Post by Grimm on Jun 2, 2020 11:11:31 GMT -5
Just outside Methodical Coffee stood a man. A man of some renown in certain circles, but those circles were not orbiting him this morning. He stood looking at a menu affixed to one of the enormous panes of glass which made up most of the storefront. Waves of red hair and an equally red beard reflected back at him. He stood, not perusing the menu, but lost in thought.
~~~~~~~~~
Gerard and Holden size each other up while circling the ring. The faithful eagerly wait for them to tear each other apart. Holden leans in for a grapple, but Gerard slips around to avoid it. Holden faces him with a smirk. Gerard offers to shake his hand, which Holden...responds to with a shove! Gerard hits the buckles and comes out fired up with...a finger poke?! Holden falls like he was just murdered. Gerard takes the pin with a leg hooked.
1!
2!
3!!
The bell is called for! The fans are unsure of what the hell to make of what just happened, but Gerard is up celebrating the matter.
~~~~~~~~~
Those fools, with their cravings for validation. With the exquisite fragility of their egos.
Phinehas Dillinger entered and took in his surroundings as he approached the counter. He was still in Greenville, after all, and it would not be outside the realm of possibility for one of his Pure Class Wrestling cohorts to be here enjoying their own coffee. And for them to take it upon themselves to cause a little ruckus.
Casting about, Phinehas was engulfed in whites and greys and the faint shades of pine and birch. The walls were lined with shelves full of bags of coffee beans (roasted right down the street!) and all manner of accouterments required to prepare only the finest cups of coffee. Much of it looked like the glass gadgetry necessary for the most arcane of alchemy works, even though they were, at the end of the day, nothing more than coffee fixin’s. The pale yellows of Edison bulbs shone down from the exposed iron beams overhead.
Phinehas reached the counter, with displays of artisanal chocolate bars to his left and to his right. The barista, all…
You know what, you know the type. Use your imagination.
The barista smiled and said, “What would you like?”
Phinehas turned his attention from the menu behind her to one of her co-workers walking past with what was left of a recent pot. He pointed.
“I would like a cup of that.”
She turned, then turned back.
“That’s the bottom of the pot, sir. That’s the dregs. That’s just sludge.”
“I know.”
“I can’t sell you that.”
“But that’s what I would like.”
Phinehas saw the beads of the abacus flicking back and forth behind her eyes. She saw the line growing behind this odd ginger fellow, and so she shrugged.
“Okay. If that’s really what you want. I guess...I guess it's on the house.”
“Thank you,” said Phinehas, as he took a mug of the thickest, darkest ‘coffee’ ever served in the establishment. He took a sip as he walked past the industrial-chic stools and the turntable (was that Miles Davis, or Charlie Parker, or Sonny Rollins, or…Phinehas would admit he was not a jazz connoisseur) and found the closest thing to a back table that he could. He listened to the faint strains of a trumpet mixed in with the endless grinding and hissing of a coffee shop in full vigor.
Methodical Coffee was not unlike many other coffee shops in cities like this spread throughout the land. Phinehas watched students, hipsters (was that still a thing?), retirees, and tourists line up for their respective caffeine fixes. Underneath it all, though, under the murmur and the hubbub, it seemed sterile. A façade.
But my goodness, it sure did smell good in here.
Phinehas drank some more as he waited. Only a few minutes later, Rick Majors walked through the door with a hitch in his step. Like he was fighting a limp. He looked around and saw Phinehas in the back. They shared a nod, and Rick ordered his own drink before taking the seat across from his soon-to-be teammate.
If only the people of Hangtown could see Phinehas now….
They sat in silence at first. It was obvious that Majors hadn’t slept much. He looked…tired. Haggard. But then again, maybe that was all due to those underground matches. Or perhaps it was the decades of wrestling on top of those recent matches of his. It was completely understandable, really, but it wasn’t the physical aspects of the business that Phinehas wanted to discuss.
"Phinehas."
"Rick."
Nearly simultaneous drinks.
The business they shared, it all kept changing, in a way. Things, be it styles or names or jargon, came in waves. Waves that ebbed and flowed. New names flashed across the marquee. Some of those names might stick around. Some of them might not last so long. Rick Majors and Phinehas Dillinger, though…they knew the way. They were part and parcel of the undeniable core. Many of those others long since gone had experienced far less trials and tribulations then either of these two sitting at this table. They had already hung up their boots, as the saying went. Phinehas wouldn’t pretend to know why. Sometimes survival was the only blessing.
Rick’s future? Phinehas’? It wasn’t important in this moment. And Phinehas could not…would not…extend words of truth or comfort. He had only wounds to offer. Rick Majors’ own mute testimony spoke volumes. But then he sighed after another sip.
"I have to say, I was a little..."
Phinehas interrupted. "Are you okay?"
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
Rick leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
~~~~~~~~~
Once the count reaches eight, Grimm rolls back into the ring and rolls straight through ... actually managing to trip up Majors as he enters. Majors falling forward at the unorthodox return, Grimm is up in a flash ... and back to the neck. Stomping. Elbows. Knees. Every joint he can manage aimed directly at a spot 3/4 of an inch below the base of the skull. It’s brutal. Grimm feels no remorse; not that he ever WOULD. But Majors ASKED for this. He, by god, was going to GET it. The referee, however, doesn’t see the nobility in such a choice. But by this point, he’s warned Grimm enough to break counts and break holds. With no end in sight for the Hangtown Horror’s maelstrom ...
... the referee signals for the bell.
DING DING!
Winner: Rick Majors via disqualification
As Grimm continues working over Rick Majors, the referee is physically interjecting himself now. And from the back, security begins to pour down the ramp way. Grimm, thinking better of the situation, exits the opposite side of the ring ... leaving security to filter into the ring. However, it’s not needed as Majors is back on his feet within a few moments ... STILL goading Grimm into attacking.
Even going so far as to push security back OUT of the ring, Majors almost PLEADING for Grimm to return.
‘Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!’
The voice is loud and unmistakable, and the crowd actually cheers for the balls-out warrior that stands tall in the middle of the ring. Grimm, having made his way around to the ramp, nods and ... what appears to be a bemused sort of glimmer in his eyes. It’s obvious, however, that he is impressed. And shows such by nodding slowly and backing up the ramp instead of fully turning his back to Rick Majors.
~~~~~~~~~
These two – The Impact and The Hangtown Horror -- sat here, in this place, as counterpoints to one another. Majors with some great albatross around his neck. Grimm rattling his scythe, standing within a circle burned into a ripe field.
Phinehas gulped down some of the thick brew and also leaned in.
"I mean, will you be ready for Trauma? I mean, will I have to worry about your mindset as my partner? I mean..."
It was now Rick’s turn to interrupt.
"Is that why you asked me to come here? To quiz me on my mental health? To make sure that I don't ruin your chances at yet another win?" He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still a little anxious... but don't worry. Don't worry. I'm okay. I've been talking to.... " Another pause. "... never mind. You have nothing to worry about."
A tilt of the head.
"Good. We've both been around long enough to know what this is going to require of us. Whatever our past...it's past. Pandemonium is the here and now, and now we need to work together to set those ignorant wretches straight. You know as well as I do that their approach, I guess you could call it, cannot continue. Not in this federation. Not while we're still here to fight the good fight."
This odd couple of the PCW leaned back in their chairs. Drank their coffee. Thought their thoughts of violence and retribution. Of matches past – some long since past – and matches still to come. Rick looked up at a flickering bulb in the corner, but turned his attention to his partner as he spoke.
"You know it's strange, us being considered the old guard, so to speak. I remember first coming into PCW and you were already a legend. I was no one. And that Deadly Rumble, back in.... when was that? 2012? Wow... eight years. I really thought I had that match won. My first PCW match. But you beat me. That ate me up for a long while, you know... but you're right, that was a long time ago. It's water under the bridge. Now we've got Pandemonium running around, talking about killing PCW's past, but I'm not ready to die yet. And I know you're not either. I'm gonna fight until the end and I can tell by the look in your eyes that you will too."
Those very eyes, the blue of a bleak ice shelf, of raw winds and chilled marrow, narrowed as Phinehas grinned. Those eyes looked into the intrinsic malice of the eyes of Rick Majors. Those eyes reflecting back the sum of their years. An accounting of their labors and sorrows.
And Phinehas said, “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
They raised their drinks to one another and sat for some time with only the drowsy tinkling of mugs as accompaniment. As they finished their coffees, Phinehas realized something. When he had entered and made his way to the table, Rick showed the effects of the world-weary heaviness that he had been shouldering for many years. But within that, Phinehas had detected a…flicker of light? A candle just now relit? Some manner of spark that had been missing for a long time. As they rose to leave, Phinehas was sure of it.
Maybe there was hope for Rick Majors after all.
**with thanks to Rick Majors for his contribution**
~~~~~~~~~
Gerard and Holden size each other up while circling the ring. The faithful eagerly wait for them to tear each other apart. Holden leans in for a grapple, but Gerard slips around to avoid it. Holden faces him with a smirk. Gerard offers to shake his hand, which Holden...responds to with a shove! Gerard hits the buckles and comes out fired up with...a finger poke?! Holden falls like he was just murdered. Gerard takes the pin with a leg hooked.
1!
2!
3!!
The bell is called for! The fans are unsure of what the hell to make of what just happened, but Gerard is up celebrating the matter.
~~~~~~~~~
Those fools, with their cravings for validation. With the exquisite fragility of their egos.
Phinehas Dillinger entered and took in his surroundings as he approached the counter. He was still in Greenville, after all, and it would not be outside the realm of possibility for one of his Pure Class Wrestling cohorts to be here enjoying their own coffee. And for them to take it upon themselves to cause a little ruckus.
Casting about, Phinehas was engulfed in whites and greys and the faint shades of pine and birch. The walls were lined with shelves full of bags of coffee beans (roasted right down the street!) and all manner of accouterments required to prepare only the finest cups of coffee. Much of it looked like the glass gadgetry necessary for the most arcane of alchemy works, even though they were, at the end of the day, nothing more than coffee fixin’s. The pale yellows of Edison bulbs shone down from the exposed iron beams overhead.
Phinehas reached the counter, with displays of artisanal chocolate bars to his left and to his right. The barista, all…
You know what, you know the type. Use your imagination.
The barista smiled and said, “What would you like?”
Phinehas turned his attention from the menu behind her to one of her co-workers walking past with what was left of a recent pot. He pointed.
“I would like a cup of that.”
She turned, then turned back.
“That’s the bottom of the pot, sir. That’s the dregs. That’s just sludge.”
“I know.”
“I can’t sell you that.”
“But that’s what I would like.”
Phinehas saw the beads of the abacus flicking back and forth behind her eyes. She saw the line growing behind this odd ginger fellow, and so she shrugged.
“Okay. If that’s really what you want. I guess...I guess it's on the house.”
“Thank you,” said Phinehas, as he took a mug of the thickest, darkest ‘coffee’ ever served in the establishment. He took a sip as he walked past the industrial-chic stools and the turntable (was that Miles Davis, or Charlie Parker, or Sonny Rollins, or…Phinehas would admit he was not a jazz connoisseur) and found the closest thing to a back table that he could. He listened to the faint strains of a trumpet mixed in with the endless grinding and hissing of a coffee shop in full vigor.
Methodical Coffee was not unlike many other coffee shops in cities like this spread throughout the land. Phinehas watched students, hipsters (was that still a thing?), retirees, and tourists line up for their respective caffeine fixes. Underneath it all, though, under the murmur and the hubbub, it seemed sterile. A façade.
But my goodness, it sure did smell good in here.
Phinehas drank some more as he waited. Only a few minutes later, Rick Majors walked through the door with a hitch in his step. Like he was fighting a limp. He looked around and saw Phinehas in the back. They shared a nod, and Rick ordered his own drink before taking the seat across from his soon-to-be teammate.
If only the people of Hangtown could see Phinehas now….
They sat in silence at first. It was obvious that Majors hadn’t slept much. He looked…tired. Haggard. But then again, maybe that was all due to those underground matches. Or perhaps it was the decades of wrestling on top of those recent matches of his. It was completely understandable, really, but it wasn’t the physical aspects of the business that Phinehas wanted to discuss.
"Phinehas."
"Rick."
Nearly simultaneous drinks.
The business they shared, it all kept changing, in a way. Things, be it styles or names or jargon, came in waves. Waves that ebbed and flowed. New names flashed across the marquee. Some of those names might stick around. Some of them might not last so long. Rick Majors and Phinehas Dillinger, though…they knew the way. They were part and parcel of the undeniable core. Many of those others long since gone had experienced far less trials and tribulations then either of these two sitting at this table. They had already hung up their boots, as the saying went. Phinehas wouldn’t pretend to know why. Sometimes survival was the only blessing.
Rick’s future? Phinehas’? It wasn’t important in this moment. And Phinehas could not…would not…extend words of truth or comfort. He had only wounds to offer. Rick Majors’ own mute testimony spoke volumes. But then he sighed after another sip.
"I have to say, I was a little..."
Phinehas interrupted. "Are you okay?"
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
Rick leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
~~~~~~~~~
Once the count reaches eight, Grimm rolls back into the ring and rolls straight through ... actually managing to trip up Majors as he enters. Majors falling forward at the unorthodox return, Grimm is up in a flash ... and back to the neck. Stomping. Elbows. Knees. Every joint he can manage aimed directly at a spot 3/4 of an inch below the base of the skull. It’s brutal. Grimm feels no remorse; not that he ever WOULD. But Majors ASKED for this. He, by god, was going to GET it. The referee, however, doesn’t see the nobility in such a choice. But by this point, he’s warned Grimm enough to break counts and break holds. With no end in sight for the Hangtown Horror’s maelstrom ...
... the referee signals for the bell.
DING DING!
Winner: Rick Majors via disqualification
As Grimm continues working over Rick Majors, the referee is physically interjecting himself now. And from the back, security begins to pour down the ramp way. Grimm, thinking better of the situation, exits the opposite side of the ring ... leaving security to filter into the ring. However, it’s not needed as Majors is back on his feet within a few moments ... STILL goading Grimm into attacking.
Even going so far as to push security back OUT of the ring, Majors almost PLEADING for Grimm to return.
‘Is that all you HAVE, Grimm?!’
The voice is loud and unmistakable, and the crowd actually cheers for the balls-out warrior that stands tall in the middle of the ring. Grimm, having made his way around to the ramp, nods and ... what appears to be a bemused sort of glimmer in his eyes. It’s obvious, however, that he is impressed. And shows such by nodding slowly and backing up the ramp instead of fully turning his back to Rick Majors.
~~~~~~~~~
These two – The Impact and The Hangtown Horror -- sat here, in this place, as counterpoints to one another. Majors with some great albatross around his neck. Grimm rattling his scythe, standing within a circle burned into a ripe field.
Phinehas gulped down some of the thick brew and also leaned in.
"I mean, will you be ready for Trauma? I mean, will I have to worry about your mindset as my partner? I mean..."
It was now Rick’s turn to interrupt.
"Is that why you asked me to come here? To quiz me on my mental health? To make sure that I don't ruin your chances at yet another win?" He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still a little anxious... but don't worry. Don't worry. I'm okay. I've been talking to.... " Another pause. "... never mind. You have nothing to worry about."
A tilt of the head.
"Good. We've both been around long enough to know what this is going to require of us. Whatever our past...it's past. Pandemonium is the here and now, and now we need to work together to set those ignorant wretches straight. You know as well as I do that their approach, I guess you could call it, cannot continue. Not in this federation. Not while we're still here to fight the good fight."
This odd couple of the PCW leaned back in their chairs. Drank their coffee. Thought their thoughts of violence and retribution. Of matches past – some long since past – and matches still to come. Rick looked up at a flickering bulb in the corner, but turned his attention to his partner as he spoke.
"You know it's strange, us being considered the old guard, so to speak. I remember first coming into PCW and you were already a legend. I was no one. And that Deadly Rumble, back in.... when was that? 2012? Wow... eight years. I really thought I had that match won. My first PCW match. But you beat me. That ate me up for a long while, you know... but you're right, that was a long time ago. It's water under the bridge. Now we've got Pandemonium running around, talking about killing PCW's past, but I'm not ready to die yet. And I know you're not either. I'm gonna fight until the end and I can tell by the look in your eyes that you will too."
Those very eyes, the blue of a bleak ice shelf, of raw winds and chilled marrow, narrowed as Phinehas grinned. Those eyes looked into the intrinsic malice of the eyes of Rick Majors. Those eyes reflecting back the sum of their years. An accounting of their labors and sorrows.
And Phinehas said, “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
They raised their drinks to one another and sat for some time with only the drowsy tinkling of mugs as accompaniment. As they finished their coffees, Phinehas realized something. When he had entered and made his way to the table, Rick showed the effects of the world-weary heaviness that he had been shouldering for many years. But within that, Phinehas had detected a…flicker of light? A candle just now relit? Some manner of spark that had been missing for a long time. As they rose to leave, Phinehas was sure of it.
Maybe there was hope for Rick Majors after all.
**with thanks to Rick Majors for his contribution**
