Post by Grimm on Jul 13, 2020 14:06:19 GMT -5
It was not a crossroads carved out of a lonely river delta. Nor was it a barren crossroads worn into some desolate coastal plain. No, it was here, where two trails met in the deepest, oldest parcel of Hangtown Woods. Maybe they were remnants of buffalo traces from when the great beasts roamed this land. Perhaps they were left over from when other…things traveled this way. Regardless, they were here now, where Phinehas Dillinger and his visitor sat on tree stumps worn smooth from ages of rains and a long slow decay.
Phinehas sat fiddling with a Good Stick – you know the kind, unless you’ve been stuck in the city limits your whole life. A stick straight and true and worthy of any task set before it. He peeled off the bark with the intention of setting it out to dry, to harden it. It had a suggestion of a knob at one end, meaning it could have served as something of a Hangtown shillelagh, if you will. And Phinehas would.
Say this is a stick and I will beat you with it.
Say this is not a stick and I will beat you with it.
Now, what will you say?
Now it was dark back here where ancient trees grew together, but even so, there was no escaping a river valley summer. The air hung moist and heavy, like breathing through a mask straight out of the dryer, all filtered through a veil of honeysuckle. Ferns and briers clung to the underbrush as thick and green as they would ever grow. The woods stood oddly quiet, though, as if they and all their inhabitants recognized something unnatural afoot.
Which brought us to the visitor. Pale to the point of alabaster, his face a scrimshaw of carved expressions. The blackest of suits absorbed what little sunlight dappled through the canopy. His wide-brimmed hat and shoes, shined to the point of mirroring, were just as black. And just as spotless, for no speck of dust or spore of pollen marred the outfit, just as no bead of sweat dripped down his face. In fact, he carried with him his own frigid atmosphere. Sitting next to him, Phinehas’s breath plumed in a vision of frosted pumpkins and midwinter bonfires.
Maybe Dante had gotten it right.
The visitor sat twirling an ebony stick in his hand. The silver knob at the top flashed in a reflection of light unseen here in this primeval gloom. Those among us who recognize the visitor may be wondering where his hound was, but fret not, it was no doubt off terrorizing the wildlife on footpads of cinder and smoke, tracking with eyes of ash.
For those more recent to the gallery, well…the visitor would be pleased to meet you. Can you guess his name?
He spoke, in a voice as deep and as hollow as ever. Deeper than these woods, more hollow than any cave carved into the limestone beneath their feet.
“Yes, Billy, that old hyena. I don’t have to tell you he’s still one of my better emissaries. No one who escaped death as many times as he did, who was as ornery as he was, who was the greatest of champions…with my help, of course…”
Phinehas said, “Well, yes, but…”
“I know, I know. But don’t spout your numbers at me, Phinehas. To me, a day is a thousand years and a thousand years is a day. Those record books mean nothing. Just look at what he went through to keep it all that time. What he did to people while he was at it. What he was willing to put on the line. No, I stand by it. His was no waste of a soul, and no mistake. And to think, I didn’t even have to steal it.”
The visitor unfurled that wretched grin of his. One too wide, full of flawless teeth and blood red gums that stood out even more here in the shadows.
“He tried to bargain with me, you know. Your soul for his. “
Phinehas offered up a closed fist. He opened his hand, and a honeybee buzzed off towards the outskirts of the woods. Toward the hives near the House of Dillinger. Where it would shimmy out directions to a new patch of wildflowers found only here, at this one spot.
“I know. But…he’s my brother. We created our own order in our own way. Besides, I really let him have it in that match, didn’t I? He had no chance of winning that bet.”
It hadn’t been the first time Billy Sadistic had attempted to turn the tables on his brother, but that was their nature. Which is why they fit so well together, and had worked so successfully as both the fiercest of enemies and staunchest of allies during the times they had shared the PCW ring. The federation was a land of new beginnings, over and over and over again. Where lost souls came for second, third, fourth chances. Where names new and old worked to move beyond the pain. Beyond the past.
Beyond that last Major Impact.
To now.
“It’s hard to keep track. To make sense of it all. Anyway…sometimes I wonder what Billy would have to say about all this. What kind of trouble he’d be making if he was still roaming the halls of the arena.”
A rumble-laugh from the visitor.
“It would depend on which side of the line he stood at the time. Like always.”
No truer words had ever been spoken. Would Billy be watching his brother’s back during this recent foray into the new-and-improved Genesis championship hunt, would he be on the hunt himself…or would he just be making things harder for someone, anyone, just for the giggles? No one knew but Billy. And he would never tell.
And since he wasn’t around, and hadn’t been for some time, this would be yet another straight up, down the middle match between the Hangtown Horror and Rick Majors. (**knock on wood, for there was no guarantee of such a thing in this business of theirs**)
Rick Majors, former Underground Champion-and-now-Genesis Champion, who had gone through much struggle and strife, both inside and outside of the ring. Who had outlasted three men, Grimm included, to become that champion. Who had seen Grimm best Holden Ross for this, his first Genesis title defense. Rick Majors, who, much like Grimm himself, kept forging ahead. Towards what, only they knew – or maybe they didn’t, but here they were again. These two stalwarts of Pure Class Wrestling, doing what they did best.
Which was beating the living daylights out of one another, titles or not, because that was their job. That was their natures.
A rasping creak, and Phinehas jerked his attention to an old crows cage swaying in a rare breeze. The cage, once used as both warning and deterrent, even out here where no one should ever tread, now all rust and rotten wood. Tatters of cloth and teeth. So familiar as to blend into the background there at the crossroads until it insisted upon itself. Swinging from a gibbet held together only by lichen and malice. Ah, the mischief Phinehas and Billy had gotten into with that thing.
But those days were gone.
“I suspect you haven’t come here just to reminisce, or to try to convince me yet again,” said Phinehas.
“No. I’m not here seeking sympathy. I come bearing only courtesy. When I said my last offer was my last offer, I meant it. Unless you want to completely avoid what’s about to happen, I don’t suppose?”
Phinehas turned. The grimmstare, all ice and frost and hammering winds, the perfect contrast to the visitor’s glowing embers which reflected an infernal furnace churning below. Those eyes whittled from the deepest parts of the most ancient of glaciers narrowed.
“Is that a threat? Keep in mind that you are in Hangtown, friend. No matter what, it remains ours, and you –yes, even you – are out of your element.”
The visitor stood. He planted his walking stick into the dirt with a hiss.
“No, Phinehas. I come without threats or bargains today. You see, I recognize that the Brothers Gruesome have always stayed true to themselves. Now, that may not be saying much for Billy, but never the less. And I have my own sense of honor, believe it or not. So…after all our misadventures over the years, I guess you could call them, I felt I owed you this visit.”
He pushed the stick deeper into the earth. Something down there howled.
“A plan is in motion, Phinehas. Something that I cannot directly influence one way or another, for that time has long passed. The most I can offer is that I can look the other way…just this once…if you want Billy’s help. Because you’re going to need it. Even now, he has the devil’s own luck, as he liked to brag. Just say the word.”
Today’s forecast: 50% chance of ever seeing his brother again.
Phinehas looked round about him. At his woods. At the stick. At the stump. At the visitor.
“…what?”
The visitor took a few steps and walked across the point of the trails' intersection. His form began to fade as he continued into the thickets.
“Check your book, Phinehas.”
Phinehas remained seated. A cold wind rushed through. It blew straight at him from out of his own future.
Phinehas sat fiddling with a Good Stick – you know the kind, unless you’ve been stuck in the city limits your whole life. A stick straight and true and worthy of any task set before it. He peeled off the bark with the intention of setting it out to dry, to harden it. It had a suggestion of a knob at one end, meaning it could have served as something of a Hangtown shillelagh, if you will. And Phinehas would.
Say this is a stick and I will beat you with it.
Say this is not a stick and I will beat you with it.
Now, what will you say?
Now it was dark back here where ancient trees grew together, but even so, there was no escaping a river valley summer. The air hung moist and heavy, like breathing through a mask straight out of the dryer, all filtered through a veil of honeysuckle. Ferns and briers clung to the underbrush as thick and green as they would ever grow. The woods stood oddly quiet, though, as if they and all their inhabitants recognized something unnatural afoot.
Which brought us to the visitor. Pale to the point of alabaster, his face a scrimshaw of carved expressions. The blackest of suits absorbed what little sunlight dappled through the canopy. His wide-brimmed hat and shoes, shined to the point of mirroring, were just as black. And just as spotless, for no speck of dust or spore of pollen marred the outfit, just as no bead of sweat dripped down his face. In fact, he carried with him his own frigid atmosphere. Sitting next to him, Phinehas’s breath plumed in a vision of frosted pumpkins and midwinter bonfires.
Maybe Dante had gotten it right.
The visitor sat twirling an ebony stick in his hand. The silver knob at the top flashed in a reflection of light unseen here in this primeval gloom. Those among us who recognize the visitor may be wondering where his hound was, but fret not, it was no doubt off terrorizing the wildlife on footpads of cinder and smoke, tracking with eyes of ash.
For those more recent to the gallery, well…the visitor would be pleased to meet you. Can you guess his name?
He spoke, in a voice as deep and as hollow as ever. Deeper than these woods, more hollow than any cave carved into the limestone beneath their feet.
“Yes, Billy, that old hyena. I don’t have to tell you he’s still one of my better emissaries. No one who escaped death as many times as he did, who was as ornery as he was, who was the greatest of champions…with my help, of course…”
Phinehas said, “Well, yes, but…”
“I know, I know. But don’t spout your numbers at me, Phinehas. To me, a day is a thousand years and a thousand years is a day. Those record books mean nothing. Just look at what he went through to keep it all that time. What he did to people while he was at it. What he was willing to put on the line. No, I stand by it. His was no waste of a soul, and no mistake. And to think, I didn’t even have to steal it.”
The visitor unfurled that wretched grin of his. One too wide, full of flawless teeth and blood red gums that stood out even more here in the shadows.
“He tried to bargain with me, you know. Your soul for his. “
Phinehas offered up a closed fist. He opened his hand, and a honeybee buzzed off towards the outskirts of the woods. Toward the hives near the House of Dillinger. Where it would shimmy out directions to a new patch of wildflowers found only here, at this one spot.
“I know. But…he’s my brother. We created our own order in our own way. Besides, I really let him have it in that match, didn’t I? He had no chance of winning that bet.”
It hadn’t been the first time Billy Sadistic had attempted to turn the tables on his brother, but that was their nature. Which is why they fit so well together, and had worked so successfully as both the fiercest of enemies and staunchest of allies during the times they had shared the PCW ring. The federation was a land of new beginnings, over and over and over again. Where lost souls came for second, third, fourth chances. Where names new and old worked to move beyond the pain. Beyond the past.
Beyond that last Major Impact.
To now.
“It’s hard to keep track. To make sense of it all. Anyway…sometimes I wonder what Billy would have to say about all this. What kind of trouble he’d be making if he was still roaming the halls of the arena.”
A rumble-laugh from the visitor.
“It would depend on which side of the line he stood at the time. Like always.”
No truer words had ever been spoken. Would Billy be watching his brother’s back during this recent foray into the new-and-improved Genesis championship hunt, would he be on the hunt himself…or would he just be making things harder for someone, anyone, just for the giggles? No one knew but Billy. And he would never tell.
And since he wasn’t around, and hadn’t been for some time, this would be yet another straight up, down the middle match between the Hangtown Horror and Rick Majors. (**knock on wood, for there was no guarantee of such a thing in this business of theirs**)
Rick Majors, former Underground Champion-and-now-Genesis Champion, who had gone through much struggle and strife, both inside and outside of the ring. Who had outlasted three men, Grimm included, to become that champion. Who had seen Grimm best Holden Ross for this, his first Genesis title defense. Rick Majors, who, much like Grimm himself, kept forging ahead. Towards what, only they knew – or maybe they didn’t, but here they were again. These two stalwarts of Pure Class Wrestling, doing what they did best.
Which was beating the living daylights out of one another, titles or not, because that was their job. That was their natures.
A rasping creak, and Phinehas jerked his attention to an old crows cage swaying in a rare breeze. The cage, once used as both warning and deterrent, even out here where no one should ever tread, now all rust and rotten wood. Tatters of cloth and teeth. So familiar as to blend into the background there at the crossroads until it insisted upon itself. Swinging from a gibbet held together only by lichen and malice. Ah, the mischief Phinehas and Billy had gotten into with that thing.
But those days were gone.
“I suspect you haven’t come here just to reminisce, or to try to convince me yet again,” said Phinehas.
“No. I’m not here seeking sympathy. I come bearing only courtesy. When I said my last offer was my last offer, I meant it. Unless you want to completely avoid what’s about to happen, I don’t suppose?”
Phinehas turned. The grimmstare, all ice and frost and hammering winds, the perfect contrast to the visitor’s glowing embers which reflected an infernal furnace churning below. Those eyes whittled from the deepest parts of the most ancient of glaciers narrowed.
“Is that a threat? Keep in mind that you are in Hangtown, friend. No matter what, it remains ours, and you –yes, even you – are out of your element.”
The visitor stood. He planted his walking stick into the dirt with a hiss.
“No, Phinehas. I come without threats or bargains today. You see, I recognize that the Brothers Gruesome have always stayed true to themselves. Now, that may not be saying much for Billy, but never the less. And I have my own sense of honor, believe it or not. So…after all our misadventures over the years, I guess you could call them, I felt I owed you this visit.”
He pushed the stick deeper into the earth. Something down there howled.
“A plan is in motion, Phinehas. Something that I cannot directly influence one way or another, for that time has long passed. The most I can offer is that I can look the other way…just this once…if you want Billy’s help. Because you’re going to need it. Even now, he has the devil’s own luck, as he liked to brag. Just say the word.”
Today’s forecast: 50% chance of ever seeing his brother again.
Phinehas looked round about him. At his woods. At the stick. At the stump. At the visitor.
“…what?”
The visitor took a few steps and walked across the point of the trails' intersection. His form began to fade as he continued into the thickets.
“Check your book, Phinehas.”
Phinehas remained seated. A cold wind rushed through. It blew straight at him from out of his own future.
