Post by Grimm on Dec 3, 2020 10:31:58 GMT -5
It was still dark, and it was cold. The moon glinted off the hoarfrost with the luster of midday below. The grasses and the leaves, all brown and red and orange, now covered in white and silver. Phinehas Dillinger watched his breath plume out, and up, and dissipate among the stars. His very essence now out there, a part of the signs and the stories.
He stood atop Anvil Rock. Phinehas listened to the creek behind him, the water gurgling over the stones, a rush of voices whispering. Somewhere out there among the hills and the trees, someone hunted ginseng. They tracked deer and waited patiently for a plump turkey. Phinehas stood and waited, waited and watched.
The year was drawing to a close, and with it, another cycle of Pure Class Wrestling. Another batch of Traumas and Pay Per Views, comings and goings within the ranks, promises and threats which more often than not did not manifest, and many, many matches.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Because, looky here, we have Grimm and Stormm fighting for a title at one of those pay per views. Stormm as World Champion. Grimm as challenger, with his shot coming courtesy of his victory at this year’s Deadly Rumble (Rumble win number three, for those keeping track at home).
There was, of course, Gerard Angelo’s title shot flitting around still, but that was neither here nor there. He was no doubt scrambling to cobble something together from the wreckage of Pandemonium in hopes of saving something resembling face after that debacle, and running hither and yon in the world out there, whatever that meant for him.
In this moment, though, as Grimm girded his loins for yet another fight, Stormm appeared…preoccupied, let’s say. Justin Michaels being who he was, of that nature which he embraced, he no doubt had myriad concerns beyond the limits of the Pure Class Wrestling Arena. Grimm knew that making assumptions about one’s opponents was a dangerous row to hoe, but some of those concerns were of a serious nature, from what he was led to believe…if he was to believe everything he heard floating around the ether (that, too, could be dangerous). Regardless, Phinehas knew Michaels as well as anyone in this business could know another person, and he saw his former ally and future foe groping through something of his own personal land of shadows. Despite just putting an end to one of the great feuds, that being the one with Jason Willard in which he apparently had put a period on the Anarchist’s long and storied career (a Hangtown shovel to the forehead hadn’t even been enough to do that), Michaels still had to hunker down for these inevitable challenges. World Champion or not, he had to prep for a long dark winter.
A colder wind arrived from the deepest corner of the hollow. Phinehas sniffed.
Wood smoke from the fire of his own hearth.
He listened.
The clack of dead trees rattling against one another. A raven conspiring against all the rest.
Phinehas took a deep breath and smiled as the frigid air burned all the way down. And he smiled at the thought of he and Stormm going at it once again. Former tag team partners, they were both long past the days of fighting for bragging rights or settling scores. But that was not to say this could be anything other than a good ol’ donnybrook worthy of a PCW pay per view (because even though Stormm was known for his technical prowess, everyone knew what this match would erupt into). That being because Grimm and Stormm – The Hangtown Horror and the Force of Nature – recognized and fully embraced their obligations to the federation, to the fans, and to each other. Anything less than their utmost was inconceivable. And, given their familiarity with each other and the intensities of their respective approaches to the ring, anything less than their utmost would be a guaranteed loss. Neither of them would ever stand for that.
A gunshot from over the hill and a murder of crows erupted from the trees with an impatient rasp.
Of course, personal codes of honor and integrity aside, there was the matter of a title on the line. Whether a person had held it something like seven (7!) times or it was that person’s first shot, any opportunity for the World Title raised the stakes to near insurmountable heights, whatever they might be otherwise. Grimm and Stormm could play the parts of stoic veterans, but, come on…it’s the World Title. They’re not fooling anybody.
And on top of all that, if anything could ever do such a thing, this would be Collision Course the Ninth. If one were beholden to numerology and its ilk, one might propose Nine was the number of divine completeness – a number that marked the completion of one cycle and the beginning of another.
Hmm.
Or that Nine marked the Fruits of the Spirit. Let’s recite them together: Faithfulness, Joy, Love, Gentleness, Self-Control, Long-Suffering, Goodness, Peace, and Kindness. Now, most of these would not be on display in this match…or any other match at the pay per view, for that matter. So maybe scratch all that and just take Collision Course at face value and appreciate the fact the federation has been in existence long enough to have nine of them.
That’s what Grimm would be doing.
The crows came back to wait with him.
He stood atop Anvil Rock. Phinehas listened to the creek behind him, the water gurgling over the stones, a rush of voices whispering. Somewhere out there among the hills and the trees, someone hunted ginseng. They tracked deer and waited patiently for a plump turkey. Phinehas stood and waited, waited and watched.
The year was drawing to a close, and with it, another cycle of Pure Class Wrestling. Another batch of Traumas and Pay Per Views, comings and goings within the ranks, promises and threats which more often than not did not manifest, and many, many matches.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Because, looky here, we have Grimm and Stormm fighting for a title at one of those pay per views. Stormm as World Champion. Grimm as challenger, with his shot coming courtesy of his victory at this year’s Deadly Rumble (Rumble win number three, for those keeping track at home).
There was, of course, Gerard Angelo’s title shot flitting around still, but that was neither here nor there. He was no doubt scrambling to cobble something together from the wreckage of Pandemonium in hopes of saving something resembling face after that debacle, and running hither and yon in the world out there, whatever that meant for him.
In this moment, though, as Grimm girded his loins for yet another fight, Stormm appeared…preoccupied, let’s say. Justin Michaels being who he was, of that nature which he embraced, he no doubt had myriad concerns beyond the limits of the Pure Class Wrestling Arena. Grimm knew that making assumptions about one’s opponents was a dangerous row to hoe, but some of those concerns were of a serious nature, from what he was led to believe…if he was to believe everything he heard floating around the ether (that, too, could be dangerous). Regardless, Phinehas knew Michaels as well as anyone in this business could know another person, and he saw his former ally and future foe groping through something of his own personal land of shadows. Despite just putting an end to one of the great feuds, that being the one with Jason Willard in which he apparently had put a period on the Anarchist’s long and storied career (a Hangtown shovel to the forehead hadn’t even been enough to do that), Michaels still had to hunker down for these inevitable challenges. World Champion or not, he had to prep for a long dark winter.
A colder wind arrived from the deepest corner of the hollow. Phinehas sniffed.
Wood smoke from the fire of his own hearth.
He listened.
The clack of dead trees rattling against one another. A raven conspiring against all the rest.
Phinehas took a deep breath and smiled as the frigid air burned all the way down. And he smiled at the thought of he and Stormm going at it once again. Former tag team partners, they were both long past the days of fighting for bragging rights or settling scores. But that was not to say this could be anything other than a good ol’ donnybrook worthy of a PCW pay per view (because even though Stormm was known for his technical prowess, everyone knew what this match would erupt into). That being because Grimm and Stormm – The Hangtown Horror and the Force of Nature – recognized and fully embraced their obligations to the federation, to the fans, and to each other. Anything less than their utmost was inconceivable. And, given their familiarity with each other and the intensities of their respective approaches to the ring, anything less than their utmost would be a guaranteed loss. Neither of them would ever stand for that.
A gunshot from over the hill and a murder of crows erupted from the trees with an impatient rasp.
Of course, personal codes of honor and integrity aside, there was the matter of a title on the line. Whether a person had held it something like seven (7!) times or it was that person’s first shot, any opportunity for the World Title raised the stakes to near insurmountable heights, whatever they might be otherwise. Grimm and Stormm could play the parts of stoic veterans, but, come on…it’s the World Title. They’re not fooling anybody.
And on top of all that, if anything could ever do such a thing, this would be Collision Course the Ninth. If one were beholden to numerology and its ilk, one might propose Nine was the number of divine completeness – a number that marked the completion of one cycle and the beginning of another.
Hmm.
Or that Nine marked the Fruits of the Spirit. Let’s recite them together: Faithfulness, Joy, Love, Gentleness, Self-Control, Long-Suffering, Goodness, Peace, and Kindness. Now, most of these would not be on display in this match…or any other match at the pay per view, for that matter. So maybe scratch all that and just take Collision Course at face value and appreciate the fact the federation has been in existence long enough to have nine of them.
That’s what Grimm would be doing.
The crows came back to wait with him.
