Deadly Intentions IX: An RP in one part
Oct 5, 2018 9:06:45 GMT -5
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The Anarchist, Kyle Shane, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on Oct 5, 2018 9:06:45 GMT -5
Let’s face it, even the Hangtown Horror has to go shopping sometimes. There he stands, basket in one hand, list in the other, pencil clutched in teeth. A new whetstone already sits in the bottom of the basket (the Harvester’s scythe isn’t going to sharpen itself). Phinehas Dillinger scans the rest of the list, overlooking the tell-tale smudges that are the bane of the sinister-handed. He knows well the layout of the hardware store, and so moves to a most familiar aisle.
Phinehas casts about the buckets of nails. Nails of all sizes, each according to its purpose. He’s after the big ones today – 60 penny nails. He grabs a handful, and, as he drops them into a paper sack, hears an exclamation from the back.
“King me!”
“Dadgum it!”
Two Old Timers sit on upturned crates, swilling coffee and playing checkers on a board which rests upon a barrel. Embers glow within a potbellied stove next to them. They have played since time immemorial.
Phinehas walks down the aisle in their direction. Past the spools of chains in myriad gauges to the coils of rope. Coils of twine, of hemp, of thick, of thin. Phinehas takes a deep breath while considering his options. He’s hit by the scents of polish, wax, sawdust, and, buried beneath the others, a hint of spite. They are the smells of nostalgia but one of the Old Timers breaks his reverie in a wispy voice, high and lonesome as the hills.
“Phinehas! You’re a sight for sore eyes. How’s Ruth and Granny?”
“Fine and dandy. Granny’s prepping for fall and winter – you know, drying and canning and reading salamander guts for omens – and Ruth is, well, Ruth.”
The other Old Timer says, “Does Granny ever give you hints about how any of those matches of yours will turn out?” He asks with vocal cords dry rotted with age.
A shake of the head as he continues perusing the ropes. “No. The outcome is what it is.”
“Think she’d ever consider letting me in on a tip? I could stand to make a little extra money these days.”
“Sure. And then you know what she’d do once she found out how you’d used her goodwill for gain? To line your pockets with that filthy lucre? She’d be using something else to read her signs and wonders.”
The Old Timer blinks. “On second thought, that would take all the fun out of it. Just give her my best.”
“Of course.” Phinehas runs his hands over the selection of ropes. He sniffs his fingers.
The other Old Timer moves a checker and says, “Still, you’ve got to wonder what Justin Michaels has up his sleeve. I don’t buy that stuff about him and Johnny V ending things. It’s poppycock, I tell you.”
Phinehas shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just know I can only do what I can do. Focus too much on a title belt and the reflection will blind you. All that glitters is not gold.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” A wink, and the crow’s feet around his eyes grow more entrenched. “Even so, that North American championship would be nice.”
“Indeed. And not only for me, it seems. Just announcing that I chose it over the others has put Justin on Cloud Nine – his words, not mine. After all these years he must still hold me in some esteem.” Phinehas’s brow furrows. That can’t be right.
Grimm picked me!
“Not that it has any bearing on the match itself…but it might. Truth be told I’m a little confused by his tactics.”
Old Timer Number One picks a scab on his forearm. “What else was it he said…’can’t reap what doesn’t grow,’ ‘without a Force of Nature, there is no Harvest’…
A triple jump, followed by a ferocious scowl.
“Yep. As if we’re somehow inexorably tied together. He’s no Mr. Showtime , though. He most assuredly is no Sadistic . But Stormm has been in my professional wrestling orbit almost as long as them, so that is sufficient for now. I welcome it,” says Phinehas, accompanying the sentiment with a faux curtsy.
“That North American championship is all well and good, but come on, Phinehas. Do you think you’ll get another shot at Kyle Shane and the World Title some day?”
Something shifts and pops inside the stove. The embers grow a deeper red.
“I’ll gladly take the opportunity of the World Title if it comes back around again, but holding it six times is enough for all but the most mental of defectives. I’m not going to chase it. Kyle Shane, on the other hand…that’s a given, title or not. That story is not finished. If nothing else, I suspect ol’ Kyle would like nothing more than the chance to even out our respective records against one another. With all the gibbering about achievements and leveling up and whatnot, that imbalance must weigh on him, whether it’s buried in his subconscious or not.”
Phinehas pulls out his utility knife from a pocket and slides the blade with a snicker-snack. He uncoils a length of rope some many hands long and cuts it at the root, then winds it and drops it into the basket.
“But for now that is neither here nor there. I must focus on the task at hand.”
“Which is…?”
“Well, Kyle Shane and Seromine nigh on killed one another at a Trauma. A Trauma. All the posturing and posing and gobbled-gooking aside, I’d like to make this pay per view match an atrocity for the ages. I promise to do my part.”
“Sure enough. Good luck, Phinehas. No matter what happens, we’ll see you next time.”
Phinehas pats both men on their shoulders and all three nod. The Old Timers turn their full attention to their game while Phinehas heads to the register. As he makes his way to the front of the store, he hears another exclamation.
“King me again!”
“BASTARD!”
A smile sickles up beneath his beard. The shopkeeper, who appears to be cut from the same cloth as the checkers masters, shakes his head. Phinehas places the basket on the counter and lays out the whetstone, sack of nails, and rope.
“Anything else, then, Phinehas?”
“I need some rock salt and quicklime.”
“Alright. How much?”
Phinehas slides the list towards him. The shopkeeper picks it up and brings his glasses down from their resting place atop his head. He squints, then whistles.
“That much, huh?”
“I’m getting low. I reckon I ought to stock up before the weather turns.”
“Suit yourself. Will you be home this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have someone bring it by on the truck later. Say, how are you on shovels?”
Phinehas locks eyes with the shopkeeper. The old man sees beyond the ice and mist to flaming pyres. Mounds of stones piled on peat bogs. A shovel swung with abandon. Shattered teeth, bone dust, and a freshly dug grave at ringside. His glasses slide off his nose and clatter on the counter.
“No shovels, then.”
“No, sir. I’m good.”
The shopkeeper swallows, and scratches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have your delivery later today.”
There, in the corner, a spider sits patiently in the middle of a cobweb. Soon.
“Thank you.”
Phinehas pulls out his folding money and hands a few bills to the shopkeeper, who in turn writes out a receipt. The Lord of Misrule takes up his purchases and walks out the door. He steps onto the porch and watches the people of Hangtown go about their day. The Apothecary, the Mercantile, The Owl and Eel, et cetera, et cetera, all doing brisk business. From a few streets over, a bell peals out the hour.
There had been a chill in the air that morning. Fog had rolled in from the river until the sun burned it off. Autumn has not taken Hangtown fully in its grasp just yet, but fall…
…the withering…
…the Harvest…
…is coming.
It. Is. Coming.
Phinehas casts about the buckets of nails. Nails of all sizes, each according to its purpose. He’s after the big ones today – 60 penny nails. He grabs a handful, and, as he drops them into a paper sack, hears an exclamation from the back.
“King me!”
“Dadgum it!”
Two Old Timers sit on upturned crates, swilling coffee and playing checkers on a board which rests upon a barrel. Embers glow within a potbellied stove next to them. They have played since time immemorial.
Phinehas walks down the aisle in their direction. Past the spools of chains in myriad gauges to the coils of rope. Coils of twine, of hemp, of thick, of thin. Phinehas takes a deep breath while considering his options. He’s hit by the scents of polish, wax, sawdust, and, buried beneath the others, a hint of spite. They are the smells of nostalgia but one of the Old Timers breaks his reverie in a wispy voice, high and lonesome as the hills.
“Phinehas! You’re a sight for sore eyes. How’s Ruth and Granny?”
“Fine and dandy. Granny’s prepping for fall and winter – you know, drying and canning and reading salamander guts for omens – and Ruth is, well, Ruth.”
The other Old Timer says, “Does Granny ever give you hints about how any of those matches of yours will turn out?” He asks with vocal cords dry rotted with age.
A shake of the head as he continues perusing the ropes. “No. The outcome is what it is.”
“Think she’d ever consider letting me in on a tip? I could stand to make a little extra money these days.”
“Sure. And then you know what she’d do once she found out how you’d used her goodwill for gain? To line your pockets with that filthy lucre? She’d be using something else to read her signs and wonders.”
The Old Timer blinks. “On second thought, that would take all the fun out of it. Just give her my best.”
“Of course.” Phinehas runs his hands over the selection of ropes. He sniffs his fingers.
The other Old Timer moves a checker and says, “Still, you’ve got to wonder what Justin Michaels has up his sleeve. I don’t buy that stuff about him and Johnny V ending things. It’s poppycock, I tell you.”
Phinehas shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just know I can only do what I can do. Focus too much on a title belt and the reflection will blind you. All that glitters is not gold.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” A wink, and the crow’s feet around his eyes grow more entrenched. “Even so, that North American championship would be nice.”
“Indeed. And not only for me, it seems. Just announcing that I chose it over the others has put Justin on Cloud Nine – his words, not mine. After all these years he must still hold me in some esteem.” Phinehas’s brow furrows. That can’t be right.
Grimm picked me!
“Not that it has any bearing on the match itself…but it might. Truth be told I’m a little confused by his tactics.”
Old Timer Number One picks a scab on his forearm. “What else was it he said…’can’t reap what doesn’t grow,’ ‘without a Force of Nature, there is no Harvest’…
A triple jump, followed by a ferocious scowl.
“Yep. As if we’re somehow inexorably tied together. He’s no Mr. Showtime , though. He most assuredly is no Sadistic . But Stormm has been in my professional wrestling orbit almost as long as them, so that is sufficient for now. I welcome it,” says Phinehas, accompanying the sentiment with a faux curtsy.
“That North American championship is all well and good, but come on, Phinehas. Do you think you’ll get another shot at Kyle Shane and the World Title some day?”
Something shifts and pops inside the stove. The embers grow a deeper red.
“I’ll gladly take the opportunity of the World Title if it comes back around again, but holding it six times is enough for all but the most mental of defectives. I’m not going to chase it. Kyle Shane, on the other hand…that’s a given, title or not. That story is not finished. If nothing else, I suspect ol’ Kyle would like nothing more than the chance to even out our respective records against one another. With all the gibbering about achievements and leveling up and whatnot, that imbalance must weigh on him, whether it’s buried in his subconscious or not.”
Phinehas pulls out his utility knife from a pocket and slides the blade with a snicker-snack. He uncoils a length of rope some many hands long and cuts it at the root, then winds it and drops it into the basket.
“But for now that is neither here nor there. I must focus on the task at hand.”
“Which is…?”
“Well, Kyle Shane and Seromine nigh on killed one another at a Trauma. A Trauma. All the posturing and posing and gobbled-gooking aside, I’d like to make this pay per view match an atrocity for the ages. I promise to do my part.”
“Sure enough. Good luck, Phinehas. No matter what happens, we’ll see you next time.”
Phinehas pats both men on their shoulders and all three nod. The Old Timers turn their full attention to their game while Phinehas heads to the register. As he makes his way to the front of the store, he hears another exclamation.
“King me again!”
“BASTARD!”
A smile sickles up beneath his beard. The shopkeeper, who appears to be cut from the same cloth as the checkers masters, shakes his head. Phinehas places the basket on the counter and lays out the whetstone, sack of nails, and rope.
“Anything else, then, Phinehas?”
“I need some rock salt and quicklime.”
“Alright. How much?”
Phinehas slides the list towards him. The shopkeeper picks it up and brings his glasses down from their resting place atop his head. He squints, then whistles.
“That much, huh?”
“I’m getting low. I reckon I ought to stock up before the weather turns.”
“Suit yourself. Will you be home this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have someone bring it by on the truck later. Say, how are you on shovels?”
Phinehas locks eyes with the shopkeeper. The old man sees beyond the ice and mist to flaming pyres. Mounds of stones piled on peat bogs. A shovel swung with abandon. Shattered teeth, bone dust, and a freshly dug grave at ringside. His glasses slide off his nose and clatter on the counter.
“No shovels, then.”
“No, sir. I’m good.”
The shopkeeper swallows, and scratches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have your delivery later today.”
There, in the corner, a spider sits patiently in the middle of a cobweb. Soon.
“Thank you.”
Phinehas pulls out his folding money and hands a few bills to the shopkeeper, who in turn writes out a receipt. The Lord of Misrule takes up his purchases and walks out the door. He steps onto the porch and watches the people of Hangtown go about their day. The Apothecary, the Mercantile, The Owl and Eel, et cetera, et cetera, all doing brisk business. From a few streets over, a bell peals out the hour.
There had been a chill in the air that morning. Fog had rolled in from the river until the sun burned it off. Autumn has not taken Hangtown fully in its grasp just yet, but fall…
…the withering…
…the Harvest…
…is coming.
It. Is. Coming.
