Post by Grimm on Oct 5, 2020 12:50:38 GMT -5
They had all entered the arena with certain expectations. For most, the night took a hard left turn.
Phinehas would not drag anyone’s name through the mud when it came to the Deadly Rumble. At least, he would try not to. The memory of what they did or did not do that led to each of their respective eliminations must be far worse than any verbal jabs he might throw their way. Especially if they had the ill-conceived notion to outright proclaim their inevitable victory before the match had begun. The type of match that was a tricky wicket on the best of days, let alone when so much was left to chance.
You saw it. They had to live with it and deal with the aftermath. It was what it was.
**shrug**
And now, after checking the calendar to see there was no slot on the schedule for a title to be changing hands before then -- stranger things had happened, of course, but still -- it would seem that Stormm and Grimm would be wrapping up 2020 with yet another stave to their epic tale. They’d put on clinics in their respective styles and contribute to the collective legacy of Pure Class Wrestling. The Force of Nature and the Hangtown Horror had collided many times before, but what was once more…
…there at Collision Course 9…
…here under the Dying Grass Moon.
Looks like we’ve got a date.
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a rocking chair on the porch. Through the windows behind him one could just see sparse candlelight fluttering deep within the house. Out here, though, the Harvest Moon gave the luster of midday to the fields below. The mowers had gathered in the sheaf and there, among the stalks, flickered the few remaining fireflies still clinging to the last vestiges of summer. They weren’t the only ones attempting the wring out every last bit before the Killing Frost crept in one night. Because it would, and soon.
No pumpkins shone forth from the dark with their weird and hideous grins. Yet.
Phinehas pushed off with his toes to get the cane chair rocking again. Something creaked, which led to an arpeggio of snaps, crackles, and pops. Only he knew if it was the porch, the chair, or his bones. And he would not tell. So he sat and rocked, and listened to the wind as it cast leaves about as lots, and smelled fine autumn night smells, and he thought. A flash of teeth might have broken the plane of that ginger beard as he did so.
After all, Gerard Angelo and David Hunter must both still be sore about how Deadly Intentions had worked out. Both wanted to win. Nay, they had expected to win, otherwise why else enter such an event if , say, you already had a claim to a title shot of your own. Well, other than something else to prattle on about as you listed your accomplishments, as some were wont to do.
Three Deadly Rumbles in a Row! The Trifecta! A Hat Trick!
But, alas…
As for the other half of the impending tag team, why else would David Hunter decide to make yet another glorious return, just now, in this particular Deadly Rumble? Had there been any question as to his own designs, he had clarified them quite succinctly.
And when the bell rings, and I'm the only one left in the ring, the world will watch in awe as I go on to Collision Course...and become the PCW World...Heavyweight...Champion.
To be fair, yes, Hunter was the first entrant. And, yes, he made it to the bitter end.
But, alas…
For even though those two members of Pandemonium had found themselves alone in the ring with Grimm…when, conceivably, they could have teamed up and had their way with him…well, we all saw what happened.
Alas, alas, alas.
The Backwoods Brawler slowed the momentum of the chair. Down there beyond the dark leaves and the dry grass and the dead flowers, on the other side of what remained of a split rail fence, shades shambled among the shadows of the foddershocks. An instinct flared, suggesting it could be the initial surveillance team sent by the Black Hand to get the lay of the land. To conduct their preliminary expedition into what they may or may not be up against. But almost immediately Phinehas resumed his rocking. They were not that brazen…or stupid. That’s to say, even if they had found their way up All Souls Hollow to the House of Dillinger, which Granny and Ruth had made certain would never be the case. No, those were not Black Hand scouts or spies or assassins.
That was just Hangtown in the fall.
Where was he…oh, yes…
What, them? Rick Majors remained Genesis champion after putting down their buddy Holden for the umpteenth time. He’d made peace with his demons, at least as much as any one person could. Grimm? He wasn’t doing too shabby, thanks for asking. He appreciated the concern.
He whistled a lilting tune, which drifted along the drive and faded down the hollow. A new light swayed in the field. No doubt a scarecrow swinging a hollow turnip censer full of bonfire incense. Grinning its grin of stitch, perfuming the air with smoke and savor.
Yep, the turning of the year was a fine thing to watch roll in. And there was no finer place to do so than Hangtown.
Phinehas would not drag anyone’s name through the mud when it came to the Deadly Rumble. At least, he would try not to. The memory of what they did or did not do that led to each of their respective eliminations must be far worse than any verbal jabs he might throw their way. Especially if they had the ill-conceived notion to outright proclaim their inevitable victory before the match had begun. The type of match that was a tricky wicket on the best of days, let alone when so much was left to chance.
…fate and destiny are on my side…I will be the last man standing tonight…
You need to go into that match with a plan. And it just so happens that I am the smartest man in wrestling.
You saw it. They had to live with it and deal with the aftermath. It was what it was.
**shrug**
And now, after checking the calendar to see there was no slot on the schedule for a title to be changing hands before then -- stranger things had happened, of course, but still -- it would seem that Stormm and Grimm would be wrapping up 2020 with yet another stave to their epic tale. They’d put on clinics in their respective styles and contribute to the collective legacy of Pure Class Wrestling. The Force of Nature and the Hangtown Horror had collided many times before, but what was once more…
…there at Collision Course 9…
…here under the Dying Grass Moon.
Looks like we’ve got a date.
Phinehas Dillinger sat in a rocking chair on the porch. Through the windows behind him one could just see sparse candlelight fluttering deep within the house. Out here, though, the Harvest Moon gave the luster of midday to the fields below. The mowers had gathered in the sheaf and there, among the stalks, flickered the few remaining fireflies still clinging to the last vestiges of summer. They weren’t the only ones attempting the wring out every last bit before the Killing Frost crept in one night. Because it would, and soon.
No pumpkins shone forth from the dark with their weird and hideous grins. Yet.
Phinehas pushed off with his toes to get the cane chair rocking again. Something creaked, which led to an arpeggio of snaps, crackles, and pops. Only he knew if it was the porch, the chair, or his bones. And he would not tell. So he sat and rocked, and listened to the wind as it cast leaves about as lots, and smelled fine autumn night smells, and he thought. A flash of teeth might have broken the plane of that ginger beard as he did so.
After all, Gerard Angelo and David Hunter must both still be sore about how Deadly Intentions had worked out. Both wanted to win. Nay, they had expected to win, otherwise why else enter such an event if , say, you already had a claim to a title shot of your own. Well, other than something else to prattle on about as you listed your accomplishments, as some were wont to do.
Three Deadly Rumbles in a Row! The Trifecta! A Hat Trick!
But, alas…
As for the other half of the impending tag team, why else would David Hunter decide to make yet another glorious return, just now, in this particular Deadly Rumble? Had there been any question as to his own designs, he had clarified them quite succinctly.
And when the bell rings, and I'm the only one left in the ring, the world will watch in awe as I go on to Collision Course...and become the PCW World...Heavyweight...Champion.
To be fair, yes, Hunter was the first entrant. And, yes, he made it to the bitter end.
But, alas…
For even though those two members of Pandemonium had found themselves alone in the ring with Grimm…when, conceivably, they could have teamed up and had their way with him…well, we all saw what happened.
Alas, alas, alas.
The Backwoods Brawler slowed the momentum of the chair. Down there beyond the dark leaves and the dry grass and the dead flowers, on the other side of what remained of a split rail fence, shades shambled among the shadows of the foddershocks. An instinct flared, suggesting it could be the initial surveillance team sent by the Black Hand to get the lay of the land. To conduct their preliminary expedition into what they may or may not be up against. But almost immediately Phinehas resumed his rocking. They were not that brazen…or stupid. That’s to say, even if they had found their way up All Souls Hollow to the House of Dillinger, which Granny and Ruth had made certain would never be the case. No, those were not Black Hand scouts or spies or assassins.
That was just Hangtown in the fall.
Where was he…oh, yes…
Now that the Rumble was over and done with, those two got to step back into that ring, albeit under different circumstances. The Booking Committee must see David Hunter and Holden Ross as interchangeable, as Trauma 279 carried with it a very similar vibe to some other recent tag team matches. With everyone back in for the mix and match, perhaps this would be the combination that changed their luck.
The Devil's Own Luck? No, that was a Dillinger staple.
Anyone following the plot lines over the last several months understood Pandemonium’s intentions to upend the status quo, as it were, for they had mentioned them once or twice. **wink** But the question remained: how were they going to explain away the outcome of the Rumble? The road to Hell was paved with good intentions (relatively speaking), and it almost appeared as if they now found themselves well on their way down that most particular road. Skipping hand-in-hand along a wide thoroughfare as it crested a rise towards the horizon. For 2020 was quickly coming to an end, and no mistake. Other than the Hollywood Hero’s eventual title shot, what did Pandemonium have to show for it?
Hmm?
What, them? Rick Majors remained Genesis champion after putting down their buddy Holden for the umpteenth time. He’d made peace with his demons, at least as much as any one person could. Grimm? He wasn’t doing too shabby, thanks for asking. He appreciated the concern.
A victory in a match like this wouldn’t undo what had been done. It wouldn't make up for all the empty promises elements of Pandemonium had left scattered all over the federation. But...but... it would be at least one teeny tiny monkey off their collective backs. That had to count for something, right?
Phinehas didn't know for what, exactly, but he was certain they would enjoy putting a spin on it. They were quite skilled at that, at least. He wouldn't hesitate to afford them that.
He whistled a lilting tune, which drifted along the drive and faded down the hollow. A new light swayed in the field. No doubt a scarecrow swinging a hollow turnip censer full of bonfire incense. Grinning its grin of stitch, perfuming the air with smoke and savor.
Yep, the turning of the year was a fine thing to watch roll in. And there was no finer place to do so than Hangtown.
