Post by Grimm on Feb 22, 2021 15:34:34 GMT -5
Whose woods are these, I think I know.
Yes, you do.
A hush here beneath the pewter sky. One would stagger through a vertigo of vast empty spaces blanketed with snow, with that sky barely discernable from the white riot spread across the river valley, were it not for the trees and bare places on the hills. Those icicles hanging like taper candles on sandstone outcrops. Birds wheeling beneath a sun-smear, slowly tracing out mute and ominous prophesies in their routes.
But then, a bloom of rust at your vision’s edge. A crunching through the crust as a figure walks through those woods. A voice on that cold wind, growing colder.
Red is my fur, and red is my art.
Phinehas Dillinger – Grimm – walks these woods on a dwindling February day. And he finds himself in a curious position.
Not the roaming-through-the-trees part. Or the watching of snows blowing in different directions. Standing there at a nexus point for the winds, as a whirlwind snow devil whips through the architecture of a winter’s siege. No, he’s marked the metes and bounds of his land for…well, never mind you how many times before. And he’s seen all this land has to offer throughout the seasons. From peak summer to the deepest killing frost, and all that falls between.
No, not that. And not this imminent match between himself and Gerard Angelo and Justin Michaels for the PCW World Title. Phinehas – Grimm – has fought those two many times before. He’s fought for that title at a pay per view before. He’s won, and defended, and lost, that very title at pay per views before.
So what makes it curious?
Well, the idea that this might be it. Phinehas doesn’t usually put much stock in rumors, especially those involving the realm of professional wrestling, but it’s different this time. He’s heard the whispers. Is aware of the chatter. Has seen the writing on the wall for himself. But not the scratchings on plaster announcing someone or something has been weighed, measured, and found wanting. (No one would dare say such a thing about PCW.) More along the lines of, there is a time for every purpose and for every work, and all our days our numbered.
Remember that we are indeed dust, and to dust we shall return.
Nothing lasts forever, not even Pure Class Wrestling. Their numbers have dwindled to a handful. A strong, dedicated handful, but a handful nonetheless. And such does not a federation make.
Throughout the hills and hollows, chimneys blaze and smoke rolls. His neighbors gather round the hearth to spend the evening asking riddles, reciting poems, telling tales of a certain boogeyman out there in the dark and the cold, watching for stragglers. They light candles on windowsills and gather comfort from the sweet honey scent of the beeswax. Even if it is his bees that have contributed said wax.
And as they huddle, Phinehas – Grimm – walks harvest fields and church yards. Glances at trees scattered as splashes of ink. The day ends with the weight of a cathedral tune. A rumbling organ drone. The dark and bloody ground hard as stone beneath the snow.
So what of it? There’s still a match to be fought. And whoever the opponents are…
You know what, not this time. How many different ways can a person say it doesn’t matter who the opponent is, or the opponents are? Not enough ways, that’s for sure, so forget it. Grimm has made it abundantly clear over the years in both word and deed, and that will have to be sufficient to the task.
They’ve all tried to be clever lo these many years, and some of them even made the effort to state it plain and clear with no hyperbole. Regardless of the approach, for the verbal stylings of the countless numbers who have roamed those halls (countless unless you visit the archives, I presume), it’s all been said. There’s nothing new under the sun. Even those who fancied themselves as barrier-breaking game changers were just speaking to minor variations of the well-trod, age-old themes.
Truth to power? Not so much. So, yes, whether this is it or PCW continues on until the sun burns out…enough already.
Where does that leave them, then? The Hangtown Horror, the Man Without Peer, the Force of Nature? As he passes by a rusted thresher abandoned to the elements and claimed by the underbrush, and steps into a clearing, it leaves Grimm as it ever did. He stands there emanating the deep calm of deep time. The cold calm of cold time. Even here, even now, with flint in his being and the patience of granite.
We actually worked as a team, he thinks. With no dastardly deeds or questionable behavior in or out of the ring. Will wonders ever cease?
A brief final glimpse of the sun as it breaks through the clouds before sinking behind the hills. Phinehas squints in the sun’s reflection with its glittering malice. Like tinsel scattered upon all those dead branches as they grasp at winter ghosts.
Will wonders ever cease? Yes, because that was Love Hurts then. This…this Mass Destruction…is now.
New guard, old guard. Good ol’ boys and fresh blood. Those arguments and rebuttals are so very tired, and so very inconsequential these days.
Justin.
Gerry.
Now, what do you say?
Reaching the extent of the day’s walk as well as its light, Phinehas turns and leans into the north wind’s pale hammer. He retraces his steps, and as he makes his way back towards the fire of his own hearth he recites to himself the color phases of ice as it ages and deepens from white flake to black star. The glint of his own eyes falls somewhere along that spectrum.
The snow fall intensifies, and Phinehas Dillinger withdraws into the whiteout. The Abomination of Desolation moves one step closer to becoming the Desolation of the Ancients.
Red is my fur, and red is my art.
Yes, you do.
A hush here beneath the pewter sky. One would stagger through a vertigo of vast empty spaces blanketed with snow, with that sky barely discernable from the white riot spread across the river valley, were it not for the trees and bare places on the hills. Those icicles hanging like taper candles on sandstone outcrops. Birds wheeling beneath a sun-smear, slowly tracing out mute and ominous prophesies in their routes.
But then, a bloom of rust at your vision’s edge. A crunching through the crust as a figure walks through those woods. A voice on that cold wind, growing colder.
Red is my fur, and red is my art.
Phinehas Dillinger – Grimm – walks these woods on a dwindling February day. And he finds himself in a curious position.
Not the roaming-through-the-trees part. Or the watching of snows blowing in different directions. Standing there at a nexus point for the winds, as a whirlwind snow devil whips through the architecture of a winter’s siege. No, he’s marked the metes and bounds of his land for…well, never mind you how many times before. And he’s seen all this land has to offer throughout the seasons. From peak summer to the deepest killing frost, and all that falls between.
No, not that. And not this imminent match between himself and Gerard Angelo and Justin Michaels for the PCW World Title. Phinehas – Grimm – has fought those two many times before. He’s fought for that title at a pay per view before. He’s won, and defended, and lost, that very title at pay per views before.
So what makes it curious?
Well, the idea that this might be it. Phinehas doesn’t usually put much stock in rumors, especially those involving the realm of professional wrestling, but it’s different this time. He’s heard the whispers. Is aware of the chatter. Has seen the writing on the wall for himself. But not the scratchings on plaster announcing someone or something has been weighed, measured, and found wanting. (No one would dare say such a thing about PCW.) More along the lines of, there is a time for every purpose and for every work, and all our days our numbered.
Remember that we are indeed dust, and to dust we shall return.
Nothing lasts forever, not even Pure Class Wrestling. Their numbers have dwindled to a handful. A strong, dedicated handful, but a handful nonetheless. And such does not a federation make.
Throughout the hills and hollows, chimneys blaze and smoke rolls. His neighbors gather round the hearth to spend the evening asking riddles, reciting poems, telling tales of a certain boogeyman out there in the dark and the cold, watching for stragglers. They light candles on windowsills and gather comfort from the sweet honey scent of the beeswax. Even if it is his bees that have contributed said wax.
And as they huddle, Phinehas – Grimm – walks harvest fields and church yards. Glances at trees scattered as splashes of ink. The day ends with the weight of a cathedral tune. A rumbling organ drone. The dark and bloody ground hard as stone beneath the snow.
So what of it? There’s still a match to be fought. And whoever the opponents are…
You know what, not this time. How many different ways can a person say it doesn’t matter who the opponent is, or the opponents are? Not enough ways, that’s for sure, so forget it. Grimm has made it abundantly clear over the years in both word and deed, and that will have to be sufficient to the task.
They’ve all tried to be clever lo these many years, and some of them even made the effort to state it plain and clear with no hyperbole. Regardless of the approach, for the verbal stylings of the countless numbers who have roamed those halls (countless unless you visit the archives, I presume), it’s all been said. There’s nothing new under the sun. Even those who fancied themselves as barrier-breaking game changers were just speaking to minor variations of the well-trod, age-old themes.
Truth to power? Not so much. So, yes, whether this is it or PCW continues on until the sun burns out…enough already.
Where does that leave them, then? The Hangtown Horror, the Man Without Peer, the Force of Nature? As he passes by a rusted thresher abandoned to the elements and claimed by the underbrush, and steps into a clearing, it leaves Grimm as it ever did. He stands there emanating the deep calm of deep time. The cold calm of cold time. Even here, even now, with flint in his being and the patience of granite.
We actually worked as a team, he thinks. With no dastardly deeds or questionable behavior in or out of the ring. Will wonders ever cease?
A brief final glimpse of the sun as it breaks through the clouds before sinking behind the hills. Phinehas squints in the sun’s reflection with its glittering malice. Like tinsel scattered upon all those dead branches as they grasp at winter ghosts.
Will wonders ever cease? Yes, because that was Love Hurts then. This…this Mass Destruction…is now.
New guard, old guard. Good ol’ boys and fresh blood. Those arguments and rebuttals are so very tired, and so very inconsequential these days.
Justin.
Gerry.
Look around you, if you can manage to pull yourselves away from your own current delusions. Look at who remains. They’ve all fallen to the wayside until now it’s just us. Just Grimm, Stormm, and the Hollywood Hero duking it out in the PCW Ring one more time. Title or not. Pay Per View or Trauma. Curtain-jerking or Main Event. We know what to expect from the night...and from each other. The curtain is torn, and the veil has been pulled away.
No more surprises.
No more games.
Now, what do you say?
Reaching the extent of the day’s walk as well as its light, Phinehas turns and leans into the north wind’s pale hammer. He retraces his steps, and as he makes his way back towards the fire of his own hearth he recites to himself the color phases of ice as it ages and deepens from white flake to black star. The glint of his own eyes falls somewhere along that spectrum.
The snow fall intensifies, and Phinehas Dillinger withdraws into the whiteout. The Abomination of Desolation moves one step closer to becoming the Desolation of the Ancients.
Red is my fur, and red is my art.
