Post by Grimm on Feb 8, 2021 10:43:33 GMT -5
He’d rather not, but if Phinehas Dillinger were to end the Black Hand’s grasp on much of the world as we knew it, he’d have to make one more stop. One final visit to its headquarters. The Dillinger brothers had done more than their share for the organization, even going so far as to draw in associates from Pure Class Wrestling. They had each contributed to the tightening of that grasp, in their own ways.
That history is well documented.
But Phinehas had discovered that the Black Hand felt the Dillingers had outlived their usefulness, and by that token, so had Hangtown proper. And so the Black Hand had set out to eliminate what it saw as unnecessary, before the unnecessary became too much of a stumbling block.
And Phinehas Dillinger could not allow that. Thus, this visit to the very origin of the organization. A place which always made him uncomfortable. Not even one as stoic and certain in all his ways as the Hangtown Horror could get used to a place so beyond the limits of what passed as natural. Which was really saying something, given the circles in which he ran and the people with whom he fraternized.
For even the shades constantly wandering the myriad staircases had to stop to reorient themselves at every turn. It took a concentrated effort for Phinehas to keep his wits about him.
He, and the others, walked in and out.
Around and through.
Between.
Beside.
Beyond.
Phinehas stood in one of many gravity wells. He watched other members climb both sides of the stairs, passing by on the two different faces of the step without acknowledgement. They saw one another as if through a mirror dimly, and even then only if one looked directly at the other. He would have thought his presence here would have been most unwelcome given the circumstances – and given what actions he had already taken against them – but this place still had that effect on everyone passing through. On everyone wondering as they wandered among the basements and attics and higher attics. In and around the weathervanes and windmills, the doors and windows. Having no inclination of the other’s presence unless they just so happened to lock eyes at the right moment. Each was on his or her own journey and could ill afford to worry about anyone else or their task. Anyone else was not worried about you, and that apparently would apply even to Phinehas so long as he didn’t draw attention to himself.
How about that. He’d take advantage of it for as long as he could.
Phinehas had entered through the root cellar, for some gates remained accessible. One could even catch a glimpse to that other side, if one knew where and how to look. Phinehas saw the outlines of his inventory. Pickled this, pickled that, pigs feet and hog maw, bottle upon bottle of ale. Jars of honey.
He heard the bees hum, even here. They passed this way, droning to and fro, dancing their cartographies to one another. What had they seen? What else did they know? Would they retain access to whatever was left once Phinehas had completed his task?
If he completed it.
Phinehas knew they were out there, too. Stumbling through their lives as best they could, unaware of the things watching and pulling the strings. Weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth at the thought of stepping into the ring at Trauma. It would be quite an arrangement, but not one that should surprise anyone who had been following Pure Class Wrestling for any length of time.
Rick Majors, Texas Tim, and Loki in one corner. And in the other, Gerard Angelo, Stormm, and Grimm. The very three lined up to fight for the World Championship Title at Mass Destruction. The booking committee was a wily bunch, and no mistake.
Phinehas stepped ahead. He emerged on another level and walked back down on the underside of a set of stairs. Lanterns burned green, and blue, and white.
Would it be a clean six-person tag match?
Were those ever, even if one team didn’t consist of opponents from a future match that had been building for months? Well, this one team did consist of exactly that. So even if they managed to work together from opening bell to final three count, it would be a wonder among wonders if they didn’t turn on each other at that third slap of the hand on the mat. To gain a psychological upper hand moving forward, or to send a message, or just because it would be expected of them. Whatever the reason, Phinehas expected to trade blows with his partners-for-the-evening before said evening was over.
A flash, and the sulfur burn of a struck match. Phinehas turned his head but it was gone.
But, so, what of their actual opponents? Well…all careers ebbed and flowed. Everyone walked through their own personal peaks and valleys. The doors and windows showed the rises and falls of them all. So many jubilations. So many lamentations. Lucky breaks and missteps. Volumes could be written about those of Rick Majors, but say what you will, he was still here. Genesis Champion for some time, on top of his perseverance. Yes, he would sometimes play the woe-is-me card, but when push came to shove (and on to dropkicks and suplexes) Majors would put the baggage of his past behind him and throw down with anyone. And he would win, more often than not.
Texas Tim was still wet behind the ears, relatively speaking. But he was a solid competitor and had shown his presence in any match was not one to take for granted. Paired up with Majors, and you had a team that could stand its ground against anyone. Add Loki…
Phinehas closed his eyes as a furnace wind gusted in from elsewhere. He opened them to find himself sitting on a bench at the top of another set of stairs.
…and things got a little more…complicated. True, he was the North American champion. But, and it pained Phinehas to even consider this, this was not the Loki of yore. Well, to be fair, let’s say this was not consistently the Loki of yore. He still showed flashes of the man who had multiple title reigns to his name. After all, he did have that belt right now, and that had to count for something. No question about it. But this was also the man who said, and I quote, “Grimm broke me.”
His words, not Phinehas’s.
One did not come back from something like that. Not completely.
Which Loki would be at Love Hurts? Phinehas reckoned they’d all have to wait and see. But as for him, he would prepare for the Loki of old. International Champion Loki. North American Champion Loki. World Champion Loki. The first ever PCW Triple Crown Champion Loki. One never knew. This would not be a night to make examples of anyone. This would be a night to simply…fight.
Phinehas looked around. He would not be taking the Black Hand approach this time, or ever again, for that matter. In the past, he – and Billy, and Michael Wryght, and all the rest – would pass through this way and would return each time as sadder and wiser men. Eyes glazed and weary. At one time, not only could they make things come to pass, they could alter that which had already occurred. Just pick the thread they wanted to follow and see what led to that. And make sure it happened.
Never again.
This eternal construct of stairs and doors and windows. Phinehas shook his head as he stood from the bench. He picked the labyrinth that would be his final journey in this place. Whether they truly did not know he had arrived, or were simply waiting on him to reach the end, well, he was about to find out, wasn’t he? And this time he had no electro-magnetic pulse bombs to prove his point.
Phinehas stretched his shoulders. Cricked his neck. Cracked his knuckles. And made his way down on the upside.
That history is well documented.
But Phinehas had discovered that the Black Hand felt the Dillingers had outlived their usefulness, and by that token, so had Hangtown proper. And so the Black Hand had set out to eliminate what it saw as unnecessary, before the unnecessary became too much of a stumbling block.
And Phinehas Dillinger could not allow that. Thus, this visit to the very origin of the organization. A place which always made him uncomfortable. Not even one as stoic and certain in all his ways as the Hangtown Horror could get used to a place so beyond the limits of what passed as natural. Which was really saying something, given the circles in which he ran and the people with whom he fraternized.
For even the shades constantly wandering the myriad staircases had to stop to reorient themselves at every turn. It took a concentrated effort for Phinehas to keep his wits about him.
He, and the others, walked in and out.
Around and through.
Between.
Beside.
Beyond.
Phinehas stood in one of many gravity wells. He watched other members climb both sides of the stairs, passing by on the two different faces of the step without acknowledgement. They saw one another as if through a mirror dimly, and even then only if one looked directly at the other. He would have thought his presence here would have been most unwelcome given the circumstances – and given what actions he had already taken against them – but this place still had that effect on everyone passing through. On everyone wondering as they wandered among the basements and attics and higher attics. In and around the weathervanes and windmills, the doors and windows. Having no inclination of the other’s presence unless they just so happened to lock eyes at the right moment. Each was on his or her own journey and could ill afford to worry about anyone else or their task. Anyone else was not worried about you, and that apparently would apply even to Phinehas so long as he didn’t draw attention to himself.
How about that. He’d take advantage of it for as long as he could.
Phinehas had entered through the root cellar, for some gates remained accessible. One could even catch a glimpse to that other side, if one knew where and how to look. Phinehas saw the outlines of his inventory. Pickled this, pickled that, pigs feet and hog maw, bottle upon bottle of ale. Jars of honey.
He heard the bees hum, even here. They passed this way, droning to and fro, dancing their cartographies to one another. What had they seen? What else did they know? Would they retain access to whatever was left once Phinehas had completed his task?
If he completed it.
Phinehas knew they were out there, too. Stumbling through their lives as best they could, unaware of the things watching and pulling the strings. Weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth at the thought of stepping into the ring at Trauma. It would be quite an arrangement, but not one that should surprise anyone who had been following Pure Class Wrestling for any length of time.
Rick Majors, Texas Tim, and Loki in one corner. And in the other, Gerard Angelo, Stormm, and Grimm. The very three lined up to fight for the World Championship Title at Mass Destruction. The booking committee was a wily bunch, and no mistake.
Phinehas stepped ahead. He emerged on another level and walked back down on the underside of a set of stairs. Lanterns burned green, and blue, and white.
Would it be a clean six-person tag match?
Were those ever, even if one team didn’t consist of opponents from a future match that had been building for months? Well, this one team did consist of exactly that. So even if they managed to work together from opening bell to final three count, it would be a wonder among wonders if they didn’t turn on each other at that third slap of the hand on the mat. To gain a psychological upper hand moving forward, or to send a message, or just because it would be expected of them. Whatever the reason, Phinehas expected to trade blows with his partners-for-the-evening before said evening was over.
A flash, and the sulfur burn of a struck match. Phinehas turned his head but it was gone.
But, so, what of their actual opponents? Well…all careers ebbed and flowed. Everyone walked through their own personal peaks and valleys. The doors and windows showed the rises and falls of them all. So many jubilations. So many lamentations. Lucky breaks and missteps. Volumes could be written about those of Rick Majors, but say what you will, he was still here. Genesis Champion for some time, on top of his perseverance. Yes, he would sometimes play the woe-is-me card, but when push came to shove (and on to dropkicks and suplexes) Majors would put the baggage of his past behind him and throw down with anyone. And he would win, more often than not.
Texas Tim was still wet behind the ears, relatively speaking. But he was a solid competitor and had shown his presence in any match was not one to take for granted. Paired up with Majors, and you had a team that could stand its ground against anyone. Add Loki…
Phinehas closed his eyes as a furnace wind gusted in from elsewhere. He opened them to find himself sitting on a bench at the top of another set of stairs.
…and things got a little more…complicated. True, he was the North American champion. But, and it pained Phinehas to even consider this, this was not the Loki of yore. Well, to be fair, let’s say this was not consistently the Loki of yore. He still showed flashes of the man who had multiple title reigns to his name. After all, he did have that belt right now, and that had to count for something. No question about it. But this was also the man who said, and I quote, “Grimm broke me.”
His words, not Phinehas’s.
One did not come back from something like that. Not completely.
Which Loki would be at Love Hurts? Phinehas reckoned they’d all have to wait and see. But as for him, he would prepare for the Loki of old. International Champion Loki. North American Champion Loki. World Champion Loki. The first ever PCW Triple Crown Champion Loki. One never knew. This would not be a night to make examples of anyone. This would be a night to simply…fight.
Phinehas looked around. He would not be taking the Black Hand approach this time, or ever again, for that matter. In the past, he – and Billy, and Michael Wryght, and all the rest – would pass through this way and would return each time as sadder and wiser men. Eyes glazed and weary. At one time, not only could they make things come to pass, they could alter that which had already occurred. Just pick the thread they wanted to follow and see what led to that. And make sure it happened.
Never again.
This eternal construct of stairs and doors and windows. Phinehas shook his head as he stood from the bench. He picked the labyrinth that would be his final journey in this place. Whether they truly did not know he had arrived, or were simply waiting on him to reach the end, well, he was about to find out, wasn’t he? And this time he had no electro-magnetic pulse bombs to prove his point.
Phinehas stretched his shoulders. Cricked his neck. Cracked his knuckles. And made his way down on the upside.
