Post by Grimm on Mar 9, 2006 17:04:25 GMT -5
“The Brethren of the Coast first appear in records around 1640. They were a loose association of pirates, buccaneers, opportunists…whatever you want to call them. It was a democratic fraternity…one that, if you wished to join, you agreed to follow a strict code called the Custom of the Coast. This code took precedence over any law of the land, and breaking it resulted in severe punishment.”
Grimm looked at the old man sitting across from him. He could see the reflection of the moon reflecting off the water just over his shoulder. The weather had taken a turn for the better and they were out on the oceanfront patio at one of the local watering holes. Grimm had lured the old man here under the false pretense of discussing an upcoming fishing trip he had no intention of taking, and when he breached the subject of the Brethren the old salt refused to discuss it. However, after a few mugs of rotgut the old man’s tongue loosened and he began to give a surprisingly detailed history of the men who had been hounding Phinehas. Surprisingly, because the old man reeked of alcohol and his beard was sopping wet with the golden drink. It was a wonder he could put two words together, let alone rattle off a dissertation.
“Sever punishment? What, like walking the plank or keel-hauling?”
The old man took another swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Trying, but failing, to stifle a belch he grunted. “Oh, there was keel-hauling all right, but walking the plank was a myth dreamed up by those homos out in Hollywood. There’s never been any evidence of no plank walkin’. Now, if a man was caught stealin’ from one of his brothers he got his nose and ears sliced off. If he was ignorant enough to try it a second time, he’d be marooned on an island somewhere with nothin’ but a jug of water, a musket, and one piece of lead shot. That way, he’d at least be able to blow his brains out when he finally lost hope. See? Pirates weren’t all bad.”
He laughed, and started coughing when he took a drink at the same time. Sputtering and cursing, he took another drink. And another. Grimm was beginning to wonder how much more information he would be able to get out of the old man before he passed out in a drunken stupor. Thankfully the old man decided to give the boozing a rest and resume his tale.
“Nah, they weren’t all bad. They even had an early form of health insurance, if ye wanted to call it that. So much for the loss of a right arm, a little less for the left, 500 pieces of eight for a right leg, 400 for the left…and so on and so forth. See? They weren’t savages. Misunderstood, more like it. When they signed on to a ship, they agreed to the articles of conduct set forth by the cap’n. No gambling, death to anyone sneaking a woman on board, no fighting while out at sea…ye had to settle yer quarrels on land, see. Forty lashes if ye carry an open flame below deck…they weren’t the mindless barbarians everyone would have ye to think they were. No sir…”
The old man drifted off, head nodding, rotgut dripping out of the corners of his mouth and disappearing into his bushy white beard. The history lesson had been interesting, but Grimm still didn’t know why they had targeted him. Or why they still existed, seeing as how piracy wasn’t exactly a popular career choice these days unless you were in Southeast Asia or Africa. He watched silhouettes of beach grass sway in the gentle offshore breeze, listened to waves lap against the shore. It was as calm a night as he had known on the Outer Banks, but he couldn’t find solace in it due to the unanswered questions weighing him down. He was about call it a night and leave the old man to his alcoholic haze when he started mumbling again. Grimm was going to leave anyway, for this information on the Brethren of the Coast wasn’t anything he couldn’t find in the library. But then the old man said something that made him stay.
“Accordin’ to their superstitions, they drowned their former lives by crossin’ the Tropic of Cancer. Once you joined the Brethren and crossed that line in the sea, a person’s last name became taboo…never to be spoken again.” The old man raised his finger with a tremor and struggled to keep it locked on Phinehas. “Like Grimm, for instance.”
“What?”
The old man laughed and nearly toppled out of his chair. “You. Grimm. Somebody in yer family gave that name up when they agreed to sail with a certain Edward Teach. Or Edward Drummond. Nobody’s exactly sure what his real name is, ‘cept everyone can agree on…”
“Blackbeard.”
“That’s the one. Ye had an ancestor on The Queen Anne’s Revenge and the Brethren of the Coast haven’t forgotten it. Oh, they ain’t doin’ much piratin’ these days. They’ve adapted to the times and moved on to other just as lucrative endeavors, but they’re still the Brethren of the Coast. And they never forget their own.”
This time, the old man did pass out. Grimm left him snoring face down on the table while he moved over the edge of the deck. Leaning on the railing, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air. The breeze rustled his hair and the prongs of his braided goatee. So that was it, he thought. This was all an initiation of sorts…a test. To see if he could live up to the standards set forth nearly four centuries ago. To make sure the legacy of the Brethren of the Coast carried on. And he would see that it did.
So…now that those questions had finally been answered…what effect, if any, would it have on his next most pressing concern? Game Over was here and he would be facing off against three opponents who quite possibly wanted the International title as much as the Abomination of Desolation. He never would have admitted it to anyone, but he had constantly been looking over his shoulder since he learned of the Brethren. Now that he knew they wouldn’t be jumping out of the shadows to slit his throat, he could concentrate on the task at hand. Melissa Malone, Mikey Wryght, and Pegasus would be receiving his undivided attention, which in this case meant he would be focusing all his energies on publicly humiliating not one, not two, but three opponents over the course of obtaining his first PCW title.
Mikey Wryght was the only foe he had a personal grudge against, but Grimm was not known to show favoritism in the ring. He was an equal-opportunity desecrater, be it man or woman, former ally or arch enemy…if you were Phinehas Grimm’s opponent, he would be more than happy to hand you your spleen on a plate. They each had their histories and hard luck tales, each took different paths that led them here, to PCW, to step into the ring for the International Title at Game Over. Different styles, different ambitions. Pegasus, Mikey, and Melissa did have at least one thing in common, though.
And that was the fact that they each faced insurmountable odds when it came to wresting that championship belt away from Phinehas Grimm. It may be unclaimed at the moment, but everyone knew it was his to lose.
Grimm looked at the old man sitting across from him. He could see the reflection of the moon reflecting off the water just over his shoulder. The weather had taken a turn for the better and they were out on the oceanfront patio at one of the local watering holes. Grimm had lured the old man here under the false pretense of discussing an upcoming fishing trip he had no intention of taking, and when he breached the subject of the Brethren the old salt refused to discuss it. However, after a few mugs of rotgut the old man’s tongue loosened and he began to give a surprisingly detailed history of the men who had been hounding Phinehas. Surprisingly, because the old man reeked of alcohol and his beard was sopping wet with the golden drink. It was a wonder he could put two words together, let alone rattle off a dissertation.
“Sever punishment? What, like walking the plank or keel-hauling?”
The old man took another swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Trying, but failing, to stifle a belch he grunted. “Oh, there was keel-hauling all right, but walking the plank was a myth dreamed up by those homos out in Hollywood. There’s never been any evidence of no plank walkin’. Now, if a man was caught stealin’ from one of his brothers he got his nose and ears sliced off. If he was ignorant enough to try it a second time, he’d be marooned on an island somewhere with nothin’ but a jug of water, a musket, and one piece of lead shot. That way, he’d at least be able to blow his brains out when he finally lost hope. See? Pirates weren’t all bad.”
He laughed, and started coughing when he took a drink at the same time. Sputtering and cursing, he took another drink. And another. Grimm was beginning to wonder how much more information he would be able to get out of the old man before he passed out in a drunken stupor. Thankfully the old man decided to give the boozing a rest and resume his tale.
“Nah, they weren’t all bad. They even had an early form of health insurance, if ye wanted to call it that. So much for the loss of a right arm, a little less for the left, 500 pieces of eight for a right leg, 400 for the left…and so on and so forth. See? They weren’t savages. Misunderstood, more like it. When they signed on to a ship, they agreed to the articles of conduct set forth by the cap’n. No gambling, death to anyone sneaking a woman on board, no fighting while out at sea…ye had to settle yer quarrels on land, see. Forty lashes if ye carry an open flame below deck…they weren’t the mindless barbarians everyone would have ye to think they were. No sir…”
The old man drifted off, head nodding, rotgut dripping out of the corners of his mouth and disappearing into his bushy white beard. The history lesson had been interesting, but Grimm still didn’t know why they had targeted him. Or why they still existed, seeing as how piracy wasn’t exactly a popular career choice these days unless you were in Southeast Asia or Africa. He watched silhouettes of beach grass sway in the gentle offshore breeze, listened to waves lap against the shore. It was as calm a night as he had known on the Outer Banks, but he couldn’t find solace in it due to the unanswered questions weighing him down. He was about call it a night and leave the old man to his alcoholic haze when he started mumbling again. Grimm was going to leave anyway, for this information on the Brethren of the Coast wasn’t anything he couldn’t find in the library. But then the old man said something that made him stay.
“Accordin’ to their superstitions, they drowned their former lives by crossin’ the Tropic of Cancer. Once you joined the Brethren and crossed that line in the sea, a person’s last name became taboo…never to be spoken again.” The old man raised his finger with a tremor and struggled to keep it locked on Phinehas. “Like Grimm, for instance.”
“What?”
The old man laughed and nearly toppled out of his chair. “You. Grimm. Somebody in yer family gave that name up when they agreed to sail with a certain Edward Teach. Or Edward Drummond. Nobody’s exactly sure what his real name is, ‘cept everyone can agree on…”
“Blackbeard.”
“That’s the one. Ye had an ancestor on The Queen Anne’s Revenge and the Brethren of the Coast haven’t forgotten it. Oh, they ain’t doin’ much piratin’ these days. They’ve adapted to the times and moved on to other just as lucrative endeavors, but they’re still the Brethren of the Coast. And they never forget their own.”
This time, the old man did pass out. Grimm left him snoring face down on the table while he moved over the edge of the deck. Leaning on the railing, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air. The breeze rustled his hair and the prongs of his braided goatee. So that was it, he thought. This was all an initiation of sorts…a test. To see if he could live up to the standards set forth nearly four centuries ago. To make sure the legacy of the Brethren of the Coast carried on. And he would see that it did.
So…now that those questions had finally been answered…what effect, if any, would it have on his next most pressing concern? Game Over was here and he would be facing off against three opponents who quite possibly wanted the International title as much as the Abomination of Desolation. He never would have admitted it to anyone, but he had constantly been looking over his shoulder since he learned of the Brethren. Now that he knew they wouldn’t be jumping out of the shadows to slit his throat, he could concentrate on the task at hand. Melissa Malone, Mikey Wryght, and Pegasus would be receiving his undivided attention, which in this case meant he would be focusing all his energies on publicly humiliating not one, not two, but three opponents over the course of obtaining his first PCW title.
Mikey Wryght was the only foe he had a personal grudge against, but Grimm was not known to show favoritism in the ring. He was an equal-opportunity desecrater, be it man or woman, former ally or arch enemy…if you were Phinehas Grimm’s opponent, he would be more than happy to hand you your spleen on a plate. They each had their histories and hard luck tales, each took different paths that led them here, to PCW, to step into the ring for the International Title at Game Over. Different styles, different ambitions. Pegasus, Mikey, and Melissa did have at least one thing in common, though.
And that was the fact that they each faced insurmountable odds when it came to wresting that championship belt away from Phinehas Grimm. It may be unclaimed at the moment, but everyone knew it was his to lose.
