The patron saint of bees
Feb 11, 2019 9:57:12 GMT -5
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The Anarchist, Kyle Shane, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on Feb 11, 2019 9:57:12 GMT -5
Maybe Granny is just a crazy old woman who stumbled into town.
Maybe Granny has always been a figure in Hangtown and no one questions her presence.
Maybe Granny is indeed the matriarch of the Dillinger family, with legitimate abilities of an esoteric nature. Or maybe she isn’t, but everyone knows what she is capable of.
~~~~~~~~~
If you think this piece is going to answer anything, you’ve not read many Grimm RPs. Shame on you. The Hangtown Horror doesn’t have secrets. He is secrets, and your ignorance remains extensive. But if you want pages upon pages of self-reflection, tortured musings, bi-weekly expositions on professional wrestling and the human response, or a Jackson Pollock splatter of words smeared all over the boards because the writer knows their work is just so very precious, well, you know where to find it.
~~~~~~~~~
Granny, Phinehas, and Ruth sit at Granny’s table, steaming mugs of tea in front of them. They sit surrounded by stacks of books and loose leaf manuscripts. Ginseng, witch hazel, and juniper dry in scattered bunches. A kindled fire – small, but sufficient to the space – heats an iron pot no doubt simmering a stew of feral swine swimming amongst all manner of root vegetables. At least, that’s what it smells like. Based on a glance out one of the smattering of small windows ringing the room, it could be raining.
“I don’t understand it, either,” says Ruth. “Why the sudden interest? Whether the Anarchist or a cult leader or whatever he fancies himself now, Willard’s been at this for a long time. Lucy, if that is her real name, hasn’t just shown up because she’s bored. There’s something else going on.”
Phinehas scratches his cheek. “Quite possibly, but that…unsettling development doesn’t matter as much this week. The booking committee probably laughed themselves silly putting this card together. Me and The Anarchist , Sicko and Tyrone "Crazy Boy" Smith …come on. No one in their right mind would think this could ever end cleanly.”
~~~~~~~~~
Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not in your right minds. You’re crazy! You’re insane! You love to hurt people just for the sake of watching them suffer. Of course you do. So has half the people who have walked through the doors of PCW. And like them, you’re still just trying to figure out your place in this world, using yet another federation as the finger-in-the-dike for as long as you can, avoiding the real confrontation with yourself, until, eventually, you're just another name on the inactive list.
But, sure, tell us how you're different.
You're above and beyond that.
You're nothing that PCW has ever dealt with before.
Get in line.
You're no more talented, no more vicious, no more disturbed than a hundred other disillusioned saps that have stepped into a ring. Mommy and daddy – if they were even around – didn’t show you enough love? Heard it. The pervert in the park had a present for you in his pocket? Tell us something we don’t know. Your therapist / psychiatrist / case worker / priest / confidant doesn’t quite grasp the true complexity of your issues, the depths of your rage, the darkness of your soul?
Please.
Check it out Seromine, I can quote scripture, too. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old times, which was before us.
Ecclesiastes 1:9-10, yo.
You want validation? Here it is: no one cares. PCW managed just fine when you were off in other feds trying to fill whatever void in the center of your being makes you become a professional wrestler in the first place (no matter your persona, we’re all nothing more than monkeys dancing to an organ grinder, you know that?), we'll tolerate you while you're plying your trade here, and we'll keep on keepin’ on after you’re gone, just like we have when every other “legend” leaves.
Tell yourself whatever it is you need to make it through the day. Just spare us the excruciating minutia.
~~~~~~~~~
Granny flips through a stack of paper, all brittle and yellowed. She doesn’t explain what she’s looking for, and they never ask. Some level of cyclopean lore, no doubt. Left behind by generations of mighty hunters and magicians.
“Mmm hmm. Don’t ignore the fact it looks as if that David Hunter character has joined Holden Ross as one of Seromine’s lackeys. And with the two of them already ensconced in that Underground title scene, don’t be surprised if they show up to remind Sicko and Tyrone of their intentions.”
Ruth picks at a chip along the rim of her mug. “Phinehas’s old buddy Cory Steel has come back, too. This evening has the chance of being a bigger fiasco than anyone ever imagined. And if that’s the case…you might as well have some fun.”
Phinehas swirls his tea and in a coldblooded deliberation watches the leaves whirlwind around the mug. He takes his tea without milk or sugar…or the honey of his own bees. He takes it black and bitter and can taste it lingering at the back of his throat.
“There are too many targets on too many backs. I for one would enjoy nothing more than to watch them tear each other apart, but I don’t expect to have that luxury. So be it. They don’t pay me to just stand there and watch – or stand there and wear out the microphone – anyway.”
Granny gets up to check the stew. She lifts the lid, wafts steam, then replaces the lid and takes up an iron poker to adjust the logs. They shift, pop, and roar back to life.
Granny says, “The important thing, especially this week, is to stay vigilant and moderately healthy. Wins and losses are the absolute last things on anyone’s mind. This is all about mind games and who has the psychological advantage moving forward.”
Phinehas looks around the room. He settles on a row of blue and green glass bottles on a window sill, diffracting the light and tinting his world. He tilts his head and everything warps. Moves it again, and it all shifts back.
“If worse comes to worse, there’s always Dominic. He could be keeping tabs on things. He is still Black Hand, after all. Which carries with it certain obligations.”
He turns his eyes to his sister. She raises her head and returns the look.
“Dominic is…figuring some things out. He’s had major upheaval lately, both personally and professionally. He needs his space and his time.”
“One would think Horatio Mortimer would have set his charge straight by now,” says Phinehas.
“Horatio doesn’t quite have the influence he once did. Like I said, things have changed. But, don’t worry, Phinehas. If things get really ugly, I’m sure someone will be making an appearance.”
Granny takes a sip then gazes into the tea. “Just tell yourself you’re on your own out there. Stay sharp.”
Those two points of ice narrow and focus to a primeval arctic intensity. “I always do. And I always am.”
At that, all three drain their mugs at the same time. All three set them down and peer at the dregs collected at the bottom. All three see the vague shape of a hound, its head turned to face them.
The Grimm.
Given the circumstances, it is not necessarily the bad omen one usually attributes to it.
The cold front pushes through the river valley. Rain begins falling sideways and pelts the windows. Walnuts clatter on the roof.
~~~~~~~~~
A device of some sort flickers to life to show wooden boards of an olden patina, a dirt floor, and stalls built into the back wall. Dust motes dance in what little sunlight sneaks through gaps worn into this structure. A single crate stands on an end, with faded lettering advertising Hangtown Seed & Feed. Phinehas Dillinger steps into view and sits on the crate. But only for a few seconds, as he almost immediately rises and walks out of the shot. He returns with the shovel, and stands there in the center of the frame with his head bowed. His chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths. A faint shake of the head, and, in one motion, he raises the shovel overhead in both hands and in a red misting rage brings it down on the camera, presumably smashing it to smithereens. Presumably, because other than a sharp bit of feedback the shot cuts out to a void.
I mean…what did you expect?
Maybe Granny has always been a figure in Hangtown and no one questions her presence.
Maybe Granny is indeed the matriarch of the Dillinger family, with legitimate abilities of an esoteric nature. Or maybe she isn’t, but everyone knows what she is capable of.
~~~~~~~~~
If you think this piece is going to answer anything, you’ve not read many Grimm RPs. Shame on you. The Hangtown Horror doesn’t have secrets. He is secrets, and your ignorance remains extensive. But if you want pages upon pages of self-reflection, tortured musings, bi-weekly expositions on professional wrestling and the human response, or a Jackson Pollock splatter of words smeared all over the boards because the writer knows their work is just so very precious, well, you know where to find it.
~~~~~~~~~
Granny, Phinehas, and Ruth sit at Granny’s table, steaming mugs of tea in front of them. They sit surrounded by stacks of books and loose leaf manuscripts. Ginseng, witch hazel, and juniper dry in scattered bunches. A kindled fire – small, but sufficient to the space – heats an iron pot no doubt simmering a stew of feral swine swimming amongst all manner of root vegetables. At least, that’s what it smells like. Based on a glance out one of the smattering of small windows ringing the room, it could be raining.
“I don’t understand it, either,” says Ruth. “Why the sudden interest? Whether the Anarchist or a cult leader or whatever he fancies himself now, Willard’s been at this for a long time. Lucy, if that is her real name, hasn’t just shown up because she’s bored. There’s something else going on.”
Phinehas scratches his cheek. “Quite possibly, but that…unsettling development doesn’t matter as much this week. The booking committee probably laughed themselves silly putting this card together. Me and The Anarchist , Sicko and Tyrone "Crazy Boy" Smith …come on. No one in their right mind would think this could ever end cleanly.”
~~~~~~~~~
Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not in your right minds. You’re crazy! You’re insane! You love to hurt people just for the sake of watching them suffer. Of course you do. So has half the people who have walked through the doors of PCW. And like them, you’re still just trying to figure out your place in this world, using yet another federation as the finger-in-the-dike for as long as you can, avoiding the real confrontation with yourself, until, eventually, you're just another name on the inactive list.
But, sure, tell us how you're different.
You're above and beyond that.
You're nothing that PCW has ever dealt with before.
Get in line.
You're no more talented, no more vicious, no more disturbed than a hundred other disillusioned saps that have stepped into a ring. Mommy and daddy – if they were even around – didn’t show you enough love? Heard it. The pervert in the park had a present for you in his pocket? Tell us something we don’t know. Your therapist / psychiatrist / case worker / priest / confidant doesn’t quite grasp the true complexity of your issues, the depths of your rage, the darkness of your soul?
Please.
Check it out Seromine, I can quote scripture, too. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old times, which was before us.
Ecclesiastes 1:9-10, yo.
You want validation? Here it is: no one cares. PCW managed just fine when you were off in other feds trying to fill whatever void in the center of your being makes you become a professional wrestler in the first place (no matter your persona, we’re all nothing more than monkeys dancing to an organ grinder, you know that?), we'll tolerate you while you're plying your trade here, and we'll keep on keepin’ on after you’re gone, just like we have when every other “legend” leaves.
Tell yourself whatever it is you need to make it through the day. Just spare us the excruciating minutia.
~~~~~~~~~
Granny flips through a stack of paper, all brittle and yellowed. She doesn’t explain what she’s looking for, and they never ask. Some level of cyclopean lore, no doubt. Left behind by generations of mighty hunters and magicians.
“Mmm hmm. Don’t ignore the fact it looks as if that David Hunter character has joined Holden Ross as one of Seromine’s lackeys. And with the two of them already ensconced in that Underground title scene, don’t be surprised if they show up to remind Sicko and Tyrone of their intentions.”
Ruth picks at a chip along the rim of her mug. “Phinehas’s old buddy Cory Steel has come back, too. This evening has the chance of being a bigger fiasco than anyone ever imagined. And if that’s the case…you might as well have some fun.”
Phinehas swirls his tea and in a coldblooded deliberation watches the leaves whirlwind around the mug. He takes his tea without milk or sugar…or the honey of his own bees. He takes it black and bitter and can taste it lingering at the back of his throat.
“There are too many targets on too many backs. I for one would enjoy nothing more than to watch them tear each other apart, but I don’t expect to have that luxury. So be it. They don’t pay me to just stand there and watch – or stand there and wear out the microphone – anyway.”
Granny gets up to check the stew. She lifts the lid, wafts steam, then replaces the lid and takes up an iron poker to adjust the logs. They shift, pop, and roar back to life.
Granny says, “The important thing, especially this week, is to stay vigilant and moderately healthy. Wins and losses are the absolute last things on anyone’s mind. This is all about mind games and who has the psychological advantage moving forward.”
Phinehas looks around the room. He settles on a row of blue and green glass bottles on a window sill, diffracting the light and tinting his world. He tilts his head and everything warps. Moves it again, and it all shifts back.
“If worse comes to worse, there’s always Dominic. He could be keeping tabs on things. He is still Black Hand, after all. Which carries with it certain obligations.”
He turns his eyes to his sister. She raises her head and returns the look.
“Dominic is…figuring some things out. He’s had major upheaval lately, both personally and professionally. He needs his space and his time.”
“One would think Horatio Mortimer would have set his charge straight by now,” says Phinehas.
“Horatio doesn’t quite have the influence he once did. Like I said, things have changed. But, don’t worry, Phinehas. If things get really ugly, I’m sure someone will be making an appearance.”
Granny takes a sip then gazes into the tea. “Just tell yourself you’re on your own out there. Stay sharp.”
Those two points of ice narrow and focus to a primeval arctic intensity. “I always do. And I always am.”
At that, all three drain their mugs at the same time. All three set them down and peer at the dregs collected at the bottom. All three see the vague shape of a hound, its head turned to face them.
The Grimm.
Given the circumstances, it is not necessarily the bad omen one usually attributes to it.
The cold front pushes through the river valley. Rain begins falling sideways and pelts the windows. Walnuts clatter on the roof.
~~~~~~~~~
A device of some sort flickers to life to show wooden boards of an olden patina, a dirt floor, and stalls built into the back wall. Dust motes dance in what little sunlight sneaks through gaps worn into this structure. A single crate stands on an end, with faded lettering advertising Hangtown Seed & Feed. Phinehas Dillinger steps into view and sits on the crate. But only for a few seconds, as he almost immediately rises and walks out of the shot. He returns with the shovel, and stands there in the center of the frame with his head bowed. His chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths. A faint shake of the head, and, in one motion, he raises the shovel overhead in both hands and in a red misting rage brings it down on the camera, presumably smashing it to smithereens. Presumably, because other than a sharp bit of feedback the shot cuts out to a void.
I mean…what did you expect?
