Post by Grimm on Nov 12, 2020 11:23:09 GMT -5
The figure stood in the entry way, there at the top of the ramp. He stood without the throbbing yellow lights, without the pummeling of Zeal & Ardor announcing the arrival of Grimm. He was just a man taking a peek behind the veil at the workers dismantling the ring, illuminated by the fluorescents humming high overhead. That, and the cleaning, the rearranging, the storing that was carried out after each and every Pure Class Wrestling event.
The ropes were unhooked from the turnbuckles, and said turnbuckles were removed from the corners of the ring in turn. That ring, where just tonight Grimm had found himself in the unsavory position of standing alone against Gerard Angelo and David Hunter. Where, thanks to some well-timed (and impeccably executed, thank you very much) Foddershocks and Harvests he had emerged victorious.
Where a few weeks ago, Grimm has been in the exact same predicament. Angelo and Hunter bearing down on him, and yet he, the Hangtown Horror, had won the 2020 Deadly Rumble – Grimm’s third, but that was neither here nor there.
That ring, where at All Hallow’s Eve, he had been handcuffed and administered a brass knuckle assault. And yet, it had been Grimm who had left victorious, and David Hunter had gone home in a Halloween costume which consisted of a suit of thumbtacks.
So…that should put a stop to it, right? That new blood versus old guard tripe that kept getting thrown about each week. For, one, they weren’t new blood anymore, no matter how many times David Hunter restarted his career in PCW. It didn’t work like that. And, two, at some point they had to acknowledge the facts of the matter. There was no Pandemonium. Their great experiment at remaking the federation had failed time and again, and had gone the way of the efforts of the God of Game. There were simply no ways left for them to attempt to convince anyone of, well, anything, at this point. Granted, Gerard Angelo still had that title shot to cash in, but if history was any indication (and it often was), it would be all for naught. For all the Icemann Invitation Tournament and Deadly Rumble success, there had been little to show for it, unless one was to consider disappointment and regret.
Phinehas Dillinger shrugged and parted the curtains. He made his way backstage and through the hallways where he was greeted by the lingering smells of popcorn and fried treats and thousands of bodies. That sweet sickly scent of cleaning supplies had yet to overwhelm the space.
Further into the depths of the arena, where the mechanical tonnage of the HVAC system creaked and groaned under the strain of deciding whether it was time for air conditioning or heat. Phinehas heard water gurgling in pipes criss-crossing above him. On he walked.
Be all that as it may – and, oh, how it may – the daily grind remained. Whether Grimm ever had the opportunity to Snap Crackle Pop the dregs of Pandemonium right out of the business remained to be seen, but what was not up for debate was Trauma 282. He and Rick Majors found themselves as partners once again. If only the Tag Team division had been in full vigor, eh? The things they could do – had done – but in an official capacity.
Oh well. As the saying went, if ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts, they’d all have a Merry Christmas.
They’d be trying their luck against Texas Tim and Razor Blade this time. Texas Tim, the number one contender for the Genesis Title (Rick Majors might have something to say about that). And Razor Blade, who…well, whatever you wanted to say about the Big Dog, he showed up ready to throw hands week after week, which was more than could be said about a few people these days.
Phinehas stepped out into the parking garage, where he was greeted by a flickering light just above the door. A whiff of diesel, the Rorschach test of stain patterns all along the concrete, and signs pointing the way to this, that, and the other in downtown Greenville. He paused to take it all in, and nodded to himself.
These were two teams who would do what they did best at Trauma, and nothing more. Yes, it would be violent. Maybe downright brutal. Somebody might even experience a gruesome injury. But the chips would fall where they may, and that would be the end of it. What a breath of fresh air in this professional wrestling world in which they found themselves.
The ropes were unhooked from the turnbuckles, and said turnbuckles were removed from the corners of the ring in turn. That ring, where just tonight Grimm had found himself in the unsavory position of standing alone against Gerard Angelo and David Hunter. Where, thanks to some well-timed (and impeccably executed, thank you very much) Foddershocks and Harvests he had emerged victorious.
Where a few weeks ago, Grimm has been in the exact same predicament. Angelo and Hunter bearing down on him, and yet he, the Hangtown Horror, had won the 2020 Deadly Rumble – Grimm’s third, but that was neither here nor there.
That ring, where at All Hallow’s Eve, he had been handcuffed and administered a brass knuckle assault. And yet, it had been Grimm who had left victorious, and David Hunter had gone home in a Halloween costume which consisted of a suit of thumbtacks.
So…that should put a stop to it, right? That new blood versus old guard tripe that kept getting thrown about each week. For, one, they weren’t new blood anymore, no matter how many times David Hunter restarted his career in PCW. It didn’t work like that. And, two, at some point they had to acknowledge the facts of the matter. There was no Pandemonium. Their great experiment at remaking the federation had failed time and again, and had gone the way of the efforts of the God of Game. There were simply no ways left for them to attempt to convince anyone of, well, anything, at this point. Granted, Gerard Angelo still had that title shot to cash in, but if history was any indication (and it often was), it would be all for naught. For all the Icemann Invitation Tournament and Deadly Rumble success, there had been little to show for it, unless one was to consider disappointment and regret.
Phinehas Dillinger shrugged and parted the curtains. He made his way backstage and through the hallways where he was greeted by the lingering smells of popcorn and fried treats and thousands of bodies. That sweet sickly scent of cleaning supplies had yet to overwhelm the space.
Further into the depths of the arena, where the mechanical tonnage of the HVAC system creaked and groaned under the strain of deciding whether it was time for air conditioning or heat. Phinehas heard water gurgling in pipes criss-crossing above him. On he walked.
Be all that as it may – and, oh, how it may – the daily grind remained. Whether Grimm ever had the opportunity to Snap Crackle Pop the dregs of Pandemonium right out of the business remained to be seen, but what was not up for debate was Trauma 282. He and Rick Majors found themselves as partners once again. If only the Tag Team division had been in full vigor, eh? The things they could do – had done – but in an official capacity.
Oh well. As the saying went, if ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts, they’d all have a Merry Christmas.
They’d be trying their luck against Texas Tim and Razor Blade this time. Texas Tim, the number one contender for the Genesis Title (Rick Majors might have something to say about that). And Razor Blade, who…well, whatever you wanted to say about the Big Dog, he showed up ready to throw hands week after week, which was more than could be said about a few people these days.
Phinehas stepped out into the parking garage, where he was greeted by a flickering light just above the door. A whiff of diesel, the Rorschach test of stain patterns all along the concrete, and signs pointing the way to this, that, and the other in downtown Greenville. He paused to take it all in, and nodded to himself.
These were two teams who would do what they did best at Trauma, and nothing more. Yes, it would be violent. Maybe downright brutal. Somebody might even experience a gruesome injury. But the chips would fall where they may, and that would be the end of it. What a breath of fresh air in this professional wrestling world in which they found themselves.