Post by Grimm on Oct 7, 2019 11:58:44 GMT -5
Phinehas, he of the Hangtown Dillingers, wedged another limb under his arm. The pyramid of wood grew higher as his circles around the yard grew wider. He collected branches fallen from sycamore, poplar, and walnut trees. Handfuls of grasses and hay, scattered around the base. All of it fodder collected now during the end of the dry season, before the shift to the cool drizzle damp of the withering time. From scorched earth to cold rain. Though the days had grown shorter, and the lightning bug had given way to will o’ the wisp, it was too bright to light the fire at the moment. Phinehas made one more circuit around the pile before walking up the slope to the porch. He sat on a chair of rare canebrake. The Lord of Misrule considered his lot, and that of his opponent. Now, in Grimm’s eyes trash talk was the last refuge of the scoundrel. It may not always be untrue, but it was almost always unnecessary. And were Phinehas the hateful type, gnashing his teeth and frothing at the mouth, he might have said something along the lines of, oh, I don’t know…
What was it, Stormm? You weren’t trying to insert yourself into the title picture right away like everyone thought? Well, you’ve gone and done it now. And your time is running short.
Tick, tock.
The fact that it’s the World Championship aside (as if anything can be taken objectively when that is involved), what brings you round these parts this time? Luis is gone – God bless him – as you are well aware. Do you still feel as if you have something to prove? Or is this nostalgia for a PCW that no longer exists? One final Stormm versus Grimm for the ages. I’m sure it’ll be a fine match. But please note, just as I do not coddle the injured, or dial it back on the aged and infirm, I will not lay down because this might be your swan song. You’re not entitled to anything, and nothing is owed you. This is not personal. It’s business. I’m surprised that escaped you of all people.
Phinehas watched as a fox emerged out of the hills and trotted down the road. A flash of red disappeared around the bend. Above, crows gathered in an unnatural silence, conspiring against the closing of the day.
Deadly Intentions will be a confrontation with our circumstance, Stormm. Beneath the boasts, the excuses, the fables, the flawed logic surrounding who deserves what – well, no matter. I’m the champion. The crown has returned to me time and time again. You’re the challenger. And here we are.
All that being said, it must be nice facing someone who won’t accuse you of being irrelevant or a dwindling member of the old guard. After all that’s happened in the last few years – the names and faces, the tournaments and matches, the championships changing hand over fist – look who’s fighting for the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship at the tenth Deadly Intentions. Look who’s still here.
Those two pale blue eyes refocused in a shudder of coalescing ice. That kind of jibbar jabber was indeed an ugly display. But the sky had dimmed enough for him to burn summer’s effigy. To ignite the equinox fire. So he rose and walked back down to the rough pyramid of wood and grass. Reached into a pocket and pulled out a palm of bones. Squirrel vertebrae, copperhead jaw, screech owl talons. Tossed them into the center of the structure. Stuck his hand into the other pocket and held up a match. Flicked the tip with a thumbnail, igniting phosphorus and powdered glass. The flame worked its way down the thin white pine as Phinehas circumambulated the pile, touching the match to limb and grass. Once he completed his gyromancy, he consigned what was left of the match to the grown conflagration. The bonfire rose to a grand illumination. Tongues of flame licked the sky. Phinehas followed them up into the night, where stars wheeled and galaxies passed as ellipses. Spiraling like the whirlpools spinning within a certain pendant gifted by one Born of Myth. Phinehas stood as a dark shape before the flames.
Who dares come into where I’m standing?
You’re going to be a while.
Don’t let anybody tell you that you’re safe.
Phinehas watched a great shadow pass on the other side of the fire. A zenith on two legs stopped to look back before it dissipated into the gloom. Phinehas blinked.
“That’s a fine fire you’ve got there.”
“Think it’ll keep him away?”
Granny and Ruth stood on either side of him. Maiden, Horror, Crone. Granny offered a clipping of ginseng root, twisted and dried. It flared and a wisp of smoke swirled up. Ruth tossed a handful of ground limestone, the dust of primeval abyssal creatures, and it sparked. They watched in silence as the bonfire erupted. Curtains of red and orange billowed. Smoke ribboned into the dark. Granny produced a locust wood pipe from the folds of her dress and leaned in for a light. Puffed it to life, then dropped down (on Old Lady Knees, even) to spit on the ground. A finger from her free hand drew…shapes? No, not just shapes. No so much runes in the traditional sense, either, as they were a tree alphabet of older standing. She wrote, paused to take a drag on the pipe, then resumed.
Without looking up, Granny said, “We have company.”
Phinehas scowled, and sniffed. He noted nothing unexpected. “Here?”
“No. Down in town.”
The scowl released to a blank slate of resignation. “The Order. Back to try to take the Book again. I’m going to…”
“No, Phinehas. Not the Order. Someone else. And don’t fret about the Book. With all those Order folks skulking about, I moved it a long time ago. It’s in a safe place. Dominic and Horatio may be looking for answers – the others may be looking for their own answers, just the same – but they won’t find them that easily. Oh, they’ll find what they need, all right, but no more and no less than that.”
Phinehas looked from the fire to the dark lane running down the hollow towards Hangtown. “So not the Order. Then…who?”
Granny kept up the scrawling in the dust. Ruth put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “An old friend, I suspect. Seeking to reconcile his own time with us alongside a present he doesn’t understand.”
Ah, so. Justin Michaels and his bastard figment of the Black Hand. Who else?
Something sang far off in the trees. High up on a hill. You’re next
Oh, Justin. Whether your hubris worked to fill a void or satisfy an aspiration, you remain driven by some deep, old compulsion left over from…what, exactly? Wounds, illusions, desires, deceits? That’s all part of the pantomime that is Pure Class Wrestling. You…and your family…would be better served were you to seek nothing. Expect nothing. Grasp nothing. Yet you’ve made your intentions clear. And I will do what I have to do. As Grimm always does.
The three Dillingers remained lit by the stark geometry of the fire. Leaves whirled about the edges of the circle.
Somehow, up there surrounded by hills, Phinehas caught a whiff of…salt. He heard waves crash against basalt columns that had been carved by a giant. He remembered more.
Such reflections were the burden of a champion. And of a Dillinger.
A wind rushed up the hollow. The flames waved like grass in a field. Phinehas stuck his hands back into the pockets of his britches. He fingered the latch on the utility knife.
Remember, Justin…you asked for this.
And when this all ends, you’ll go back to your family. Back to your businesses. But you’ll be going back a different man. You’ll be going back a haunted one.
Those pyroclastic winds rushed off into the spreading night. Phinehas detected the smell of cinders and rain. Granny completed her dirt manifesto and stood.
“Make no mistake. We are the Dillingers. We live and reign in Hangtown, and we are one and the same. There is no Black Hand without us, and no conspiracy may undermine us. The Dillingers do not waver. They would be wise not to forget that.”
She dusted off her hands.
“You may have to remind them.”
A chill settled in. The temperature dropped five degrees. It felt like they had crawled down into the root cellar. A threat from Granny, vague or otherwise, was rare indeed. Ruth stepped closer to the fire. They grew silent.
What was left to discuss?
The fire burned down and the night encroached upon them. Granny and Ruth withdrew to leave Phinehas to his own counsel. Just the Hangtown Horror, a vigil of wood and bone, ashes and smoke. It was all over but the pain and screaming, though a loss remained a loss and a win was always a win. Just one long
that would go on for a hundred years, while Grimm’s face would keep reflecting nature’s indifference. And that face watched as the bonfire all but died out.
Phinehas, he of the Hangtown Dillingers, scooped up a handful of ashes and held it close. He smelled the trees and the hay. He heard the knowledge of the bones. He tossed this distillation of Hangtown over his head, and closed his eyes as it drifted and settled on him. Phinehas-as-Grimm would practice patience within the chaos. He would slough off the slings and arrows as he continued his inexorable march forward.
A train rumbled along the banks of the river. The visitors in town found what they needed. Nothing more, nothing less.
You asked for this.
What was it, Stormm? You weren’t trying to insert yourself into the title picture right away like everyone thought? Well, you’ve gone and done it now. And your time is running short.
Tick, tock.
The fact that it’s the World Championship aside (as if anything can be taken objectively when that is involved), what brings you round these parts this time? Luis is gone – God bless him – as you are well aware. Do you still feel as if you have something to prove? Or is this nostalgia for a PCW that no longer exists? One final Stormm versus Grimm for the ages. I’m sure it’ll be a fine match. But please note, just as I do not coddle the injured, or dial it back on the aged and infirm, I will not lay down because this might be your swan song. You’re not entitled to anything, and nothing is owed you. This is not personal. It’s business. I’m surprised that escaped you of all people.
Phinehas watched as a fox emerged out of the hills and trotted down the road. A flash of red disappeared around the bend. Above, crows gathered in an unnatural silence, conspiring against the closing of the day.
Deadly Intentions will be a confrontation with our circumstance, Stormm. Beneath the boasts, the excuses, the fables, the flawed logic surrounding who deserves what – well, no matter. I’m the champion. The crown has returned to me time and time again. You’re the challenger. And here we are.
All that being said, it must be nice facing someone who won’t accuse you of being irrelevant or a dwindling member of the old guard. After all that’s happened in the last few years – the names and faces, the tournaments and matches, the championships changing hand over fist – look who’s fighting for the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship at the tenth Deadly Intentions. Look who’s still here.
Those two pale blue eyes refocused in a shudder of coalescing ice. That kind of jibbar jabber was indeed an ugly display. But the sky had dimmed enough for him to burn summer’s effigy. To ignite the equinox fire. So he rose and walked back down to the rough pyramid of wood and grass. Reached into a pocket and pulled out a palm of bones. Squirrel vertebrae, copperhead jaw, screech owl talons. Tossed them into the center of the structure. Stuck his hand into the other pocket and held up a match. Flicked the tip with a thumbnail, igniting phosphorus and powdered glass. The flame worked its way down the thin white pine as Phinehas circumambulated the pile, touching the match to limb and grass. Once he completed his gyromancy, he consigned what was left of the match to the grown conflagration. The bonfire rose to a grand illumination. Tongues of flame licked the sky. Phinehas followed them up into the night, where stars wheeled and galaxies passed as ellipses. Spiraling like the whirlpools spinning within a certain pendant gifted by one Born of Myth. Phinehas stood as a dark shape before the flames.
Who dares come into where I’m standing?
You’re going to be a while.
Don’t let anybody tell you that you’re safe.
Phinehas watched a great shadow pass on the other side of the fire. A zenith on two legs stopped to look back before it dissipated into the gloom. Phinehas blinked.
“That’s a fine fire you’ve got there.”
“Think it’ll keep him away?”
Granny and Ruth stood on either side of him. Maiden, Horror, Crone. Granny offered a clipping of ginseng root, twisted and dried. It flared and a wisp of smoke swirled up. Ruth tossed a handful of ground limestone, the dust of primeval abyssal creatures, and it sparked. They watched in silence as the bonfire erupted. Curtains of red and orange billowed. Smoke ribboned into the dark. Granny produced a locust wood pipe from the folds of her dress and leaned in for a light. Puffed it to life, then dropped down (on Old Lady Knees, even) to spit on the ground. A finger from her free hand drew…shapes? No, not just shapes. No so much runes in the traditional sense, either, as they were a tree alphabet of older standing. She wrote, paused to take a drag on the pipe, then resumed.
Without looking up, Granny said, “We have company.”
Phinehas scowled, and sniffed. He noted nothing unexpected. “Here?”
“No. Down in town.”
The scowl released to a blank slate of resignation. “The Order. Back to try to take the Book again. I’m going to…”
“No, Phinehas. Not the Order. Someone else. And don’t fret about the Book. With all those Order folks skulking about, I moved it a long time ago. It’s in a safe place. Dominic and Horatio may be looking for answers – the others may be looking for their own answers, just the same – but they won’t find them that easily. Oh, they’ll find what they need, all right, but no more and no less than that.”
Phinehas looked from the fire to the dark lane running down the hollow towards Hangtown. “So not the Order. Then…who?”
Granny kept up the scrawling in the dust. Ruth put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “An old friend, I suspect. Seeking to reconcile his own time with us alongside a present he doesn’t understand.”
Ah, so. Justin Michaels and his bastard figment of the Black Hand. Who else?
Something sang far off in the trees. High up on a hill. You’re next
Oh, Justin. Whether your hubris worked to fill a void or satisfy an aspiration, you remain driven by some deep, old compulsion left over from…what, exactly? Wounds, illusions, desires, deceits? That’s all part of the pantomime that is Pure Class Wrestling. You…and your family…would be better served were you to seek nothing. Expect nothing. Grasp nothing. Yet you’ve made your intentions clear. And I will do what I have to do. As Grimm always does.
| Johnny V is BLASTED with the most brutal looking Dead Reckoning, Grimm may have ever thrown. The headbutt connects square between the eyes and may produce a migraine that lasts until next year…Vivacious finds his head trapped under the right arm of Grimm as he mounts the turnbuckle. He leaps and rotates around with a tornado DDT, aka THE HARVEST… Grimm pulls him back up. A SECOND Harvest is landed. He’s not satisfied…A THIRD Harvest! Johnny V is out like a light in the middle of the ring. |
The three Dillingers remained lit by the stark geometry of the fire. Leaves whirled about the edges of the circle.
| Seromine is powered to his feet and given the gift of DEAD RECKONING. Which is followed up by a FODDERSHOCK ONTO the shovel…What Grimm is delivering is a good stout beating, an order of magnitude hardly seen against Seromine… But Seromine’s effort to mist things back in his favor, thereby enabling a potential second wind, has instead coated the shovel blade. And Grimm is not pleased by the sight. Seromine lifts his head up. Sensing the inevitable, he fearfully eeks out "Mommy..." before the shovel is plunged diagonally between his eyes!! There is a mass collective chant of HOLY $#!T as the object is partially embedded. Blood spurts out of the wound. Grimm pulls it back as Seromine face plants on his hands. Grimm slams the shovel over and over and over to the head, neck, and back of Seromine, a play on his ABSOLUTION STOMP. Each shot unrelenting in its viciousness. |
Somehow, up there surrounded by hills, Phinehas caught a whiff of…salt. He heard waves crash against basalt columns that had been carved by a giant. He remembered more.
| …actually, let’s save that one for another time. |
Such reflections were the burden of a champion. And of a Dillinger.
| Just as the casket lid was about to close, a bloody hand shoots up to stop its descent! Another bloody hand zips through the air and grabs Sadistic by the throat! Sadistic's tongue hangs out of his mouth and the look on his face is a look of pure fear! Grimm climbs back out of the casket while still clamping his hand around the Phenom's throat. Climbing back into the ring, he shoves Sadistic back into the corner and slaps the taste out of Sadistic's face! The fans are on their feet as Grimm spins Sadistic around, hops up onto the second turnbuckle, locks his brother in, and spikes him with a tornado DDT out of the corner! The crowd erupts! Sadistic is out, but Grimm isn't done yet. He takes him to the corner once more and drives his head into the canvas with a second Harvest! Grimm stands over his brother and gazes down at him through bloody locks of hair. Not done yet, Grimm drags his limp body to the corner once more so that he can deliver a third Harvest! Sadistic is a broken heap. Grimm drags his lifeless body over to the edge of the ring and unceremoniously deposits his brother through the ropes into the open casket. Reaching through the ropes, Grimm grabs the casket lid. Looking down into the casket, Grimm closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head before slamming the lid shut on his brother's existence. |
A wind rushed up the hollow. The flames waved like grass in a field. Phinehas stuck his hands back into the pockets of his britches. He fingered the latch on the utility knife.
| Grimm rolls off just long enough to re-position himself, straddling Loki’s chest and kneeling on his arms! Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a box cutter, extending the blade with a slow, deliberate movement…Grimm reaches forward, one hand wrapping around Loki’s throat - then roughly grabbing a fistful of beard! Loki’s eyes snap open and he yells in outrage, Grimm taking his box cutter and slicing Loki’s beard clean off! The camera feed very clearly shows Grimm culling the beard from Loki’s face - and stuffing it in his mouth! In a grown-up lumberjack version of playground cruelty, Phineas Grimm is forcing Loki to EAT his own cut off beard! Loki chokes and gags, hawking and spitting while Grimm mashes two big hands down on his mouth….Uncaring, Grimm rises to send Loki tumbling to the floor, a heavy boot shoving him into the grave! Loki lays prone in the dirt, something sickeningly wrong with his posture as Grimm hefts his Hangtown Hardware Grimm Signature Edition Shovel and begins to shovel dirt into the grave…Sure enough, the Hangtown Horror is whistling. The shovel blade of his Hangtown Hardware Grimm Signature Edition Shovel glints dully in the backstage lighting, as he whistles a slow tune. A song that’s less of a jaunty whistle and more of a dirge…While it’s up to the viewer to decide, the fact of the matter remains: it has been one of the most eerie, strange endings to a match in Pure Class Wrestling history. No fanfare, no final hand slap to the canvas - no cheers, no last ditch efforts to save the day…Just a group of silent onlookers surrounding a grave, the rhythmic scrape of shovel against soil... and the sound of whistling. |
Remember, Justin…you asked for this.
| EYE OF THE STORMM! That's Justin's submission finisher! Grimm kicks his legs about for those ropes while the intense pain is in effect. Stormm uses Grimm's beard to wrench his head back for added pressure!! He roars as his being is stretched out. The pain sears through his nervous system, making the hope of becoming a first time North American champion seem more and more like an afterthought. Stormm is rabid in keeping Phinehas in this predicament. The referee checks for any signs of submission, finding no response in his questions. He has enough left in the tank to pull himself closer and closer to the ropes, but Stormm drags him away! Sensing trouble, Grimm DISLOCATES ALL FOUR LIMBS! There is audible gasps and groans from everyone at the unpleasant hypermobility sight. Stormm himself backs up now that his submission has been thwarted in the most unconventional way possible! Grimm flips his head back so that he's looking at Stormm upside down. There's a vacant look behind those eyes. Grimm pops his joints back into place and for good measure he also cracks his spinal column. He flips forward and rises up. |
And when this all ends, you’ll go back to your family. Back to your businesses. But you’ll be going back a different man. You’ll be going back a haunted one.
Those pyroclastic winds rushed off into the spreading night. Phinehas detected the smell of cinders and rain. Granny completed her dirt manifesto and stood.
“Make no mistake. We are the Dillingers. We live and reign in Hangtown, and we are one and the same. There is no Black Hand without us, and no conspiracy may undermine us. The Dillingers do not waver. They would be wise not to forget that.”
She dusted off her hands.
“You may have to remind them.”
A chill settled in. The temperature dropped five degrees. It felt like they had crawled down into the root cellar. A threat from Granny, vague or otherwise, was rare indeed. Ruth stepped closer to the fire. They grew silent.
What was left to discuss?
The fire burned down and the night encroached upon them. Granny and Ruth withdrew to leave Phinehas to his own counsel. Just the Hangtown Horror, a vigil of wood and bone, ashes and smoke. It was all over but the pain and screaming, though a loss remained a loss and a win was always a win. Just one long
that would go on for a hundred years, while Grimm’s face would keep reflecting nature’s indifference. And that face watched as the bonfire all but died out.Phinehas, he of the Hangtown Dillingers, scooped up a handful of ashes and held it close. He smelled the trees and the hay. He heard the knowledge of the bones. He tossed this distillation of Hangtown over his head, and closed his eyes as it drifted and settled on him. Phinehas-as-Grimm would practice patience within the chaos. He would slough off the slings and arrows as he continued his inexorable march forward.
A train rumbled along the banks of the river. The visitors in town found what they needed. Nothing more, nothing less.
You asked for this.
