years. Lord of Misrule or not, it’s bound to take its toll, even on you. Meathead he may be, but Malone is out to make a name for himself. I can think of no better way to do that than by defeating you.”
Phinehas, with his typical cold-eyed clarity, says, “Just variations on a theme. They’ve all said things like that. And now many, if not most, of those names are collecting dust back there on the inactive roster list. Malone may be strong. He may be skilled in certain types of combat, and he may fight dirty. But I guarantee you he isn’t the strongest I’ve faced. He isn’t as technically proficient, and he definitely isn’t as big a cheater as any that I’ve stood down and eventually stood over. That’s not a threat. That’s simply an observation.”
“If you say so, Phinehas.”
Phinehas turns. He notices the suit remains spotless. The shoes have nothing so much as a speck of clay blemishing their shine. As if they’d been sewed from sheets of mica. Not a single drop of sweat mars that chalk-white face. The man is as unnatural an image as he has ever seen. And yet.
“I do say so.”
The man tips his hat and steps back into nothing. The hound follows on pads of cinder and smoke. Phinehas pauses to collect himself, then resumes his walk to and fro throughout Hangtown, and up and down upon it.
Standing alongside a figure who has been absent from Hangtown for lo these many years.
Well, make that physically absent, for the aftertaste of his presence, his influence, can be felt by all in Hangtown whether they recognize or dare acknowledge it for what it is. The man stands next to Phinehas, both of them looking over the muddy river as it pursues its languid course. The man stands pale – paler than Phinehas, even! – and decked out in an impeccable black suit (topped with a dapper wide-brimmed hat) so dark as to have swallowed the light, green-hued or otherwise. He rests one hand on an ebony stick tipped with a silver knob, glistening in whatever light could escape his person. The other hand rests on the head of a grizzled hound as black as the outfit. Its eyes stare as pits of ash, reflecting nothing. It has the same eyes as its master.
The man carries with him his own frigid atmosphere. Even now, here in the depths of a Hangtown summer, Phinehas watches his breath plume away into a vision of frosted pumpkins. The man and his dog do not exhibit such affectations.
“It’s good to be back, Phinehas. I always liked it here. You Hangtown folk are good people,” says the man in his deep hollow voice, a voice that reverberates through Phinehas’s very being.
“My answer is still ‘no.’ It’s always going to be ‘no.’”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, that. That’s fair. But your brother didn’t feel the same way, and his ‘okay’ was all I needed.”
Phinehas’s brother. William. Billy Sadistic. One of, if not the, most ruthless people to ever set foot in PCW arena. His last World Championship title reign was arguably the most impressive feat in the federation’s history. Phinehas had always been able to deflect the man in black’s temptations. The promises. But his brother…not so much.
They keep their eyes on the river as they continue their discussion.
“How is Billy these days?”
“No more unhinged than usual. I mean, good. Off gallivanting around on my behalf. He’s quite the emissary, your brother. Just the kind of person I needed.”
Phinehas clinches his jaw, exhales, then relaxes. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing that’s permanent. I think the question is, what have you done to him? It would break his heart to see how you’ve moved on. How you’ve reformed the Black Hand without him. He was so proud of that group, you know. And here you are, turning your back on Billy and everything the two of you accomplished. Shameful.”
“Nice try, but we both know the Black Hand is bigger than even Grimm and Sadistic .”
“Maybe. But you have to admit the Brothers Gruesome were definitely the most…efficient in furthering the cause in some time.”
“True…but with ‘in some time’ being the key phrase. The Black Hand has always been. It always will be. Even when there doesn’t seem to be a trace of it, it’s there, just below the surface. Unseen, yet steady in its course. Even now, as we speak, Ruth is away on business. She has her own role to play in all this, and she knows it well.”
“Mmm. Ruth.” The man smiles. His teeth flawless, a sparkling set of white against a field of deep red gums. A low rumble, something like a layering of a chuckle and an inhuman growl, slips out from behind the too-perfect smile.
“That’s enough.” Phinehas casts a look that would freeze most to their marrow, yet he finds the man in black utterly dead inside.
“Perhaps.” The man winks at the hound and they both lick their lips. “On business, you say. No doubt conspiring with that Horatio Mortimer fellow…and that enormous oaf that’s always at his side.”
“That’s for us to know and you to find out.”
The man in black snorts. An image of a huge boar, bristling, pawing at the ground, comes unbidden to Phinehas, along with the corpses littering its den.
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I know. I’m just trying to make conversation. I know there’s more between you two than the mere advancement of opportunities within the federation. I know how deep and how far this may or may not go. But I also know that I could summon dear Billy here in an instant and watch the Dillinger boys go at each other for old time’s sake. That’s always good for a laugh. Or I might wait until a most inopportune time. Like, say, during a very important match, for instance.”
Phinehas’s left hand slips from the shovel to his pocket. He fingers the lever on the utility knife currently resting comfortably in his trousers. Would it work? Who knows. It’s worked on others. Even on Billy, who found himself with the devil’s own luck on plenty of occasions. They’d seemingly destroyed not only an ancient organization but their own blood-bound bonds more than once, but c’mon, that isn’t really possible. It’s just how those Dillinger boys worked. Be it obscene beatings within the confines of the arena, or their annual Christmas brawls, or the Harvest-time pie eating contests, well, Phinehas and Billy showed no mercy and expected none in return. And they loved each other for it.
Not that Dominator is a slouch by any means. Far from it. Just look at him. Look at what he’s done…
A piercing creak, and Phinehas jerks his attention to the crows cage swaying in the wind. The cage, once used as both warning and deterrent, now all rust and rotten wood. So familiar as to blend into the background there at the crossroads until it insists upon itself. Swinging from a gibbet held together only by lichen and malice. Ah, the mischief Phinehas and Billy had gotten into with that thing.
“I said, maybe he’ll come back just in time to ruin a perfectly good match,” says the man. Again.
“First of all, despite what you’re thinking, that perfectly good match to which you’re oh-so-obviously referring will not necessarily be against Justin Michaels. I’m not after him. I’m after the North American championship. I’m after the title. If this match is to be against Stormm, it’s going to depend on whether he can keep his wits along with that belt.”
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
NOTORIOUS may have convinced themselves that they have orchestrated these events. That they are the puppet masters pulling our collective strings. But look, really look, at how long they’ve been backpedaling, stumbling on their heels, just trying to keep their balance.
John Matthews had his spirit crushed by Grimm, and now has Dominator thundering down upon him. Justin Michaels has kindled the wrath of World Champion Kyle Shane. And, even though it’s solely due to his current status as North American champion, has one Hangtown Horror waiting for his chance to Harvest him into oblivion. The two of them, this self-proclaimed notorious duo, have been through much in life. But much of it, at least professionally speaking, was brought on themselves by themselves. Think back on their antics. It’s hard to say who’s the worse influence, but neither has done the other any favors. These are not the workings of masterminds. If they are, they have succeeded in confusing Grimm with their tactics. But far be it for him to question NO-TOR-I-OUS.
“I’m fighting somebody for that belt.”
“Or, and hear me out, maybe it’ll be this next match. Remember, the one against this Muscles Malone character?”
A sigh, and a shake of the head. “Pfft.”
The man taps his walking stick into the ground. “Oh, now, Phinehas, don’t go down that path. You know how dangerous that can be. Malone may be a bit of a buffoon, but he’s a strong buffoon. And, let’s call a spade a spade.” Phinehas removes his hand from his pocket and tightens his grip on the shovel. This does not escape the man in black. “You’ve been at this for years. Years. Lord of Misrule or not, it’s bound to take its toll, even on you. Meathead he may be, but Malone is out to make a name for himself. I can think of no better way to do that than by defeating you.”
Phinehas, with his typical cold-eyed clarity, says, “Just variations on a theme. They’ve all said things like that. And now many, if not most, of those names are collecting dust back there on the inactive roster list. Malone may be strong. He may be skilled in certain types of combat, and he may fight dirty. But I guarantee you he isn’t the strongest I’ve faced. He isn’t as technically proficient, and he definitely isn’t as big a cheater as any that I’ve stood down and eventually stood over. That’s not a threat. That’s simply an observation.”
“If you say so, Phinehas.”
Phinehas turns. He notices the suit remains spotless. The shoes have nothing so much as a speck of clay blemishing their shine. As if they’d been sewed from sheets of mica. Not a single drop of sweat mars that chalk-white face. The man is as unnatural an image as he has ever seen. And yet.
“I do say so.”
The man tips his hat and steps back into nothing. The hound follows on pads of cinder and smoke. Phinehas pauses to collect himself, then resumes his walk to and fro throughout Hangtown, and up and down upon it.
