The well-traveled ampersand
Mar 10, 2020 11:49:07 GMT -5
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Cory Steel and The Anarchist like this
Post by Grimm on Mar 10, 2020 11:49:07 GMT -5
'Twas the muddled time between winter and spring, for even Hangtown was subject to the whims of nature.
Mostly.
A time of rain and mud, chill and warmth and back over again, all without the bursts of blooming colors to brighten things. No dogwoods dotting the hillsides, no crocuses along the drive. Not yet, at least.
Phinehas and Granny looked over it all from their seats on the porch. Granny mended rags and used those rags to polish bones. Phinehas picked a minor tune on a mandolin.
They stiffened. Something had shifted.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” said Granny, threading a new needle.
“Yes. “
The hollow was grey and wet, as if a mist had been thrown up from the earth itself. Phinehas sighed.
Dominic Atkinson had stepped down from his PCW duties, but even more than that, he had departed Hangtown. Granted, he had been the target of a most cowardly and decidedly unnecessary blindside by a certain someone in the federation.
(God help him when Dominator returned.)
He would have to recover from that. At the end of it all, though…there was nothing more here for him. His stay had served its purpose. Dominic had reached the point where he had to continue on his own. He was a member of the Black Hand, yes, but his burdens were his alone. For the others, though…for the Chronological Order and all those loosely affiliated with it...well, they were ever only here by the grace of Dominic’s presence and the Dillingers’ willingness to tolerate it. Now that he was off to find his answers elsewhere – they were less welcome than before. So they were also gone. Or at least, they should be gone.
Stragglers would be dealt with immediately and decisively. Hangtown would see to that.
It had been a lot to digest, this Mass Destruction. Dominator had left. David Hunter had returned. Cory Steel had, face the facts, pulled off quite the upset. In the process, he and his son had caught the glint of the primeval glaciers that were the eyes of the Lord of Misrule. The Steel family line had been acknowledged. Had been marked. And so Grimm would have to…restore the balance, let’s say. And Pure Class Wrestling would roll on. It remained a self-contained, self-regulating entity in its own right.
Phinehas worked his way up the neck and down again. He took a deep breath and caught a hint of salt on the air.
Someone else had made their return at the pay per view.
Brenna Gordon had come back. Again. There was a time and place for retribution, and she had picked her spot well. Even so, gifts and the vagaries of connections and threads of influence and all the whatnot aside, Phinehas – Grimm – would wait to see what intentions had also returned. He had no idea where she’d been. What she’d been up to.
Her mother. It always came back to her mother.
Phinehas flipped the ash pick between his fingers. Granny sat her mending aside and stood. She walked to the edge of the porch with her hands deep in the pockets of her patchwork dress.
“I don’t know why she has to come here. She shouldn’t even be able to find Hangtown.”
“You know how she’ll find her way. She may have a different magic, but it’s a magic never-the-less.”
He held the pick up to his eye. Read the grains and counted the timelines.
“And she needs our help.”
“Mmm hmm. More like your help, now that she’s stepping back in that ring. Now, after all this time. After what Holden Ross did to her. After what you did to her.”
Phinehas took a deep breath. He smelled the cold rushing up off the creek. "She can look after herself."
But he remembered.
Wrapping his fingers in the waves and tendrils of inky hair and through to the back of her neck he jerks her back to standing fully upright…just in time for him to administer a most severe Dead Reckoning! Smashing his cranium into hers, he releases her so as to not impede her downward progress. Medics stream in from the back.
They had to send medical personnel to tend to her. What hath Grimm wrought?
She stirs, lifting her head groggily, her movements slow and obviously pained. Grimm watches, another flicker of potentially human emotion crossing his face before the portcullis comes down once more. With a leap and twisting descent, Grimm lands a crashing Tornado DDT on the struggling superstar.
The Harvest.
Granny smiled because she remembered, too. She pulled out a marble. A whole galaxy worked into the glass bauble. She held it close and squinted at the whorls spinning inside. Her face even more like the wizened bark of an old walnut tree.
“Wrestling seems like the last thing she’d want to do. And you seem like the last person she’d want to see.”
“This isn’t about wrestling. She’s taking care of something much bigger than that.”
Granny snorted. “It’s always about that federation somehow. Titles and feuds, and who’s going to be cock-of-the-walk at night’s end.”
She glanced from the marble to Phinehas.
“And maybe a tag team match to sort things out.”
Yes, that. Singles records and performances went out the window when tag matches lined up. But the facts were these: given how Grimm had severed the Human Wrecking Ball’s chain fair and square at the pay per view, and how Brenna Gordon had further snapped Holden Ross’s thin tether to reality, he would be in no condition to uphold Pandemonium’s standard operating procedure of outnumbering and sneak attacking at every turn. Thus, their usual advantage was null and void.
In regards to one David Hunter, unless he managed to sneak a barbwire baseball bat in his trunks he would have to rely on actual talent and skill. And fighting someone face-to-face from the first bell instead of…well, anyone who had followed Pure Class Wrestling over the last few years knew how he preferred to handle things. Claims on the North American title notwithstanding, Hunter would have to show he’s PCW-ready after being beaten out of the federation. And then prove he was North American title worthy by showing up for each and every event and focusing on the task at hand instead of…whatever malarkey it was he occupied himself with there in the outside world.
One way or another David Hunter’s recent actions would be remedied. There would be a reckoning. And if not careful, there was a good chance his next leave of absence would come a bit sooner than anticipated.
And, oh yes, Grimm hadn’t forgotten the other smiling face in the opposite corner. How could he? He’d had Gerard Angelo’s number for some time. That was not bluster. That was one of those pesky facts. What else could be said?
They all had a choice to make. Would they see it through?
It was Phinehas’s turn to scoff. “Nice work, Granny, but there’s nothing to say. Tag matches are what they are. I’ve fought nearly everyone in this federation on multiple occasions. Everyone knows what I do. Everyone has seen it. Now that Angelo is recovering from losing to Stormm and Hunter has his sights on reclaiming the North American title, they’re both stepping into the ring with big plans. They always have big plans. Things are going to change for the better. Wins are going to start racking up now. Title shots will be handed over now.”
“But they aren’t.”
Phinehas cricked his neck. The 'pop' rang out down the hollow. Stirred the waters.
“And they won’t.”
Phinehas put pick to string, fingered a Dm chord, but paused.
“I thought Ruth was going to join us. She always likes to watch the seasons pass through.”
“Oh, she has more pressing matters. She’s in the house…readying things.”
“What things?”
A lonely crow rasped from the bare branches of a sycamore. It knew what Ruth was up to. After all, it brought her gifts to help her on her way. The crow crouped again, but no one listened.
“Things. Just in case.”
“I told you…” but just then they heard a wind rushing over the face of the deep. A vision of ancient times when Kentucky lay at the bottom of a shallow sea, when many-legged critters scurried about before the waters receded and they became the crushed dead things which constituted limestone. Beach glass tumbled blue and green in the surf. The waves ebbed, and they both saw the figure coming up the gravel drive. Silhouetted against a hazy sun low in the sky. Phinehas detected another, stronger, whiff of brine. Granny wrinkled her nose at what to her was so much low tide.
Brenna Gordon had come to Hangtown.
Mostly.
A time of rain and mud, chill and warmth and back over again, all without the bursts of blooming colors to brighten things. No dogwoods dotting the hillsides, no crocuses along the drive. Not yet, at least.
Phinehas and Granny looked over it all from their seats on the porch. Granny mended rags and used those rags to polish bones. Phinehas picked a minor tune on a mandolin.
They stiffened. Something had shifted.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” said Granny, threading a new needle.
“Yes. “
The hollow was grey and wet, as if a mist had been thrown up from the earth itself. Phinehas sighed.
Dominic Atkinson had stepped down from his PCW duties, but even more than that, he had departed Hangtown. Granted, he had been the target of a most cowardly and decidedly unnecessary blindside by a certain someone in the federation.
(God help him when Dominator returned.)
He would have to recover from that. At the end of it all, though…there was nothing more here for him. His stay had served its purpose. Dominic had reached the point where he had to continue on his own. He was a member of the Black Hand, yes, but his burdens were his alone. For the others, though…for the Chronological Order and all those loosely affiliated with it...well, they were ever only here by the grace of Dominic’s presence and the Dillingers’ willingness to tolerate it. Now that he was off to find his answers elsewhere – they were less welcome than before. So they were also gone. Or at least, they should be gone.
Stragglers would be dealt with immediately and decisively. Hangtown would see to that.
It had been a lot to digest, this Mass Destruction. Dominator had left. David Hunter had returned. Cory Steel had, face the facts, pulled off quite the upset. In the process, he and his son had caught the glint of the primeval glaciers that were the eyes of the Lord of Misrule. The Steel family line had been acknowledged. Had been marked. And so Grimm would have to…restore the balance, let’s say. And Pure Class Wrestling would roll on. It remained a self-contained, self-regulating entity in its own right.
Phinehas worked his way up the neck and down again. He took a deep breath and caught a hint of salt on the air.
Someone else had made their return at the pay per view.
Brenna Gordon had come back. Again. There was a time and place for retribution, and she had picked her spot well. Even so, gifts and the vagaries of connections and threads of influence and all the whatnot aside, Phinehas – Grimm – would wait to see what intentions had also returned. He had no idea where she’d been. What she’d been up to.
Phinehas flipped the ash pick between his fingers. Granny sat her mending aside and stood. She walked to the edge of the porch with her hands deep in the pockets of her patchwork dress.
“I don’t know why she has to come here. She shouldn’t even be able to find Hangtown.”
“You know how she’ll find her way. She may have a different magic, but it’s a magic never-the-less.”
He held the pick up to his eye. Read the grains and counted the timelines.
“And she needs our help.”
“Mmm hmm. More like your help, now that she’s stepping back in that ring. Now, after all this time. After what Holden Ross did to her. After what you did to her.”
Phinehas took a deep breath. He smelled the cold rushing up off the creek. "She can look after herself."
But he remembered.
Wrapping his fingers in the waves and tendrils of inky hair and through to the back of her neck he jerks her back to standing fully upright…just in time for him to administer a most severe Dead Reckoning! Smashing his cranium into hers, he releases her so as to not impede her downward progress. Medics stream in from the back.
They had to send medical personnel to tend to her. What hath Grimm wrought?
She stirs, lifting her head groggily, her movements slow and obviously pained. Grimm watches, another flicker of potentially human emotion crossing his face before the portcullis comes down once more. With a leap and twisting descent, Grimm lands a crashing Tornado DDT on the struggling superstar.
The Harvest.
Granny smiled because she remembered, too. She pulled out a marble. A whole galaxy worked into the glass bauble. She held it close and squinted at the whorls spinning inside. Her face even more like the wizened bark of an old walnut tree.
“Wrestling seems like the last thing she’d want to do. And you seem like the last person she’d want to see.”
“This isn’t about wrestling. She’s taking care of something much bigger than that.”
Granny snorted. “It’s always about that federation somehow. Titles and feuds, and who’s going to be cock-of-the-walk at night’s end.”
She glanced from the marble to Phinehas.
“And maybe a tag team match to sort things out.”
Yes, that. Singles records and performances went out the window when tag matches lined up. But the facts were these: given how Grimm had severed the Human Wrecking Ball’s chain fair and square at the pay per view, and how Brenna Gordon had further snapped Holden Ross’s thin tether to reality, he would be in no condition to uphold Pandemonium’s standard operating procedure of outnumbering and sneak attacking at every turn. Thus, their usual advantage was null and void.
In regards to one David Hunter, unless he managed to sneak a barbwire baseball bat in his trunks he would have to rely on actual talent and skill. And fighting someone face-to-face from the first bell instead of…well, anyone who had followed Pure Class Wrestling over the last few years knew how he preferred to handle things. Claims on the North American title notwithstanding, Hunter would have to show he’s PCW-ready after being beaten out of the federation. And then prove he was North American title worthy by showing up for each and every event and focusing on the task at hand instead of…whatever malarkey it was he occupied himself with there in the outside world.
One way or another David Hunter’s recent actions would be remedied. There would be a reckoning. And if not careful, there was a good chance his next leave of absence would come a bit sooner than anticipated.
And, oh yes, Grimm hadn’t forgotten the other smiling face in the opposite corner. How could he? He’d had Gerard Angelo’s number for some time. That was not bluster. That was one of those pesky facts. What else could be said?
They all had a choice to make. Would they see it through?
It was Phinehas’s turn to scoff. “Nice work, Granny, but there’s nothing to say. Tag matches are what they are. I’ve fought nearly everyone in this federation on multiple occasions. Everyone knows what I do. Everyone has seen it. Now that Angelo is recovering from losing to Stormm and Hunter has his sights on reclaiming the North American title, they’re both stepping into the ring with big plans. They always have big plans. Things are going to change for the better. Wins are going to start racking up now. Title shots will be handed over now.”
“But they aren’t.”
Phinehas cricked his neck. The 'pop' rang out down the hollow. Stirred the waters.
“And they won’t.”
Phinehas put pick to string, fingered a Dm chord, but paused.
“I thought Ruth was going to join us. She always likes to watch the seasons pass through.”
“Oh, she has more pressing matters. She’s in the house…readying things.”
“What things?”
A lonely crow rasped from the bare branches of a sycamore. It knew what Ruth was up to. After all, it brought her gifts to help her on her way. The crow crouped again, but no one listened.
“Things. Just in case.”
“I told you…” but just then they heard a wind rushing over the face of the deep. A vision of ancient times when Kentucky lay at the bottom of a shallow sea, when many-legged critters scurried about before the waters receded and they became the crushed dead things which constituted limestone. Beach glass tumbled blue and green in the surf. The waves ebbed, and they both saw the figure coming up the gravel drive. Silhouetted against a hazy sun low in the sky. Phinehas detected another, stronger, whiff of brine. Granny wrinkled her nose at what to her was so much low tide.
Brenna Gordon had come to Hangtown.
