Post by Grimm on Oct 20, 2020 13:33:55 GMT -5
Phinehas got his tools in order (pretty maids, all in a row) and looked out the window. The gaslight at the end of the lane was little more than a yellow smudge in the fog. The flame flickered and danced like a diffused will o’ the wisp, giving false hope and leading men to their doom.
But back to the order at hand.
He cocked his head first one way then the other. Then he saw the face in the pumpkin and picked up a knife. The blade slid into flesh with minimal effort. He moved it in and out, in and out, until the top came free. It came off easily enough, with only a few strands of innards stringing along in tow. He took a deep breath of the insides. Setting the knife aside in exchange for a serving spoon, he plunged it into the mush. Forearm-deep in orange gunk, he scraped and dug along the inner wall to remove the entrails. A soggy pile of pulp strands and seeds grew on the newspaper beside him as he mined away. Eventually, the shell was clean enough, walls thin enough but not too thin, and he traded the spoon for a knife, this one smaller than the first. He leaned forward and made the first cut. Brow furrowed with jaw clenched. This was detailed work. He was exact…precise…methodical…just as in every phase of life.
Halloween was upon us. Meaning it was time once again for All Hallows’ Eve, and, thus, the beloved Halloween Horror ‘666’ Match. Trick or Treat bags, hollowed out pumpkins filled with goodies. No count-outs. No disqualifications. Such a match was one of the great equalizers of the federation. No one would emerge unscathed…unless one was a coward.
It would not matter what title anyone held, what title shot they had earned, or what shot anyone may keep demanding despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Stormm and his World Title.
Loki and his North American Title.
Rick Majors and his Genesis Title.
Gerard Angelo and the title shot he would throw down soon enough.
David Hunter and…his bottomless well of confidence.
And Grimm.
There would be nothing on the line this night. One could argue that bragging rights weren’t even up for grabs, because, really, just look at the arrangement and the stipulations. This would be nothing but a ‘slobberknocker’ in the purest sense of the word. A way for them all to unleash their frustrations on one another and to give the audience the bloodshed that, deep down, they all yearned for. It wouldn’t matter who won. Grimm, the Hangtown Horror, the Dying of the Year incarnate, would give them an All Hallows E’en they wouldn’t soon forget no matter where they fell in the Pure Class Wrestling pecking order.
Trick or Treat? A little from column A, a little from column B. They’d be seeing visions of ghosts and goblins before the night was over. As they stumbled ever closer to Collision Course.
The knife broke through and it wasn’t long before the first eye was complete. He jabbed the blade into the center of the piece and pulled gently. It slid out with a wet scrape, leaving an empty socket behind. He pinched the blade and ran his fingers down to push the piece off onto the newspaper where it joined the rest of the dripping waste pile. The process was repeated on the other eye and the nose and the mouth. Setting the knife down on the table, he crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair to appraise his handiwork. This pumpkin did not have a goofy grin. A smirk at best. It was sufficient. He placed a small black candle inside and lit it with a long fireplace match before carrying it outside.
Looking ahead, as we were all wont to do, we had a vague sense of what was to come. The posturing and pontificating and all the rest that came with being a cog in the professional wrestling machine. People in this business talked. A lot. They promised, bragged, insulted, and threatened. More often than not all those words ended up contributing to a vast emptiness – and that was if anyone had even been listening in the first place.
If a professional wrestler told a long rambling-and-equally-pointless story, or guaranteed an outcome that history showed would not come to pass, and no one paid attention, did he or she make a sound?
After a while the audience would, at best, tune them out, or, at worst, see the name or ugly mug and immediately move on to something else. How many times could a minor variation on the same old theme hold their attention? But…who among them could say they were not guilty of these very crimes? Grimm could be a bit too…grimm at times, perhaps. He was nothing if not consistent. And if anyone claimed they were somehow exempt from such behavior, well, they were a liar. Or a poor judge of character.
There were flickering grimaces and scowls and smirks everywhere. On the porch rails, the chairs, the porch itself, the steps leading down, along the stone walkway, even in what was left of the flower gardens and on the lip of the well. One jack o’ lantern for every year the House of Dillinger had stood here. It smelled of cooked pumpkin hull and dry leaves. This lean figure, silhouetted against the house by dancing flames, put the final carving on the top of the steps.
Yes, that figure, that Grimm, could be as guilty as all the rest when it came to attempts at projecting a certain aura, but facts were facts. Yes, facts, and not hyperbole. You see, those throughout the history of the federation and striving here now could bring along their myriad personal problems. PCW had definitely seen its share of broken people. They would carry out covert missions blanketed beneath the highest levels of security. If their aspirations ran simpler, they could work out and spar and run drills until kingdom come. Or they could live their lives of debauchery and treat their bodies like amusement parks. However they (however you) chose to spend the dwindling days and nights, one thing was for certain.
They (you) would face Grimm at some point.
They (you) could studio the videos. Review the tapes. And maybe Grimm might not win every time. Or even the first time. Win, lose , or draw, the Hangtown Horror would come back. And eventually he would beat you in a most severe fashion.
Because the arena was his web, and Grimm lurked there in the ring. Some of your opponents blindsided you like the cowards they were. Others ran down in the middle of your match to make their ‘statement’ by attacking you after you’ve already been expending yourself for several minutes. Nothing like putting a beating on someone who had nothing else to offer up in the way of reciprocation. Yeah, you’re a real tough guy. Grimm, on the other hand…Grimm knew you’d eventually find your way back to the ring. When you were done setting the mood and casting dispersions and all of that , you knew in your heart of hearts where you’d find him. He was there first, waiting patiently while you expended yourself on all the razzle dazzle, all the gloom and doom. And Grimm will be there at the end at all things.
Look behind you.
A cold wind stirred the leaves at his feet and chilled him beneath his coat. He pulled it tighter around him and buried his hands in the deep pockets. He watched the sky turn pink, red, indigo, black. Dark things filled in the missing spaces between the trees and undergrowth. His breath turned to frost in the orange and yellow leering pumpkin glow. Phinehas stood with the radiance of home at his back.
The candles all flickered at once, as if snuffed out then relit in an instant. Maybe the gourds had something to offer.
Phinehas climbed back onto the porch and, after setting a final black cat jack o’ lantern at his feet, eased himself down into a rocking chair. He rocked, bathed in the warmth of a hundred-odd carved pumpkins. He thought, how could anything be more sincere? Look around – there’s not a sign of hypocrisy. Nothing but sincerity as far as the eye could see.
He rocked until the wax melted away and the wicks burned themselves out. Rocked until dawn.