Post by Grimm on Sept 22, 2020 11:16:21 GMT -5
Rain had turned the field into a kind of paste. The figures in their white Tyvek suits slogged through the ash slurry. Heads bowed as they searched, or conversed with one another after going in and out of the backs of the unmarked vans.
A haze of gauze stretched across the sun, its light at a shallow angle now. That had been more than just a front passing through. The system had brought with it a shift in the seasons. Phinehas Dillinger took a deep breath up there on the ridge. A whiff of harvest and frost. This suited him, the walking embodiment of Seasonal Affective Disorder, just fine.
The response team had arrived under the guise of a hazmat squad, and it certainly looked the part. Phinehas saw nothing from his perch save the far outline of the river, the occasional railroad crossing, the crumbled remains of an iron furnace, the boarded up entrance to a saltpeter mine. Nothing but those interlopers down there, but still, better safe than sorry in case any nosy passersby took an interest. The team walked on unhallowed ground. They’d best be careful where they stepped. If they were lucky, they’d only come across some rabbit bones or pottery shards. If they were a little less lucky, they might kick up a blue glass bottle filled with sewing needles and tatters of burlap. Worse yet, they might stir the ire of some corn demon or grass devil.
Phinehas could do something about them himself, but this was neither the time nor place to draw their attention. He contented himself watching them work in the remains, with the random wisp of smoke drifting off as a vesper from a Hangtown mass.
Leaves rustled. He acknowledged his sister, who stood beside him as she took in the scene.
“It won’t be long now,” said Ruth.
Brother and sister turned and began the descent down the other side of the hill. They took care as they picked their way through briar patches and walked through wet leaves, and over moss-slicked rocks. Stepped across the puddle formed from a brackish spring flowing from an outcrop – its existence, the Dillingers’ existence, this very land’s existence, as salt in the Black Hand’s wounds.
Phinehas and Ruth emerged from the woods and walked across a clearing towards a door in the ground. They would be stepping down into a cold dry hole dug out of the earth, passing through a stratigraphy of sandstone, limestone, and shale. Into a realm of cobwebs and centipedes, and a soot-caked roof of roots and wooden beams.
Down there in the dark of the cellar, his eyes diminished to concentrations of rime until they grew accustomed to the light, or the lack thereof. Tallow candles and oil lanterns could only do so much. Ruth also got her bearings, and they saw that Granny was already at work sealing the Second Door. The Hangtown Paradigm remained in full vigor, but due to the vagaries of previous access sanctions it was only prudent to take the necessary precautions. As above, so below, and once again, better safe than sorry.
“This will take forever if I have to do it all myself. Ruth, bring me that salt and gunpowder. Phinehas, check for leaks, won’t you?”
Ruth brought two stone cups of the materials to Granny, who took a pinch out of each and added it to the concoction smeared around the frame of the door. Ruth noted scraps of snakeskin and bits of ginseng in the beeswax filling the nooks and crannies. Phinehas ran his hands along the walls. He felt the root systems behind the clay. Even deeper, the spores spread in a network, the critters burrowed, the old dead things wished for rest.
But no leaks.
Ruth joined him by checking behind the shelves. She moved the jars of pickled things, and peeked among the collections of tokens and notions. She moved closer to Phinehas, who she knew full well had other things on his mind besides making ready for a Black Hand…visit.
“Penny for your thoughts, Phinehas,” said Ruth as she moved jars of powdered lichen and horseradish out of the way.
His thoughts? Other than those surrounding the fact he had made the first move in a conflict against an entity whose scope even he was not altogether sure of?
Hmm.
They all…and he meant all…found themselves in a tenuous place in an uncertain world. And if he could manage to compartmentalize one aspect from another, he would argue that for some, that place was acknowledging their reasons for continuing on – in Pure Class Wrestling in general, and the Deadly Rumble in specific. For some, the title shot alone was enough. And that title shot meant different things to different people, depending where they were in their careers. Were they to win that Rumble, that was.
I’ve made it.
I belong here.
My past success was not a fluke.
I’m still relevant.
I’m nothing without a title to my name.
For others, for those steeped in gold, with their legacies established and still yet untarnished, with accolades spilling out behind them, it was for something else.
Something more.
It had to be.
Phinehas took a breath of rust and old water. A flutter of candlelight made the shadows in the corners dance a jig.
What was it Gerard Angelo said?
“Wrestling was about checks, championships, and legacy….the more accolades Pandemonium collected, the more the message would be heard.”
That would all rest on Gerard Angelo’s shoulders, because those associates of his weren’t collecting squat. Somehow, David Hunter and Holden Ross were still so desperate for…validation? A sense of belonging? Being part of something bigger than themselves? The PCW roster wasn’t nearly as large as it had been in the past, and yet they still couldn’t stand out on their own merits. They were forced to cling to the scraps of a ‘group’ that, let’s be honest, fell apart almost as soon as it presented itself. Everyone knew those Hollywood types were desperate, insecure people – look at me, love me, shower me with kisses – but how else could one explain their continued insistence on cramming Pandemonium into events whenever they got the chance. Even when history showed that the three of them couldn’t all stay healthy together for more than a couple shows at a time.
And as for their vague, insubstantial ‘message’ -- assuming it was the one shared by some of the other members of the roster – they almost had it right. But it wasn’t so much the old guard holding them and their ilk back as it was holding them down – by the shoulders, as we pinned them in match after match.
Besides, they were all, to a man (or woman, in the case of our dear friend Alexa Black ) either too long in the tooth, too experienced, or some combination of the two to be so naïve as to cling to conspiracies of favoritism and cronyism to explain away the failures. At some point one would have to come to terms with oneself. With what one was actually capable of accomplishing…or not accomplishing. As in, sure, Tyrone Smith would like to account for that misstep of a glorious return. All that production, all that effort at building hype, and it couldn’t have fizzled worse than it did. What were his expectations, if he were to be really and truly honest with himself?
Phinehas rested his hands where he detected a collection of blighted bones. It would have no part to play in any ensuing fight…but where did those bones come from? And who put them there?
As he paused, Phinehas recognized that focusing on certain members of the roster would be most foolhardy. He shook his head. Of course he knew that. He would have to be alert at all times, and take nothing for granted. Just look at what Texas Time and Razor Blade did at the last Trauma, for goodness’ sake. All it took was a moment’s distraction, one simple miscalculation, and, poof, you’d find yourself lying outside the ring. On what would be the hardest, the coldest, that concrete floor had ever felt.
And that was just considering those official entrants.
For there were always others.
Like, for instance, those misguided folks who had already been in matches earlier in the night. Whether the one victory wasn’t enough, or the loss left them despondent with nothing else to lose. Always more, more, more, wasn’t it? Only, compared to them, Grimm would be fresh as a daisy. Pert as a ruttin’ buck. If such participants wanted to climb into the ring with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Grimm (relatively speaking, of course, depending on when they actually entered), well, he would welcome them with open arms and closed fists.
And then there were the surprise entrants to consider. As best one could, that was, for no one knew of what that element might consist. There were always the long shots who the front office wrangled for sheer entertainment value. Grimm would not begrudge them that. But for those with realistic chances, with some semblance of ability, those would be yet another component for whom Grimm would need to gird his loins.
The thing about them, though, surprise or not, was that all the training and video review in the world would only get them so far. There was no substitute for actually knocking heads in the PCW ring. No matter what tricks they may or may not have up their sleeves, or the fates and furies they’d consulted…no matter the extent of the exertions and efforts…a wind of grim tidings still blew throughout the arena as the rest continued their struggle against some wretched fate. You were just swinging your pocket watch by its chain as you whistled past the graveyard if you thought otherwise.
This Deadly Rumble was an annual occurrence that one could set said pocket watch by. And Grimm took advantage of any opportunity that came his way. He always strived to seize the day.
To seize the doom.
But back to the conversation at hand…
Phinehas’s thoughts?
“I reckon I can only do the best I can.”
He leered into the dark.
Ruth stepped away to look in on Granny, who had finished with the Second Door but was double and triple checking her work. When she came back, she said, “I don’t doubt that. But I’m beginning to wonder why you still insist on traveling there week after week. After…everything. Especially now.”
They stood in the silence of the cellar. Phinehas listened to the ambient music of the blood in his ears. Was this a question of his own motivation? Was there something more than the all-encompassing Because? Phinehas felt old threats in the form of laments stirring under his tongue. They would drip like a rosary. A calamity issuing forth…
Why?
It was the certainty that He. Was. Grimm. The Lord of Misrule. The Abomination of Desolation. The Hangtown Horror. Half of the Brothers Gruesome. He fought anyone and everyone to the bitter end. He ruined dreams. Crushed aspirations. Ended careers. This was not hyperbole, this was what he did. And Grimm would continue to do so as long as it was required of him. And then, perhaps, just a little bit more.
He remained the Arch Variable in any match, be it Deadly Rumble, Triple Threat, Tag Team Tornado, or what have you. Where, as opposed to backstage interviews or in-ring monologues whenever the camera lights came on, he would offer up his philosophies via the Lament Configuration, the Foddershock, Dead Reckoning, and the Harvest.
For, whether true or not, it felt as though there had always been a Grimm in Pure Class Wrestling. The nature of the federation demanded it. And it demanded that there would always be a Grimm.
And then, if and when the doors of PCW closed for good (**sad trombone**), he’d bide his time in the closet or under the bed. The dark place at the top of the stairs, that one corner down in the coal cellar. Tapping at the window in the witching hour. Standing as a form on a hilltop, perched atop a bridge, in the hayloft, at the end of the railroad tunnel. All silhouettes and eyes. Hobnails clicking. Grins flashing. A nursery rhyme serving as a warning.
Phinehas reached up to brush the sprigs of herbs and holly and mistletoe that were tacked up with twine. He brought his fingers to his nose.
This time he aimed one of those grins at Ruth.
What difference did it make if the thing you’re scared of was real or not?
A haze of gauze stretched across the sun, its light at a shallow angle now. That had been more than just a front passing through. The system had brought with it a shift in the seasons. Phinehas Dillinger took a deep breath up there on the ridge. A whiff of harvest and frost. This suited him, the walking embodiment of Seasonal Affective Disorder, just fine.
The response team had arrived under the guise of a hazmat squad, and it certainly looked the part. Phinehas saw nothing from his perch save the far outline of the river, the occasional railroad crossing, the crumbled remains of an iron furnace, the boarded up entrance to a saltpeter mine. Nothing but those interlopers down there, but still, better safe than sorry in case any nosy passersby took an interest. The team walked on unhallowed ground. They’d best be careful where they stepped. If they were lucky, they’d only come across some rabbit bones or pottery shards. If they were a little less lucky, they might kick up a blue glass bottle filled with sewing needles and tatters of burlap. Worse yet, they might stir the ire of some corn demon or grass devil.
Phinehas could do something about them himself, but this was neither the time nor place to draw their attention. He contented himself watching them work in the remains, with the random wisp of smoke drifting off as a vesper from a Hangtown mass.
Leaves rustled. He acknowledged his sister, who stood beside him as she took in the scene.
“It won’t be long now,” said Ruth.
Brother and sister turned and began the descent down the other side of the hill. They took care as they picked their way through briar patches and walked through wet leaves, and over moss-slicked rocks. Stepped across the puddle formed from a brackish spring flowing from an outcrop – its existence, the Dillingers’ existence, this very land’s existence, as salt in the Black Hand’s wounds.
Phinehas and Ruth emerged from the woods and walked across a clearing towards a door in the ground. They would be stepping down into a cold dry hole dug out of the earth, passing through a stratigraphy of sandstone, limestone, and shale. Into a realm of cobwebs and centipedes, and a soot-caked roof of roots and wooden beams.
Down there in the dark of the cellar, his eyes diminished to concentrations of rime until they grew accustomed to the light, or the lack thereof. Tallow candles and oil lanterns could only do so much. Ruth also got her bearings, and they saw that Granny was already at work sealing the Second Door. The Hangtown Paradigm remained in full vigor, but due to the vagaries of previous access sanctions it was only prudent to take the necessary precautions. As above, so below, and once again, better safe than sorry.
“This will take forever if I have to do it all myself. Ruth, bring me that salt and gunpowder. Phinehas, check for leaks, won’t you?”
Ruth brought two stone cups of the materials to Granny, who took a pinch out of each and added it to the concoction smeared around the frame of the door. Ruth noted scraps of snakeskin and bits of ginseng in the beeswax filling the nooks and crannies. Phinehas ran his hands along the walls. He felt the root systems behind the clay. Even deeper, the spores spread in a network, the critters burrowed, the old dead things wished for rest.
But no leaks.
Ruth joined him by checking behind the shelves. She moved the jars of pickled things, and peeked among the collections of tokens and notions. She moved closer to Phinehas, who she knew full well had other things on his mind besides making ready for a Black Hand…visit.
“Penny for your thoughts, Phinehas,” said Ruth as she moved jars of powdered lichen and horseradish out of the way.
His thoughts? Other than those surrounding the fact he had made the first move in a conflict against an entity whose scope even he was not altogether sure of?
Hmm.
They all…and he meant all…found themselves in a tenuous place in an uncertain world. And if he could manage to compartmentalize one aspect from another, he would argue that for some, that place was acknowledging their reasons for continuing on – in Pure Class Wrestling in general, and the Deadly Rumble in specific. For some, the title shot alone was enough. And that title shot meant different things to different people, depending where they were in their careers. Were they to win that Rumble, that was.
I’ve made it.
I belong here.
My past success was not a fluke.
I’m still relevant.
I’m nothing without a title to my name.
For others, for those steeped in gold, with their legacies established and still yet untarnished, with accolades spilling out behind them, it was for something else.
Something more.
It had to be.
Phinehas took a breath of rust and old water. A flutter of candlelight made the shadows in the corners dance a jig.
What was it Gerard Angelo said?
“Wrestling was about checks, championships, and legacy….the more accolades Pandemonium collected, the more the message would be heard.”
That would all rest on Gerard Angelo’s shoulders, because those associates of his weren’t collecting squat. Somehow, David Hunter and Holden Ross were still so desperate for…validation? A sense of belonging? Being part of something bigger than themselves? The PCW roster wasn’t nearly as large as it had been in the past, and yet they still couldn’t stand out on their own merits. They were forced to cling to the scraps of a ‘group’ that, let’s be honest, fell apart almost as soon as it presented itself. Everyone knew those Hollywood types were desperate, insecure people – look at me, love me, shower me with kisses – but how else could one explain their continued insistence on cramming Pandemonium into events whenever they got the chance. Even when history showed that the three of them couldn’t all stay healthy together for more than a couple shows at a time.
And as for their vague, insubstantial ‘message’ -- assuming it was the one shared by some of the other members of the roster – they almost had it right. But it wasn’t so much the old guard holding them and their ilk back as it was holding them down – by the shoulders, as we pinned them in match after match.
Besides, they were all, to a man (or woman, in the case of our dear friend Alexa Black ) either too long in the tooth, too experienced, or some combination of the two to be so naïve as to cling to conspiracies of favoritism and cronyism to explain away the failures. At some point one would have to come to terms with oneself. With what one was actually capable of accomplishing…or not accomplishing. As in, sure, Tyrone Smith would like to account for that misstep of a glorious return. All that production, all that effort at building hype, and it couldn’t have fizzled worse than it did. What were his expectations, if he were to be really and truly honest with himself?
Phinehas rested his hands where he detected a collection of blighted bones. It would have no part to play in any ensuing fight…but where did those bones come from? And who put them there?
As he paused, Phinehas recognized that focusing on certain members of the roster would be most foolhardy. He shook his head. Of course he knew that. He would have to be alert at all times, and take nothing for granted. Just look at what Texas Time and Razor Blade did at the last Trauma, for goodness’ sake. All it took was a moment’s distraction, one simple miscalculation, and, poof, you’d find yourself lying outside the ring. On what would be the hardest, the coldest, that concrete floor had ever felt.
And that was just considering those official entrants.
For there were always others.
Like, for instance, those misguided folks who had already been in matches earlier in the night. Whether the one victory wasn’t enough, or the loss left them despondent with nothing else to lose. Always more, more, more, wasn’t it? Only, compared to them, Grimm would be fresh as a daisy. Pert as a ruttin’ buck. If such participants wanted to climb into the ring with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Grimm (relatively speaking, of course, depending on when they actually entered), well, he would welcome them with open arms and closed fists.
And then there were the surprise entrants to consider. As best one could, that was, for no one knew of what that element might consist. There were always the long shots who the front office wrangled for sheer entertainment value. Grimm would not begrudge them that. But for those with realistic chances, with some semblance of ability, those would be yet another component for whom Grimm would need to gird his loins.
The thing about them, though, surprise or not, was that all the training and video review in the world would only get them so far. There was no substitute for actually knocking heads in the PCW ring. No matter what tricks they may or may not have up their sleeves, or the fates and furies they’d consulted…no matter the extent of the exertions and efforts…a wind of grim tidings still blew throughout the arena as the rest continued their struggle against some wretched fate. You were just swinging your pocket watch by its chain as you whistled past the graveyard if you thought otherwise.
This Deadly Rumble was an annual occurrence that one could set said pocket watch by. And Grimm took advantage of any opportunity that came his way. He always strived to seize the day.
To seize the doom.
But back to the conversation at hand…
Phinehas’s thoughts?
“I reckon I can only do the best I can.”
He leered into the dark.
Ruth stepped away to look in on Granny, who had finished with the Second Door but was double and triple checking her work. When she came back, she said, “I don’t doubt that. But I’m beginning to wonder why you still insist on traveling there week after week. After…everything. Especially now.”
They stood in the silence of the cellar. Phinehas listened to the ambient music of the blood in his ears. Was this a question of his own motivation? Was there something more than the all-encompassing Because? Phinehas felt old threats in the form of laments stirring under his tongue. They would drip like a rosary. A calamity issuing forth…
Why?
It was the certainty that He. Was. Grimm. The Lord of Misrule. The Abomination of Desolation. The Hangtown Horror. Half of the Brothers Gruesome. He fought anyone and everyone to the bitter end. He ruined dreams. Crushed aspirations. Ended careers. This was not hyperbole, this was what he did. And Grimm would continue to do so as long as it was required of him. And then, perhaps, just a little bit more.
He remained the Arch Variable in any match, be it Deadly Rumble, Triple Threat, Tag Team Tornado, or what have you. Where, as opposed to backstage interviews or in-ring monologues whenever the camera lights came on, he would offer up his philosophies via the Lament Configuration, the Foddershock, Dead Reckoning, and the Harvest.
For, whether true or not, it felt as though there had always been a Grimm in Pure Class Wrestling. The nature of the federation demanded it. And it demanded that there would always be a Grimm.
And then, if and when the doors of PCW closed for good (**sad trombone**), he’d bide his time in the closet or under the bed. The dark place at the top of the stairs, that one corner down in the coal cellar. Tapping at the window in the witching hour. Standing as a form on a hilltop, perched atop a bridge, in the hayloft, at the end of the railroad tunnel. All silhouettes and eyes. Hobnails clicking. Grins flashing. A nursery rhyme serving as a warning.
Phinehas reached up to brush the sprigs of herbs and holly and mistletoe that were tacked up with twine. He brought his fingers to his nose.
This time he aimed one of those grins at Ruth.
What difference did it make if the thing you’re scared of was real or not?
