Post by Grimm on May 18, 2006 15:40:20 GMT -5
The front office has turned a blind eye to our predicament for far too long. It has had ample opportunity to put a stop to Mikey Wryght’s irresponsible behavior, but has instead allowed it to continue unabated. As such, I cannot be held responsible for anything that happens during Collision Course. I wash my hands of it. His blood, and perhaps even Perfection’s blood, will be on you and your employees.
Phinehas Grimm signed the letter with a flourish and dropped his pen into the ink well. After rereading it twice, he folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope addressed to the Pure Class Wrestling front office. Unfortunately, the glue on the back tasted terrible. He grimaced.
“Yarr, got the letter ready to go out, do ye?”
The old man dropped down with a grunt into the chair beside Grimm. They sat on the porch, looking at the sliver of ocean visible above the dune line. A sea gull wheeled in the sky and dove out of view, presumably on the hunt for a late breakfast. The sun was on the rise.
“I have no choice. Wryght seems to be the type who would file a lawsuit at the drop of a hat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to take that route after losing his bid at the International title for the third time. And that’s assuming he survives. I’m just covering my bases.”
The old man didn’t reply. They sat, listening to the faint crashing of the waves and the squawks of the gulls. It was a nice peaceful morning on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, but Phinehas Grimm was feeling anything but peaceful. He slapped his hand on the table between them.
“He’s brought this upon himself. Cost me a match once, shame on me…cost me a match two, three, however many times it’s been…you’d be better of dead.”
Again, no reply. They were few and far between, but the old man knew better than to interrupt a Grimm tirade in progress. He just sat patiently and watched the dune grass wave in an offshore breeze.
“I’ve had it with ‘Mr. Showtime.’ What I don’t understand, is he knows he’s doomed. He knows. How could he deny it after having his face sliced to ribbons? Yet he insists on interfering in my work week after week. And getting Perfection involved like that…it’s like he has a death wish for both him and his lady friend. No one will ever accuse him of being clever, but my goodness. He would have saved us all a lot of trouble if he would have just let me bash his head in with a shovel in the first place when I signed with the federation.”
Phinehas sighed and walked to the porch railing. He leaned forward on his elbows and hung his head. Looking straight down into the sand and scrub brush, he realized he ought to be ashamed of himself. He was the Abomination of Desolation. He was an unfeeling, unemotional one-man wrecking crew who gave no quarter and asked for none in return. So why was he whining like…well, like Mr. Showtime? This had to end at Collision Course. This would end at Collision Course. If not, it wouldn’t be long before Grimm hired an agent to get matches booked to his liking. Ugh. The very thought made him throw up in his mouth.
After pushing the bile down, he made his way back to the chair and took his place next to the old man.
“Got everything straightened out, lad?”
Grimm nodded. One way or another this would end at the pay per view. Regardless of how the first two falls turned out, the cage at the end would allow him to show just how ruthless he could be. He would retain the title, of course, but more than that, he would squash this pest once and for all. Mikey Wryght would rue the moment he chose to make Phinehas Grimm his target. Other than the day he became a professional wrestler, that was the worst decision Mr. Showtime had ever made. And Grimm wouldn’t leave Greenville until his opponent accepted it.
“Yep. Everything’s in order.”
Phinehas Grimm signed the letter with a flourish and dropped his pen into the ink well. After rereading it twice, he folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope addressed to the Pure Class Wrestling front office. Unfortunately, the glue on the back tasted terrible. He grimaced.
“Yarr, got the letter ready to go out, do ye?”
The old man dropped down with a grunt into the chair beside Grimm. They sat on the porch, looking at the sliver of ocean visible above the dune line. A sea gull wheeled in the sky and dove out of view, presumably on the hunt for a late breakfast. The sun was on the rise.
“I have no choice. Wryght seems to be the type who would file a lawsuit at the drop of a hat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to take that route after losing his bid at the International title for the third time. And that’s assuming he survives. I’m just covering my bases.”
The old man didn’t reply. They sat, listening to the faint crashing of the waves and the squawks of the gulls. It was a nice peaceful morning on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, but Phinehas Grimm was feeling anything but peaceful. He slapped his hand on the table between them.
“He’s brought this upon himself. Cost me a match once, shame on me…cost me a match two, three, however many times it’s been…you’d be better of dead.”
Again, no reply. They were few and far between, but the old man knew better than to interrupt a Grimm tirade in progress. He just sat patiently and watched the dune grass wave in an offshore breeze.
“I’ve had it with ‘Mr. Showtime.’ What I don’t understand, is he knows he’s doomed. He knows. How could he deny it after having his face sliced to ribbons? Yet he insists on interfering in my work week after week. And getting Perfection involved like that…it’s like he has a death wish for both him and his lady friend. No one will ever accuse him of being clever, but my goodness. He would have saved us all a lot of trouble if he would have just let me bash his head in with a shovel in the first place when I signed with the federation.”
Phinehas sighed and walked to the porch railing. He leaned forward on his elbows and hung his head. Looking straight down into the sand and scrub brush, he realized he ought to be ashamed of himself. He was the Abomination of Desolation. He was an unfeeling, unemotional one-man wrecking crew who gave no quarter and asked for none in return. So why was he whining like…well, like Mr. Showtime? This had to end at Collision Course. This would end at Collision Course. If not, it wouldn’t be long before Grimm hired an agent to get matches booked to his liking. Ugh. The very thought made him throw up in his mouth.
After pushing the bile down, he made his way back to the chair and took his place next to the old man.
“Got everything straightened out, lad?”
Grimm nodded. One way or another this would end at the pay per view. Regardless of how the first two falls turned out, the cage at the end would allow him to show just how ruthless he could be. He would retain the title, of course, but more than that, he would squash this pest once and for all. Mikey Wryght would rue the moment he chose to make Phinehas Grimm his target. Other than the day he became a professional wrestler, that was the worst decision Mr. Showtime had ever made. And Grimm wouldn’t leave Greenville until his opponent accepted it.
“Yep. Everything’s in order.”
