Post by Grimm on Jun 16, 2020 12:36:41 GMT -5
The crowd had arrived from all across Hangtown proper, and had climbed the hill in ones and twos. The path had grown up from last time, but they all knew the way. As they picked their way through the brambles they just had to watch for briers. And hornets’ nests, were they low in the trees. And copperheads. Some struggled more than others, but they all carried branches of oak. Some of those in twos carried larger pieces between them.
There in a clearing at the top, the crowd caught its breath before stacking the framework for the bonfire. They had timed it such that they began the work at noon, with the sun high overhead. The crowd had to squint under its glare, sure, and their handkerchiefs grew sodden as they mopped sweat off their brows, but there was no grumbling. No cursing. Nothing but joy in the work for it was the peak of summer. The sun rose to its highest point on this day (if only the Zenith were here to see it), and after yet another temperamental spring (Thunderstorms! No, snow! No, gale force advisories!) the people welcomed it.
And thus the wood was stacked just so, as it had been every solstice for the last…well, don’t worry how many years. Granny and Ruth Dillinger stepped out of the crowd. They each held a fistful of mistletoe, rosemary, and elderflower. They each flicked a match with their free hand and touched the flame to their bunches. As the crowd formed a circle around the clearing, Granny and Ruth first walked counterclockwise around the wood, pausing to wave smoke at the four cardinal directions, then repeated the task in a clockwise direction. And when they had completed the circuit, they blew into the mistletoe, rosemary, and elderflower to fan the flames before tossing the smoldering greens into the wood. Granny and Ruth moved back into their circle of neighbors and watched with them as the smoke bloomed like so many fields of wildflowers, the flames blossomed, and the bonfire erupted.
The circle of adherents fixated as the fire claimed it all. They saw the sun slowly but surely begin its descent into the west. Watched as the first hint of the moon formed in the sky. Made room for Phinehas Dillinger to see as he stood at the edge of the woods.
Phinehas looked from the fire to the moon. The Honey Moon, to be exact, which was why he had not arrived until now. He had been tending his bees, as they were also well aware what day it was. They danced among the honeycombs as the lights in the firmament appeared to divide the day from the night. His bees read them for signs and seasons, for days and for years. He had discussed such things with them, and had relayed once again how it had all begun. How the earth was without form, and all was void. How darkness rested upon the face of the deep. But then there in the beginning was the Word, and the Word…
With the sound of a sharp nib scratching across a ragged sheet of parchment, a cursive hand scrawls grimm…
Well, Phinehas had bid his bees a good evening and had climbed the hill. And here he watched fire and the movements of the sun and the moon and he grinned at the thought of those, and other, beginnings.
How he could play a part in another one of those beginnings. How he could serve to distill his aspect down to its essence before anyone else was able to corrupt it, or to deform it into yet another spectacle paraded out before the masses week after week. Because, as anyone who had followed certain paths in life knew, that’s what always happened, no matter how noble the intentions at the start.
There was the pomp and circumstance of the World Title. Yes, Grimm knew that well, and he knew there would always be such ceremony surrounding it. It was the nature of that beast. No talk of innovation, or ushering in new eras, or remolding this, that, and the other into fresh images would ever change that.
Ever.
The North American Title suffered from its own on again, off again, drama. Take Trauma 272, for example, where a couple of divas wrecked the backstage area and as a result wasted everyone’s time simply because they had nowhere else to be or anything better to do. A sad state of affairs, truly.
And now the Underground championship was no more. Perhaps management had its fill of watching the bulk of its roster beat each other senseless in a course of action that barely qualified as ‘wrestling’ – not that Grimm would have declined that offer, for he was as well versed as anyone in taking decency to its limits. Whatever the reason behind the decision, the Underground division no longer existed. It joined the like of the previous Genesis title, former iterations of which had been vacated, merged, and defunctified.
All of those title belts have had their ups and downs. Looking through their respective histories, they all served as a full cross section of PCW’s roster over lo these many years. But now…now the Genesis was back as a new creation. A new sensation, even, and it would be entertaining to watch everyone fight for the privilege of facing the champion. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, the first such champion would be Grimm…and would be for some time.
But first…first…some eliminations would be necessary.
It’s no secret that in the past the Pure Class Wrestling front office had appeared to get its jollies by playing games with its booking decisions, and so it was not a surprise for Phinehas to see Rick Majors listed as one of the participants in this match for the Genesis title.
Ah, yes, of course he was.
After all, Grimm and Majors had just teamed up in a very successful tag match. They were a strong pairing for that one night, but he understood how this worked. And Phinehas knew neither of them wished the other any specific harm. This match, elimination or not, title on the line or not, would be the epitome of “just business” for the two of them. Phinehas also recognized this new Genesis title would be a big step on Majors’ ongoing quest for…greatness? A reckoning? Whatever it was, Phinehas would not begrudge him any success that came his way.
But by the same token, Grimm would not be pulling any punches. Or kicks. Or headbutts. The Impact would expect nothing less.
And, oh, hey, speaking of Rick Majors...he ain’t through with you yet, Holden Ross. The ol’ Human Wrecking Ball, the likes of which couldn’t deal with frustration, or setbacks, or general personal failures in any way other than attacking co-workers who have nothing to do with upcoming matches or ongoing feuds. Last week it was Monroe and Lester Burrows. That was your prerogative, but maybe your time would have been better spent focusing on your own match, instead. You know, the one you lost.
Now, people like Holden Ross didn’t let grudges go easily. Maybe he would be after some sort of revenge after that tag team loss. Maybe he would want to save face after what had happened at Mass Destruction X. Or maybe he’d suffered so much head trauma over the years that he didn’t remember any of it. He didn’t remember the Hangtown Death Grip choking the victory away from him.
Hmmm. Maybe.
Of course, Gerard Angelo owed Ross something of a favor after their arrangement in the Icemann Invitational Tournament. Maybe he would show up to lend a hand, especially after that tag match they botched. That’s a lot of ‘maybe’s’, so how about one more: maybe Holden Ross would be left to fend for himself, to prove whether or not he could stand on his own merits. If so…bless his heart. May God have mercy on his soul. Et cetera, et cetera.
When it came to Razor Blade, though, you knew you were in for a fair fight. He had no time for shenanigans or tomfoolery. It was just unfortunate for him that this newly revised title wasn’t one he kept clamoring for (woe unto you, no more Underground championship), but it remained a title nonetheless. His last match with Grimm had been their Bodacious BBQ Beach Blast Battle, and, well, it had not been so bodacious for Razor Blade. A victory here would be a big achievement for the Big Dog in more ways than one, so… good luck, I guess?
A bead of sweat rolled down Phinehas’s forehead and dripped into his eye, breaking his reverie. The sun had nearly sunk behind the far hills and the moon was emerging in all its splendor. The crowd remained, and as night encroached Phinehas saw their collective countenance change as the recognition and acceptance settled on them.
Yes, today was the longest day. But that meant they had passed through to the waning part of the year. They had acknowledged their own light and dark selves. They’d heard the whisper of the promise of the return to the dark. The dimming. The withering. The killing frost. What had once been considered the starving time. As it was, as it had been, as it would always be as long as the wheel of the year kept its turning. So the crowd remained still and stoic. Watching the edges of the night turn purple, red, orange as surely as the sun rose in the east. At that, the circle closed in on the bonfire and took up torches to carry home. They grabbed handfuls of ashes to spread across their thresholds for luck and protection, or to scatter on their fields to ensure a good harvest.
Because make no mistake -- the Harvest was coming.
The circle melted apart into a line, and the crowd departed by way of stepping over the embers and weaving down the path back to their ordinary days. And Phinehas walked to the dying of the light, and looked across the clearing, and saw the Winter Bone Horse watching from the woods. It was not yet its time, but it stood as a witness between Phinehas, and the people of Hangtown, and the generations after them. It knew what was coming even as it patrolled the streets and their dreams. The Winter Bone Horse, all horse skull and burlap shroud, trotted into the clearing. It, too, circled what was left of the bonfire, first counterclockwise, then clockwise. Ribbons and greenery furled off the skull and hung affixed to the burlap, because, true, it remained out of time, but those festoons would serve as the only bit of color and life when it was the Winter Bone Horse’s realm. The dead of winter was a cold, barren place to be. Especially in Hangtown.
The horse skull clattered in a glimpse back at the Lord of Misrule as it began its return into the woods. Phinehas nodded back.
The sun continued its climb back into the sky.
And it was good.
There in a clearing at the top, the crowd caught its breath before stacking the framework for the bonfire. They had timed it such that they began the work at noon, with the sun high overhead. The crowd had to squint under its glare, sure, and their handkerchiefs grew sodden as they mopped sweat off their brows, but there was no grumbling. No cursing. Nothing but joy in the work for it was the peak of summer. The sun rose to its highest point on this day (if only the Zenith were here to see it), and after yet another temperamental spring (Thunderstorms! No, snow! No, gale force advisories!) the people welcomed it.
And thus the wood was stacked just so, as it had been every solstice for the last…well, don’t worry how many years. Granny and Ruth Dillinger stepped out of the crowd. They each held a fistful of mistletoe, rosemary, and elderflower. They each flicked a match with their free hand and touched the flame to their bunches. As the crowd formed a circle around the clearing, Granny and Ruth first walked counterclockwise around the wood, pausing to wave smoke at the four cardinal directions, then repeated the task in a clockwise direction. And when they had completed the circuit, they blew into the mistletoe, rosemary, and elderflower to fan the flames before tossing the smoldering greens into the wood. Granny and Ruth moved back into their circle of neighbors and watched with them as the smoke bloomed like so many fields of wildflowers, the flames blossomed, and the bonfire erupted.
The circle of adherents fixated as the fire claimed it all. They saw the sun slowly but surely begin its descent into the west. Watched as the first hint of the moon formed in the sky. Made room for Phinehas Dillinger to see as he stood at the edge of the woods.
Phinehas looked from the fire to the moon. The Honey Moon, to be exact, which was why he had not arrived until now. He had been tending his bees, as they were also well aware what day it was. They danced among the honeycombs as the lights in the firmament appeared to divide the day from the night. His bees read them for signs and seasons, for days and for years. He had discussed such things with them, and had relayed once again how it had all begun. How the earth was without form, and all was void. How darkness rested upon the face of the deep. But then there in the beginning was the Word, and the Word…
With the sound of a sharp nib scratching across a ragged sheet of parchment, a cursive hand scrawls grimm…
Well, Phinehas had bid his bees a good evening and had climbed the hill. And here he watched fire and the movements of the sun and the moon and he grinned at the thought of those, and other, beginnings.
How he could play a part in another one of those beginnings. How he could serve to distill his aspect down to its essence before anyone else was able to corrupt it, or to deform it into yet another spectacle paraded out before the masses week after week. Because, as anyone who had followed certain paths in life knew, that’s what always happened, no matter how noble the intentions at the start.
There was the pomp and circumstance of the World Title. Yes, Grimm knew that well, and he knew there would always be such ceremony surrounding it. It was the nature of that beast. No talk of innovation, or ushering in new eras, or remolding this, that, and the other into fresh images would ever change that.
Ever.
The North American Title suffered from its own on again, off again, drama. Take Trauma 272, for example, where a couple of divas wrecked the backstage area and as a result wasted everyone’s time simply because they had nowhere else to be or anything better to do. A sad state of affairs, truly.
And now the Underground championship was no more. Perhaps management had its fill of watching the bulk of its roster beat each other senseless in a course of action that barely qualified as ‘wrestling’ – not that Grimm would have declined that offer, for he was as well versed as anyone in taking decency to its limits. Whatever the reason behind the decision, the Underground division no longer existed. It joined the like of the previous Genesis title, former iterations of which had been vacated, merged, and defunctified.
All of those title belts have had their ups and downs. Looking through their respective histories, they all served as a full cross section of PCW’s roster over lo these many years. But now…now the Genesis was back as a new creation. A new sensation, even, and it would be entertaining to watch everyone fight for the privilege of facing the champion. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, the first such champion would be Grimm…and would be for some time.
But first…first…some eliminations would be necessary.
It’s no secret that in the past the Pure Class Wrestling front office had appeared to get its jollies by playing games with its booking decisions, and so it was not a surprise for Phinehas to see Rick Majors listed as one of the participants in this match for the Genesis title.
Ah, yes, of course he was.
After all, Grimm and Majors had just teamed up in a very successful tag match. They were a strong pairing for that one night, but he understood how this worked. And Phinehas knew neither of them wished the other any specific harm. This match, elimination or not, title on the line or not, would be the epitome of “just business” for the two of them. Phinehas also recognized this new Genesis title would be a big step on Majors’ ongoing quest for…greatness? A reckoning? Whatever it was, Phinehas would not begrudge him any success that came his way.
But by the same token, Grimm would not be pulling any punches. Or kicks. Or headbutts. The Impact would expect nothing less.
And, oh, hey, speaking of Rick Majors...he ain’t through with you yet, Holden Ross. The ol’ Human Wrecking Ball, the likes of which couldn’t deal with frustration, or setbacks, or general personal failures in any way other than attacking co-workers who have nothing to do with upcoming matches or ongoing feuds. Last week it was Monroe and Lester Burrows. That was your prerogative, but maybe your time would have been better spent focusing on your own match, instead. You know, the one you lost.
Now, people like Holden Ross didn’t let grudges go easily. Maybe he would be after some sort of revenge after that tag team loss. Maybe he would want to save face after what had happened at Mass Destruction X. Or maybe he’d suffered so much head trauma over the years that he didn’t remember any of it. He didn’t remember the Hangtown Death Grip choking the victory away from him.
Hmmm. Maybe.
Of course, Gerard Angelo owed Ross something of a favor after their arrangement in the Icemann Invitational Tournament. Maybe he would show up to lend a hand, especially after that tag match they botched. That’s a lot of ‘maybe’s’, so how about one more: maybe Holden Ross would be left to fend for himself, to prove whether or not he could stand on his own merits. If so…bless his heart. May God have mercy on his soul. Et cetera, et cetera.
When it came to Razor Blade, though, you knew you were in for a fair fight. He had no time for shenanigans or tomfoolery. It was just unfortunate for him that this newly revised title wasn’t one he kept clamoring for (woe unto you, no more Underground championship), but it remained a title nonetheless. His last match with Grimm had been their Bodacious BBQ Beach Blast Battle, and, well, it had not been so bodacious for Razor Blade. A victory here would be a big achievement for the Big Dog in more ways than one, so… good luck, I guess?
A bead of sweat rolled down Phinehas’s forehead and dripped into his eye, breaking his reverie. The sun had nearly sunk behind the far hills and the moon was emerging in all its splendor. The crowd remained, and as night encroached Phinehas saw their collective countenance change as the recognition and acceptance settled on them.
Yes, today was the longest day. But that meant they had passed through to the waning part of the year. They had acknowledged their own light and dark selves. They’d heard the whisper of the promise of the return to the dark. The dimming. The withering. The killing frost. What had once been considered the starving time. As it was, as it had been, as it would always be as long as the wheel of the year kept its turning. So the crowd remained still and stoic. Watching the edges of the night turn purple, red, orange as surely as the sun rose in the east. At that, the circle closed in on the bonfire and took up torches to carry home. They grabbed handfuls of ashes to spread across their thresholds for luck and protection, or to scatter on their fields to ensure a good harvest.
Because make no mistake -- the Harvest was coming.
The circle melted apart into a line, and the crowd departed by way of stepping over the embers and weaving down the path back to their ordinary days. And Phinehas walked to the dying of the light, and looked across the clearing, and saw the Winter Bone Horse watching from the woods. It was not yet its time, but it stood as a witness between Phinehas, and the people of Hangtown, and the generations after them. It knew what was coming even as it patrolled the streets and their dreams. The Winter Bone Horse, all horse skull and burlap shroud, trotted into the clearing. It, too, circled what was left of the bonfire, first counterclockwise, then clockwise. Ribbons and greenery furled off the skull and hung affixed to the burlap, because, true, it remained out of time, but those festoons would serve as the only bit of color and life when it was the Winter Bone Horse’s realm. The dead of winter was a cold, barren place to be. Especially in Hangtown.
The horse skull clattered in a glimpse back at the Lord of Misrule as it began its return into the woods. Phinehas nodded back.
The sun continued its climb back into the sky.
And it was good.
