Post by Grimm on Jun 30, 2020 14:01:07 GMT -5
Backstage of Pure Class Wrestling Arena, a man of some intensity power-walked through the halls. He looked like something out of a 1930’s potboiler, or some black and white noir movie about the seedy underbelly of the grittiest of cities. Brown slacks, scuffed brown loafers, a gray tie and suspenders almost-but-not-quite the same shade of gray. His torso, starting to tug at the limits of his white button-up shirt, its sleeves rolled up. All business. A “PRESS” tag tucked into the band of his fedora. He walked without interruption until he saw his target.
The reporter scurried right into the path of Grimm and looked up at the Hangtown Horror.
“Grimm, I’m Ted Valiant with The Atomic Elbow and I wanted to know…”
He pulled a notebook out of a back pocket and flipped to a blank page.
“…how do you respond to some of the things said at the awards ceremony tonight?”
Ted looked expectantly at Grimm. Grimm tilted his head.
“What, like, thanks for this award? I’m surprised you voted for me? I appreciate it? I don’t know, that’s a common speech at these things. Or are you referring to the PCW Hall of Fame? I’ve always enjoyed working with Nathan Saniti. His induction is well deserved. And I don’t think I need to go into my history with Michael Wryght. After all…”
Ted began thumbing through his notebook. “No, I mean…” but as he began to rattle through some quotes, his voice rose to a pitch beyond the limits of the human ear. As if he’d inhaled a quantity of helium that would have put him in danger of inert gas asphyxiation. Nothing but the mouthing of empty sentiments of no substance.
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a chair, in a room, in his home at the end of All Souls Hollow. A simple wooden table stood at his left. Windows had been opened and a breeze carried with it hints of a full creek and drying leaves. Phinehas watched the flame of a single candle on the mantle. It twisted, turned, wavered, but did not go out.
Hands rested on the arms of the chair. Picked at some loose threads. Thought to himself, what he could have said was, he wished him nothing but the best, for even now, so soon after returning, he was already cruising on fumes. That he clearly lacked something in life, so Phinehas hoped he found whatever it was he was looking for. That one day he might arrive at some kind of peace, before it was too late. Before he became nothing more than a proverb to the others down the line.
Ruth Dillinger walked into the room with a mug of tea and placed it on the side table. Phinehas watched steam drift away on the breeze, and he tracked it in the light of the candle as it wafted out into the hallway.
Ruth put her hand on her brother’s shoulder and squeezed. No words passed between them. There were none necessary.
But, yes, that’s what he could have said.
But he didn’t.
~~~~~~~~~
A rare look of bewilderment flashed across Grimm’s whiskers, but then it registered. He gave a knowing nod.
“Oh, got it. See, I’ve always had trouble hearing that frequency. Some kind of physical anomaly, I guess.”
Ted’s pen paused in midair. “Frequency?”
“Yes, that high-pitched whining I think your notes refer to. It doesn’t register with me, I’m afraid. “
“But you can hear me.”
Grimm nodded. “That’s correct.” With that, he patted Ted Valiant on the shoulder as he moved past him to head towards the entrance.
And then he’d gone out and come oh-so-close to becoming Genesis champion, but Rick Majors had other plans.
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas listened to something skittering out there in the hills. Something else much larger lumbered through the trees. A summer insect cacophony almost drowned out the peepers from the pond at the end of the road. And down below, he could hear Granny poking around in the cellar, looking for things pickled in jars.
So. Dominator had left to pursue his own quests in other lands. Brenna Gordon was off yet again dealing with her mother. Or her mother’s wraith-which-was-now-a-banshee. Or something. Cory Steel and his son Vincent were no doubt caught up in the high stakes game of international espionage and intrigue. Or maybe running drugs and guns for a motorcycle gang again. Who could say.
With all of this falling apart around him, some might have suggested Grimm was directionless, which in PCW terms meant “no current feud or title quest with which to occupy oneself.” But the Genesis proclamation had been handed down from on high, and anyway, Grimm continued in his role of the federation’s conscience, as he had been declared as such by others. Title shot, raging feud, or whatever, that conscience was a result of the fundamental indifference of nature. Of Grimm. Whether they acknowledged it or not, every person who had entered, or would be entering, the hallowed halls of Pure Class Wrestling would be the unwitting object of that cold indifference. The very essence of the inexorable force called Grimm.
In other words – no, not directionless. Not ever.
Phinehas had said he would not begrudge Rick Majors any success, and he meant it. Kudos to the new Genesis champion. And now the Impact would be the one watching those fighting for a shot to face him…Grimm and Holden Ross foremost. They would be pinned like a couple of butterflies in a display case for him to study, to learn from, to plan against…as if Rick Majors would be able to see anything more than what he’d already experienced. Though, at this point in their respective careers, every little bit helped.
The candle guttered on the mantle. The fireplace sat cold and empty save for a smattering of ashes and scorched stones. It would flare up soon enough.
And so, yes, Holden Ross already. The Human Wrecking Ball. Our breakout star for the moment. The Second Runner-Up, set to face the First Runner-Up. The two of them had done all they could that night, and it had not been sufficient to the task. And so they found themselves here.
Here, where Phinehas sat and pondered (Weak and weary? Not on your life!), where another thought came to him. What would happen if Holden Ross competed stone cold sober for once? Clear-headed, focused, with no distraction. Or was that too terrifying a thought for him? To have to see things unimpaired. To make undeniable acknowledgements. To stand before Grimm, facing a full reckoning with nothing to dull it. To understand you have been recognized completely, and to finally understand what it meant, really, when he turned his full regard on you.
Grimm would prefer Ross in such a state, but he did not know how long it would take for him to clear out the bong resin mucking up his synapses. But still, starting the fast now would be better than nothing. All the Hangtown Horror asked was just one moment of clarity. So that maybe Ross would think twice before proclaiming something like Pandemonium was sowing the seeds of Chaos. It was sowing something, all right, and once you’ve sown something, you know what comes next, eh? Something that stood as the natural foil to the blind optimism of the Professional Wrestler. Something like…a harvest, perhaps?
Phinehas sat in an encroaching darkness. He took a sip of tea and smiled.
Perfect.
Grimm passed through the hallways, a man on a mission. On his way to the Four-Way Elimination Match for the newly-instated Genesis Title. All business, himself.
The reporter scurried right into the path of Grimm and looked up at the Hangtown Horror.
“Grimm, I’m Ted Valiant with The Atomic Elbow and I wanted to know…”
He pulled a notebook out of a back pocket and flipped to a blank page.
“…how do you respond to some of the things said at the awards ceremony tonight?”
Ted looked expectantly at Grimm. Grimm tilted his head.
“What, like, thanks for this award? I’m surprised you voted for me? I appreciate it? I don’t know, that’s a common speech at these things. Or are you referring to the PCW Hall of Fame? I’ve always enjoyed working with Nathan Saniti. His induction is well deserved. And I don’t think I need to go into my history with Michael Wryght. After all…”
Ted began thumbing through his notebook. “No, I mean…” but as he began to rattle through some quotes, his voice rose to a pitch beyond the limits of the human ear. As if he’d inhaled a quantity of helium that would have put him in danger of inert gas asphyxiation. Nothing but the mouthing of empty sentiments of no substance.
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a chair, in a room, in his home at the end of All Souls Hollow. A simple wooden table stood at his left. Windows had been opened and a breeze carried with it hints of a full creek and drying leaves. Phinehas watched the flame of a single candle on the mantle. It twisted, turned, wavered, but did not go out.
Hands rested on the arms of the chair. Picked at some loose threads. Thought to himself, what he could have said was, he wished him nothing but the best, for even now, so soon after returning, he was already cruising on fumes. That he clearly lacked something in life, so Phinehas hoped he found whatever it was he was looking for. That one day he might arrive at some kind of peace, before it was too late. Before he became nothing more than a proverb to the others down the line.
Ruth Dillinger walked into the room with a mug of tea and placed it on the side table. Phinehas watched steam drift away on the breeze, and he tracked it in the light of the candle as it wafted out into the hallway.
Ruth put her hand on her brother’s shoulder and squeezed. No words passed between them. There were none necessary.
But, yes, that’s what he could have said.
But he didn’t.
~~~~~~~~~
A rare look of bewilderment flashed across Grimm’s whiskers, but then it registered. He gave a knowing nod.
“Oh, got it. See, I’ve always had trouble hearing that frequency. Some kind of physical anomaly, I guess.”
Ted’s pen paused in midair. “Frequency?”
“Yes, that high-pitched whining I think your notes refer to. It doesn’t register with me, I’m afraid. “
“But you can hear me.”
Grimm nodded. “That’s correct.” With that, he patted Ted Valiant on the shoulder as he moved past him to head towards the entrance.
And then he’d gone out and come oh-so-close to becoming Genesis champion, but Rick Majors had other plans.
~~~~~~~~~
Phinehas listened to something skittering out there in the hills. Something else much larger lumbered through the trees. A summer insect cacophony almost drowned out the peepers from the pond at the end of the road. And down below, he could hear Granny poking around in the cellar, looking for things pickled in jars.
So. Dominator had left to pursue his own quests in other lands. Brenna Gordon was off yet again dealing with her mother. Or her mother’s wraith-which-was-now-a-banshee. Or something. Cory Steel and his son Vincent were no doubt caught up in the high stakes game of international espionage and intrigue. Or maybe running drugs and guns for a motorcycle gang again. Who could say.
With all of this falling apart around him, some might have suggested Grimm was directionless, which in PCW terms meant “no current feud or title quest with which to occupy oneself.” But the Genesis proclamation had been handed down from on high, and anyway, Grimm continued in his role of the federation’s conscience, as he had been declared as such by others. Title shot, raging feud, or whatever, that conscience was a result of the fundamental indifference of nature. Of Grimm. Whether they acknowledged it or not, every person who had entered, or would be entering, the hallowed halls of Pure Class Wrestling would be the unwitting object of that cold indifference. The very essence of the inexorable force called Grimm.
In other words – no, not directionless. Not ever.
Phinehas had said he would not begrudge Rick Majors any success, and he meant it. Kudos to the new Genesis champion. And now the Impact would be the one watching those fighting for a shot to face him…Grimm and Holden Ross foremost. They would be pinned like a couple of butterflies in a display case for him to study, to learn from, to plan against…as if Rick Majors would be able to see anything more than what he’d already experienced. Though, at this point in their respective careers, every little bit helped.
The candle guttered on the mantle. The fireplace sat cold and empty save for a smattering of ashes and scorched stones. It would flare up soon enough.
And so, yes, Holden Ross already. The Human Wrecking Ball. Our breakout star for the moment. The Second Runner-Up, set to face the First Runner-Up. The two of them had done all they could that night, and it had not been sufficient to the task. And so they found themselves here.
Here, where Phinehas sat and pondered (Weak and weary? Not on your life!), where another thought came to him. What would happen if Holden Ross competed stone cold sober for once? Clear-headed, focused, with no distraction. Or was that too terrifying a thought for him? To have to see things unimpaired. To make undeniable acknowledgements. To stand before Grimm, facing a full reckoning with nothing to dull it. To understand you have been recognized completely, and to finally understand what it meant, really, when he turned his full regard on you.
Grimm would prefer Ross in such a state, but he did not know how long it would take for him to clear out the bong resin mucking up his synapses. But still, starting the fast now would be better than nothing. All the Hangtown Horror asked was just one moment of clarity. So that maybe Ross would think twice before proclaiming something like Pandemonium was sowing the seeds of Chaos. It was sowing something, all right, and once you’ve sown something, you know what comes next, eh? Something that stood as the natural foil to the blind optimism of the Professional Wrestler. Something like…a harvest, perhaps?
Phinehas sat in an encroaching darkness. He took a sip of tea and smiled.
Perfect.
