The writing on the wall
May 28, 2019 10:24:07 GMT -5
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Stormm, The Anarchist, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on May 28, 2019 10:24:07 GMT -5
Once Upon a Then
Spring had sprung, and summer crept after it. Dogwoods bloomed. Goldenrod, milkwood, periwinkles, and all the rest emerged from the mud. Honeysuckle perfume hit you at every turn like a punch in the face. And the humidity. Judas Priest, the humidity. It settled into that river valley with a heaviness, a sheer level of moist, that would not relent until sometime in October.
But the birds did not care. Robins, sparrows, finches – all sang in great jubilation. Even the magpie sounded in good spirits as it warbled its counting rhyme.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for birth,
Five for rich,
Six for poor,
Seven for a witch,
I can tell you no more.
It was a day such as this that Phinehas Dillinger conducted his weekly survey of the family plot. He walked the metes and bounds of the property. Spring-Heeled Grimm marked in leaps and bounds. Measured in meditation, memory, and song. Followed the mysteries of the tree alphabet (Birch and ash and hazel tree…yadda yadda yadda…now what do you think of me?) and adjusted boundary stones as necessary. Phinehas stepped around bees swarming the carcass of a grand old stag. He kicked a path through scattered limbs and bones.
The day grew long, the gloaming approached, and still Phinehas walked. Hill noises turned to night sounds. Will o’ the wisps flitted in tree tops, faerie fire burned-but-did-not-consume briar bushes, and both worked to light the way. Phinehas beheld the vesper lights deep within Hangtown Woods…and smelled smoke.
Smoke?
His brow furrowed, Phinehas tracked the scent. He stopped to gather his bearings beneath the wheeling stars. A deep inhale and he smelled smoke, all right. Smoke, and tin, and amber. The reek pulled him up a hill.
Phinehas crested the ridge top to find a sputtering fire. And there, in a patch of blood-leaf clover, a wee little man danced around those flames. He hopped about in a floppy cap and a suit of clothes finely stitched from scrapwork. As he danced, he sang in a high rasping voice.
“I got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart. Where? Down in my heart. Where? Down in my heart. I got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart. Down in my heart to staaaaaay.”
Phinehas stepped out of the trees.
“I beg your pardon.”
Still the dapper imp caroused, spinning and waving his arms.
“Merrily the feast I’ll make.
Today I’ll brew, tomorrow bake;
Merrily I’ll dance and sing,
For next day will a stranger bring.
My lady will never win the game,
For Rumpelstiltskin is my name!”
Another step closer.
“What are you doing, Little Crooked Man?”
The manikin stopped his twirling.
“Oh, me, good sir? Just having a bit of a celebration. My lady’s three days are up, and tomorrow I go to claim my prize.”
Ever closer.
“And what would that be?”
“Well, so far she’s paid me a lovely necklace and a fine ring, but tomorrow it shall be her first born.”
Phinehas stood with clinched jaw, and a barely perceptible twitch of the eyebrows, pale as they may be. He stood there unsettled, which, Grimm being Grimm, was all the more so.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Rumpelstiltskin leered through the flames and rubbed his hands together.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Phinehas wanted nothing more than to call down thunder, axe, and hammer on this hobgoblin. He may be the Destroyer-at-Noonday, but he would destroy mercifully.
“All of this because…”
The man shrugged his wee shoulders. “I helped my lady out of a bit of a jam, as it were, and part of the deal was she had to guess my name. She won’t, so here we are.”
“Your name, you say.”
“Yes. Poor lass wouldn’t guess it in a million tries.”
“But I heard you.”
Another leer, but this one more of a smirk, you might say. “Maybe so, but I don’t think you’ll tell her.”
“And why is that?”
A pause as the song of a whip-poor-will drifted over them. A shudder. Something bad was going to happen to someone.
“If I can spin straw into gold, good sir, consider what else I could do.” He counted on twisted stubs. “Ruin your crops. Summon lightning upon your home. Spread an incurable pox upon the entire town. Maybe give a certain Goodman Angelo hints about your weaknesses, eh, Phinehas? Folk may talk about Rick Majors’ age, but you’re no spring chicken. You must be tired. You’ve dislocated nigh on every joint you have. And then there’s that thing you do with your left hand right before you…”
Phinehas pointed behind the imp. “Hey, isn’t that Briar Rose?”
“Ooo, where?” Rumpelstiltskin whirled around, straining to see into the dark woods. Phinehas rushed through the fug to wrap him up and drop him with the Lament Configuration. He took one look at the little man twitching there at his feet before descending the hill and making haste to the Mill. He picked his way up the water wheel – the ever turning, ever churning, ever grinding water wheel – climbed through a certain window, and whispered a very particular name into the ear of the miller’s daughter. She had a fitful sleep that night. Full of strange dreams and visions, and whatnot.
Later that next morning, Rumpelstiltskin came to. He sat up, shook his head, cricked his neck, and slowly rose to his feet. Remembering where he was and what had happened (“Phinehas!”), he drained a pint of ale and rushed off to the Mill. He climbed up the same water wheel and tucked-and-rolled through the window to find the miller’s daughter bouncing a fat little cherub on her knee. The bouncing came to a halt when she spied the Little Crooked Man dusting off his britches.
“So you’ve come back, then.”
“I have, and you know why. Now…guess my name.” He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and rocked back on his heels. A right fancy lad, was he. “As I’m such a good sport, I’ll allow you three tries.”
The millers’ daughter sighed. “Ichabod?”
“Madam, that is not my name.” Rocking back and forth and puffing out his chest.
She looked down at her baby. “Hunchback?”
“Madam, that is not my name. And now you have one guess left,” he said as he began the stroll across the room.
The miller’s daughter slowly raised her head, a tight smile fighting to unfurl on her face. “Could your name be…Rumpelstiltskin?!”
“Phinehas told you that! Phinehas told you that!” cried the little man. He stomped, driving his right foot straight through the floor, and in his rage he pulled at it so hard that he tore himself in two. The miller’s daughter laughed at the good fortune of having had such a strange dream.
And Phinehas saw that it was good.
Once Upon a Now
Representatives from all branches of the professional wrestling and sports entertainment media-industrial complex fill one of the media rooms there in PCW Arena. You know the one, down the stairs and around the corner. They all sit with their notepads and tape recorders and digital whatchamacallits, waiting not-quite-so-patiently to get the scoop on whatever this is so they can get out of here. They do have lives, you know.
Their murmuring fades and comes to a stop when a door in the back corner opens and out steps a curious little fellow.
No…out hops a curious little fellow.
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin makes his way as best he can to a lectern at the front of the room. He stands there swaying in half-a-suit older than anything that can be referred to as “vintage”, and in a most emphatic shade of rust at that. He struggles to pull out a half-pair of pince-nez reading glasses from the inside pocket of his half-a-jacket, but manages to do so and perches them on his half-a-nose. He then reaches into the pocket of his half-a-pair-of-pants and produces a folded sheet of yellowed paper. Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin flicks his wrist to break the red wax seal on the paper and smooths it out in front of him. Squinting, he waits a few seconds until his eye adjusts to the odd shade of the ink.
(Phinehas just had to make his own ink, didn’t he? He couldn’t just use a pencil or a ball point pen or anything else available under the sun, no sir. He had to insist on mixing his own, some horrible concoction of iron salts and ground-up wasp nests. Curse that man.)
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat and begins to read in a voice that is not so pleasant to the ears.
“Yes, this is an unexpected match under irregular circumstances.”
“And yet.”
“Here we stand with it bearing down on us. It has been established. So the question is not who will Gerard Angelo face in his first title defense…”
(No pressure, Gerry.)
“…but why Grimm?”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin pauses to scratch at the missing half of his half-a-chin. He continues as many of the reporters cast about at each other with “What the…” looks on their collective faces.
“Gerard Angelo took down the longest reigning World Champion ever as recorded in the annals of PCW – to date, at least. Personal habits aside, there is no disparaging that success. There are no rational ways to question the ability that led to such an impressive victory.”
“So we will not.”
“Instead, let us address the decision itself that arranges such an unorthodox match at Living a Legacy. Gerard Angelo seeks redemption from that debacle of a Triple Threat Match at Trauma 250 (but for heaven’s sake, do not pity him). He is always striving for the next thing, as he is never one to be satisfied with what he has in the here and now. Consider his wants versus his needs. Consider the Grimm Hierarchy of Needs instead, if you will – which, to be fair, is his to know and for you to (never) find out.”
If Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin gestures grandly with a phantom limb and no one sees it, does it drive home a point?
“All that being said, all those requirements, all those boxes checked, and he has chosen Grimm. So you see? Even now, despite your accolades and accomplishments – your Halls of Fame, the old Power Rankings, your Most Loveds, your Most Inspirationals, your IIT and Deadly Rumble performances – Mr. Angelo has weighed and measured the height and depth, the width and breadth of all things Pure Class Wrestling, and he has found you wanting. He requires more from this title defense than any of the rest of you can offer. The Man Without Peer challenges the Hangtown Horror as the high water mark. The epitome of PCW itself. Because there are three guarantees in life.”
“Death. Taxes. And Grimm.”
“No matter the circumstances at any given time, the Lord of Misrule is always the threat.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin hesitates as his knee buckles. (Still not used to this.) A few of the attendants up front instinctively move to help, but he latches on to the podium and regains his balance. He leans forward and peers at the writing.
Desolation font, in 10 point size.
“Now, as for the inevitable accusation that Angelo has selected Grimm as his first challenge because he is less of a threat than the others…that the Hollywood Hero is in fact a coward looking to find a way around facing a truly deserving opponent…well, whatever makes you feel better about yourself. It’s a well-known fact that this industry is full of desperate insecure people, so add this to the litany of self-affirmations you’re forced to chant to yourself just to get through the day. Grimm is not here to judge. What he is here to do is fight for the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship.”
“At the end of the night, win, lose, or draw, just remember that Mr. Gerard Angelo found him to be more worthy an opponent than anyone else. And if it bothers any of those people that much, so-denied as they are, they may feel free to look him up afterward regardless of the outcome at Living a Legacy. Because he would love it.”
“So, in closing:
From Ghoulies and Ghosties,
Long-legged Beasties,
And Things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!"
"Thank you. I will not be taking any questions.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin refolds the sheet and stuffs it back in his half-a-trousers pocket. He takes the half-reading-glasses and jams them in the insides of the half-a-jacket. And he hops away as the reporters raise hands and raise voices, shouting queries and comments that will not be acknowledged. Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin disappears through the door, leaving them all with the same lingering question.
What was that?
And Grimm saw that it was good.
Spring had sprung, and summer crept after it. Dogwoods bloomed. Goldenrod, milkwood, periwinkles, and all the rest emerged from the mud. Honeysuckle perfume hit you at every turn like a punch in the face. And the humidity. Judas Priest, the humidity. It settled into that river valley with a heaviness, a sheer level of moist, that would not relent until sometime in October.
But the birds did not care. Robins, sparrows, finches – all sang in great jubilation. Even the magpie sounded in good spirits as it warbled its counting rhyme.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for birth,
Five for rich,
Six for poor,
Seven for a witch,
I can tell you no more.
It was a day such as this that Phinehas Dillinger conducted his weekly survey of the family plot. He walked the metes and bounds of the property. Spring-Heeled Grimm marked in leaps and bounds. Measured in meditation, memory, and song. Followed the mysteries of the tree alphabet (Birch and ash and hazel tree…yadda yadda yadda…now what do you think of me?) and adjusted boundary stones as necessary. Phinehas stepped around bees swarming the carcass of a grand old stag. He kicked a path through scattered limbs and bones.
The day grew long, the gloaming approached, and still Phinehas walked. Hill noises turned to night sounds. Will o’ the wisps flitted in tree tops, faerie fire burned-but-did-not-consume briar bushes, and both worked to light the way. Phinehas beheld the vesper lights deep within Hangtown Woods…and smelled smoke.
Smoke?
His brow furrowed, Phinehas tracked the scent. He stopped to gather his bearings beneath the wheeling stars. A deep inhale and he smelled smoke, all right. Smoke, and tin, and amber. The reek pulled him up a hill.
Phinehas crested the ridge top to find a sputtering fire. And there, in a patch of blood-leaf clover, a wee little man danced around those flames. He hopped about in a floppy cap and a suit of clothes finely stitched from scrapwork. As he danced, he sang in a high rasping voice.
“I got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart. Where? Down in my heart. Where? Down in my heart. I got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart. Down in my heart to staaaaaay.”
Phinehas stepped out of the trees.
“I beg your pardon.”
Still the dapper imp caroused, spinning and waving his arms.
“Merrily the feast I’ll make.
Today I’ll brew, tomorrow bake;
Merrily I’ll dance and sing,
For next day will a stranger bring.
My lady will never win the game,
For Rumpelstiltskin is my name!”
Another step closer.
“What are you doing, Little Crooked Man?”
The manikin stopped his twirling.
“Oh, me, good sir? Just having a bit of a celebration. My lady’s three days are up, and tomorrow I go to claim my prize.”
Ever closer.
“And what would that be?”
“Well, so far she’s paid me a lovely necklace and a fine ring, but tomorrow it shall be her first born.”
Phinehas stood with clinched jaw, and a barely perceptible twitch of the eyebrows, pale as they may be. He stood there unsettled, which, Grimm being Grimm, was all the more so.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Rumpelstiltskin leered through the flames and rubbed his hands together.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Phinehas wanted nothing more than to call down thunder, axe, and hammer on this hobgoblin. He may be the Destroyer-at-Noonday, but he would destroy mercifully.
“All of this because…”
The man shrugged his wee shoulders. “I helped my lady out of a bit of a jam, as it were, and part of the deal was she had to guess my name. She won’t, so here we are.”
“Your name, you say.”
“Yes. Poor lass wouldn’t guess it in a million tries.”
“But I heard you.”
Another leer, but this one more of a smirk, you might say. “Maybe so, but I don’t think you’ll tell her.”
“And why is that?”
A pause as the song of a whip-poor-will drifted over them. A shudder. Something bad was going to happen to someone.
“If I can spin straw into gold, good sir, consider what else I could do.” He counted on twisted stubs. “Ruin your crops. Summon lightning upon your home. Spread an incurable pox upon the entire town. Maybe give a certain Goodman Angelo hints about your weaknesses, eh, Phinehas? Folk may talk about Rick Majors’ age, but you’re no spring chicken. You must be tired. You’ve dislocated nigh on every joint you have. And then there’s that thing you do with your left hand right before you…”
Phinehas pointed behind the imp. “Hey, isn’t that Briar Rose?”
“Ooo, where?” Rumpelstiltskin whirled around, straining to see into the dark woods. Phinehas rushed through the fug to wrap him up and drop him with the Lament Configuration. He took one look at the little man twitching there at his feet before descending the hill and making haste to the Mill. He picked his way up the water wheel – the ever turning, ever churning, ever grinding water wheel – climbed through a certain window, and whispered a very particular name into the ear of the miller’s daughter. She had a fitful sleep that night. Full of strange dreams and visions, and whatnot.
Later that next morning, Rumpelstiltskin came to. He sat up, shook his head, cricked his neck, and slowly rose to his feet. Remembering where he was and what had happened (“Phinehas!”), he drained a pint of ale and rushed off to the Mill. He climbed up the same water wheel and tucked-and-rolled through the window to find the miller’s daughter bouncing a fat little cherub on her knee. The bouncing came to a halt when she spied the Little Crooked Man dusting off his britches.
“So you’ve come back, then.”
“I have, and you know why. Now…guess my name.” He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and rocked back on his heels. A right fancy lad, was he. “As I’m such a good sport, I’ll allow you three tries.”
The millers’ daughter sighed. “Ichabod?”
“Madam, that is not my name.” Rocking back and forth and puffing out his chest.
She looked down at her baby. “Hunchback?”
“Madam, that is not my name. And now you have one guess left,” he said as he began the stroll across the room.
The miller’s daughter slowly raised her head, a tight smile fighting to unfurl on her face. “Could your name be…Rumpelstiltskin?!”
“Phinehas told you that! Phinehas told you that!” cried the little man. He stomped, driving his right foot straight through the floor, and in his rage he pulled at it so hard that he tore himself in two. The miller’s daughter laughed at the good fortune of having had such a strange dream.
And Phinehas saw that it was good.
Once Upon a Now
Representatives from all branches of the professional wrestling and sports entertainment media-industrial complex fill one of the media rooms there in PCW Arena. You know the one, down the stairs and around the corner. They all sit with their notepads and tape recorders and digital whatchamacallits, waiting not-quite-so-patiently to get the scoop on whatever this is so they can get out of here. They do have lives, you know.
Their murmuring fades and comes to a stop when a door in the back corner opens and out steps a curious little fellow.
No…out hops a curious little fellow.
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin makes his way as best he can to a lectern at the front of the room. He stands there swaying in half-a-suit older than anything that can be referred to as “vintage”, and in a most emphatic shade of rust at that. He struggles to pull out a half-pair of pince-nez reading glasses from the inside pocket of his half-a-jacket, but manages to do so and perches them on his half-a-nose. He then reaches into the pocket of his half-a-pair-of-pants and produces a folded sheet of yellowed paper. Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin flicks his wrist to break the red wax seal on the paper and smooths it out in front of him. Squinting, he waits a few seconds until his eye adjusts to the odd shade of the ink.
(Phinehas just had to make his own ink, didn’t he? He couldn’t just use a pencil or a ball point pen or anything else available under the sun, no sir. He had to insist on mixing his own, some horrible concoction of iron salts and ground-up wasp nests. Curse that man.)
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat and begins to read in a voice that is not so pleasant to the ears.
“Yes, this is an unexpected match under irregular circumstances.”
“And yet.”
“Here we stand with it bearing down on us. It has been established. So the question is not who will Gerard Angelo face in his first title defense…”
(No pressure, Gerry.)
“…but why Grimm?”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin pauses to scratch at the missing half of his half-a-chin. He continues as many of the reporters cast about at each other with “What the…” looks on their collective faces.
“Gerard Angelo took down the longest reigning World Champion ever as recorded in the annals of PCW – to date, at least. Personal habits aside, there is no disparaging that success. There are no rational ways to question the ability that led to such an impressive victory.”
“So we will not.”
“Instead, let us address the decision itself that arranges such an unorthodox match at Living a Legacy. Gerard Angelo seeks redemption from that debacle of a Triple Threat Match at Trauma 250 (but for heaven’s sake, do not pity him). He is always striving for the next thing, as he is never one to be satisfied with what he has in the here and now. Consider his wants versus his needs. Consider the Grimm Hierarchy of Needs instead, if you will – which, to be fair, is his to know and for you to (never) find out.”
If Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin gestures grandly with a phantom limb and no one sees it, does it drive home a point?
“All that being said, all those requirements, all those boxes checked, and he has chosen Grimm. So you see? Even now, despite your accolades and accomplishments – your Halls of Fame, the old Power Rankings, your Most Loveds, your Most Inspirationals, your IIT and Deadly Rumble performances – Mr. Angelo has weighed and measured the height and depth, the width and breadth of all things Pure Class Wrestling, and he has found you wanting. He requires more from this title defense than any of the rest of you can offer. The Man Without Peer challenges the Hangtown Horror as the high water mark. The epitome of PCW itself. Because there are three guarantees in life.”
“Death. Taxes. And Grimm.”
“No matter the circumstances at any given time, the Lord of Misrule is always the threat.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin hesitates as his knee buckles. (Still not used to this.) A few of the attendants up front instinctively move to help, but he latches on to the podium and regains his balance. He leans forward and peers at the writing.
Desolation font, in 10 point size.
“Now, as for the inevitable accusation that Angelo has selected Grimm as his first challenge because he is less of a threat than the others…that the Hollywood Hero is in fact a coward looking to find a way around facing a truly deserving opponent…well, whatever makes you feel better about yourself. It’s a well-known fact that this industry is full of desperate insecure people, so add this to the litany of self-affirmations you’re forced to chant to yourself just to get through the day. Grimm is not here to judge. What he is here to do is fight for the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship.”
“At the end of the night, win, lose, or draw, just remember that Mr. Gerard Angelo found him to be more worthy an opponent than anyone else. And if it bothers any of those people that much, so-denied as they are, they may feel free to look him up afterward regardless of the outcome at Living a Legacy. Because he would love it.”
“So, in closing:
From Ghoulies and Ghosties,
Long-legged Beasties,
And Things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!"
"Thank you. I will not be taking any questions.”
Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin refolds the sheet and stuffs it back in his half-a-trousers pocket. He takes the half-reading-glasses and jams them in the insides of the half-a-jacket. And he hops away as the reporters raise hands and raise voices, shouting queries and comments that will not be acknowledged. Half-of-Rumpelstiltskin disappears through the door, leaving them all with the same lingering question.
What was that?
And Grimm saw that it was good.
