An older reflex
Feb 11, 2020 10:55:18 GMT -5
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Cory Steel, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Feb 11, 2020 10:55:18 GMT -5
Far from the ocean, but still he caught a quick hit of low tide now and then as he stood on a covered bridge. The creek rushed underneath. Cold water played Kentucky ghost music upon the rocks, accompanied by gusts of wind across the roof and through gaps in the siding. The smell of stagnant pools and creosote. Wasp nests and mud dauber pipes scattered along the trusses.
What was Grimm’s intention? Why not ask The Chair That Rocks When No One Is Home, rocking as it did down there on the banks. On what had served as a porch on what used to be a home or a fishing shack, but was now nothing more than another grand dismal along the creek. A basement’s stone foundation filled with water. A growing pile of bricks from a crumbling chimney. That chair watching over the bridge and bend in the creek.
He looked out with fissures in his eyes, reflecting the eddies of the water. He read the ripples. The chair considered the very notion of Grimm.
They would all show up for the match, of course. Love Hurts and all, there was the threat of a fine to consider. But other than that, it was their job to show up, their responsibility. Some of them wouldn’t care who was in what corner, as long as they got to fight. No one of sound mind would predict a clean finish, anyway. Too much history, too much on the line, too much coming down the pike within those immediate events.
Old fishing line swung from the lowest branches of the creekside trees. Fish bones and rusted hooks lay scattered along the bank. Somewhere something moved through the underbrush. Splashed in the water. Grimm’s eyes narrowed.
Though…being of sound mind was in short supply on most nights in Pure Class Wrestling. Holden Ross was not the most stable of the lot, but truth be told, that was a low bar with which to compare. Yes, he set out to dismantle his opponent each and every night. And often did so, with extreme prejudice. But look across the ring. Look there at Ross’s recent sparring buddy Rick Majors. Those dusty old bones. Still fighting, still searching for who knows what. Still trying to goad one of us to put him out of his misery once and for all, from the looks of it.
And then there was Jason Willard.
Now, everyone had their breaking point. Their own personal event horizon from which once crossed they could not return. For some it was family, whether they had been threatened outright or not. Sometimes one could just tell. Justin Michaels, for instance. Obviously putting his wife and children in harm’s way would set him off like nothing else. And though she was already gone, it was not a stretch to imagine Dominic Atkinson raging through the ranks were the memory or honor of his dearly departed Amy sullied in any manner.
[Those…gentlemen he had aligned himself with, those he had brought within the very limits of Hangtown, had best tread carefully. (Oh, we know all about them. Once one stepped into our land, we know.) Yes, his very blood allowed him passage, and had granted him a place within the Black Hand. But his presence here shall not inconvenience us, and that does include any persons that arrive here as a result of that presence. We understand Dominic has questions that need answered…gaps in another history that need filled…but even so, they would be purged from Hangtown, one way or another. By any means necessary. And so, Dominic would be well advised to not linger too long in his quest, as personally important to him as it may be.]
Where were we…ah, breaking points. Yes, even Holden Ross may react with an even more frenzied attack were, say, Tabitha threatened. And others might behave similarly if something minor, something unrelated to anything of substance, were to occur. Maybe some seemingly random selfish pursuit gone unfulfilled, with just the exact wrong word uttered at the exact wrong time.
Willard, on the other hand…his breaking point was having his head split in two with the business end of a shovel. Who could have foreseen it?
**shrugs**
So, yes, everyone had a breaking point. Anyone who was a person had that line which was not to be crossed. Would that apply to one formed from the clay and hellfire and limestone upon which this town stood? Was there such a point-of-no-return to the very incarnation of a landscape itself? Perhaps. If so, the results would be terrible. And whether it led to moan or squeak or scream, the difference would be meaningless. It would be heresy.
Another week, another Trauma, another match. From his perch Grimm watched a salamander all vibrant red and black scurry beneath the chair. Clouds rolled in overhead and cast shadows upon the water.
What was Grimm’s intention? Why not ask The Chair That Rocks When No One Is Home, rocking as it did down there on the banks. On what had served as a porch on what used to be a home or a fishing shack, but was now nothing more than another grand dismal along the creek. A basement’s stone foundation filled with water. A growing pile of bricks from a crumbling chimney. That chair watching over the bridge and bend in the creek.
He looked out with fissures in his eyes, reflecting the eddies of the water. He read the ripples. The chair considered the very notion of Grimm.
They would all show up for the match, of course. Love Hurts and all, there was the threat of a fine to consider. But other than that, it was their job to show up, their responsibility. Some of them wouldn’t care who was in what corner, as long as they got to fight. No one of sound mind would predict a clean finish, anyway. Too much history, too much on the line, too much coming down the pike within those immediate events.
Old fishing line swung from the lowest branches of the creekside trees. Fish bones and rusted hooks lay scattered along the bank. Somewhere something moved through the underbrush. Splashed in the water. Grimm’s eyes narrowed.
Though…being of sound mind was in short supply on most nights in Pure Class Wrestling. Holden Ross was not the most stable of the lot, but truth be told, that was a low bar with which to compare. Yes, he set out to dismantle his opponent each and every night. And often did so, with extreme prejudice. But look across the ring. Look there at Ross’s recent sparring buddy Rick Majors. Those dusty old bones. Still fighting, still searching for who knows what. Still trying to goad one of us to put him out of his misery once and for all, from the looks of it.
And then there was Jason Willard.
Now, everyone had their breaking point. Their own personal event horizon from which once crossed they could not return. For some it was family, whether they had been threatened outright or not. Sometimes one could just tell. Justin Michaels, for instance. Obviously putting his wife and children in harm’s way would set him off like nothing else. And though she was already gone, it was not a stretch to imagine Dominic Atkinson raging through the ranks were the memory or honor of his dearly departed Amy sullied in any manner.
[Those…gentlemen he had aligned himself with, those he had brought within the very limits of Hangtown, had best tread carefully. (Oh, we know all about them. Once one stepped into our land, we know.) Yes, his very blood allowed him passage, and had granted him a place within the Black Hand. But his presence here shall not inconvenience us, and that does include any persons that arrive here as a result of that presence. We understand Dominic has questions that need answered…gaps in another history that need filled…but even so, they would be purged from Hangtown, one way or another. By any means necessary. And so, Dominic would be well advised to not linger too long in his quest, as personally important to him as it may be.]
Where were we…ah, breaking points. Yes, even Holden Ross may react with an even more frenzied attack were, say, Tabitha threatened. And others might behave similarly if something minor, something unrelated to anything of substance, were to occur. Maybe some seemingly random selfish pursuit gone unfulfilled, with just the exact wrong word uttered at the exact wrong time.
Willard, on the other hand…his breaking point was having his head split in two with the business end of a shovel. Who could have foreseen it?
**shrugs**
So, yes, everyone had a breaking point. Anyone who was a person had that line which was not to be crossed. Would that apply to one formed from the clay and hellfire and limestone upon which this town stood? Was there such a point-of-no-return to the very incarnation of a landscape itself? Perhaps. If so, the results would be terrible. And whether it led to moan or squeak or scream, the difference would be meaningless. It would be heresy.
Another week, another Trauma, another match. From his perch Grimm watched a salamander all vibrant red and black scurry beneath the chair. Clouds rolled in overhead and cast shadows upon the water.
