Post by Grimm on Mar 11, 2006 10:12:57 GMT -5
Grimm watched the old man’s battered pickup peel away in a spray of gravel. The sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving him standing in the growing dark at the edge of a maritime forest. After allowing his eyes adjust to the dusk, he could see that the trees parted directly in front of him to form a crude path. Not really knowing where he was and having no other option, he plunged into the thicket. There was no turning back at this point.
He followed the sandy trail for about a quarter of a mile before the trees thinned out and he stepped into a clearing. A large white clapboard house stood with its back against Pamlico Sound. Grimm noticed a cupola jutting out of one of the corners of the roof as he approached what must be the front door. There were no vehicles in sight but a faint glow from inside gave the impression that someone was indeed at home. He knocked on the massive wooden door three times and waited. It wasn’t long before the door creaked open just slightly and a tremendous bearded man peered out. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he growled.
“What do you want?”
Grimm still didn’t know what was going on and the old man had said only one thing on the drive down the island. He had no clue what else to do, so he blurted the phrase out.
“Death to Spotswood.”
He was afraid he didn’t sound as confident as he would have liked, but surprisingly the man disappeared and the door swung open the rest of the way. Grimm stepped into a wide open room with high ceilings and covered in rich wooden paneling. A long oak table stretched out in the middle of the room, surrounded by bentwood chairs. The only illumination was provided by a huge kerosene lantern that had been placed in the center of the table, and the soft light revealed a dozen or so large, stern-looking men sitting around it. They were talking to one another in hushed voices but Grimm could pick out their Elizabethan dialects. The men did not acknowledge the visitor in their midst.
That is, until one of them came forward with a heavy black Bible and insisted that Grimm place his hand on it, swearing not to reveal anything that occurred here for 35 years. This did nothing to ease Phinehas’s mind. What sort of unnatural acts required that kind of secrecy, and why 35 years? That seemed like an arbitrary number. Regardless, Grimm did as was expected and was then ushered to one of the chairs around the table. The crowd suddenly grew quite, and the man who had admitted him emerged from a door at the other end of the room, holding aloft an enormous silver cup. He handed it to the man sitting at the head of the table, at which point he raised it to the ceiling (in offering, Grimm wondered?) and bellowed, “Death to Spotswood!” before taking a long draught. He passed it on and each man followed suit with the same gesture and declaration. The cup finally reached Grimm, who by then knew the drill but was still a little nervous due to the fierce stare of the man seated next to him. Phinehas went through the motions and nearly choked when he took the drink. It was as if his mouth, throat, and gut had been set on fire. He felt like he had been kicked by a mule and he swore the lantern flickered. He somehow managed to keep his composure, however, and passed the cup down the line.
The cup made several rounds, and each time Grimm managed to choke down the rotgut. He also took note of the cup. How it was larger than any cup or chalice he had ever seen, and that it was rather shallow for its size. Rough letters spelling out “Deth to Spotswoode” had been curved along the outer edge. This was soon overlooked, as the talk loosened and everyone became friendlier. Name were exchanged (first name only, oddly enough) and tales were told. Grimm was more than a little skeptical when one of the men whispered that the cup was actually the silver plated skull of Blackbeard himself. Phinehas was familiar with the legend of how the pirate had been killed and beheaded, but drinking out of a skull? That would explain the two dips along the lip, though…they were the right size and shape and in the perfect spot for two eye sockets. Could it be?
The rest of the group had moved on to another topic, though, so Grimm would have to look into the grisly tale some other time. For now, everyone seemed intent on discussing just how coldblooded Phinehas would be at Game Over. They were chomping at the bit so much when it came to the carnage that would be left in his wake, it almost sounded like they were as excited about the match as Grimm was. Even more so, if that was possible. He didn’t quite understand their enthusiasm until someone mentioned that the sporting world (sports entertainment, whatever) was one corner of the globe they had yet to conquer and this was their chance. And then it hit him. Grimm would no longer have to wait for summons to seedy bars or darkened alleys for meetings with the Brethren of the Coast. No more flinching at creaking floorboards or fleeting shadows.
He was one of them now. He had become the bump in the night. He was the scourge of the sea. He was the Abomination of Desolation, and the PCW International Title was as good as his.
He followed the sandy trail for about a quarter of a mile before the trees thinned out and he stepped into a clearing. A large white clapboard house stood with its back against Pamlico Sound. Grimm noticed a cupola jutting out of one of the corners of the roof as he approached what must be the front door. There were no vehicles in sight but a faint glow from inside gave the impression that someone was indeed at home. He knocked on the massive wooden door three times and waited. It wasn’t long before the door creaked open just slightly and a tremendous bearded man peered out. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he growled.
“What do you want?”
Grimm still didn’t know what was going on and the old man had said only one thing on the drive down the island. He had no clue what else to do, so he blurted the phrase out.
“Death to Spotswood.”
He was afraid he didn’t sound as confident as he would have liked, but surprisingly the man disappeared and the door swung open the rest of the way. Grimm stepped into a wide open room with high ceilings and covered in rich wooden paneling. A long oak table stretched out in the middle of the room, surrounded by bentwood chairs. The only illumination was provided by a huge kerosene lantern that had been placed in the center of the table, and the soft light revealed a dozen or so large, stern-looking men sitting around it. They were talking to one another in hushed voices but Grimm could pick out their Elizabethan dialects. The men did not acknowledge the visitor in their midst.
That is, until one of them came forward with a heavy black Bible and insisted that Grimm place his hand on it, swearing not to reveal anything that occurred here for 35 years. This did nothing to ease Phinehas’s mind. What sort of unnatural acts required that kind of secrecy, and why 35 years? That seemed like an arbitrary number. Regardless, Grimm did as was expected and was then ushered to one of the chairs around the table. The crowd suddenly grew quite, and the man who had admitted him emerged from a door at the other end of the room, holding aloft an enormous silver cup. He handed it to the man sitting at the head of the table, at which point he raised it to the ceiling (in offering, Grimm wondered?) and bellowed, “Death to Spotswood!” before taking a long draught. He passed it on and each man followed suit with the same gesture and declaration. The cup finally reached Grimm, who by then knew the drill but was still a little nervous due to the fierce stare of the man seated next to him. Phinehas went through the motions and nearly choked when he took the drink. It was as if his mouth, throat, and gut had been set on fire. He felt like he had been kicked by a mule and he swore the lantern flickered. He somehow managed to keep his composure, however, and passed the cup down the line.
The cup made several rounds, and each time Grimm managed to choke down the rotgut. He also took note of the cup. How it was larger than any cup or chalice he had ever seen, and that it was rather shallow for its size. Rough letters spelling out “Deth to Spotswoode” had been curved along the outer edge. This was soon overlooked, as the talk loosened and everyone became friendlier. Name were exchanged (first name only, oddly enough) and tales were told. Grimm was more than a little skeptical when one of the men whispered that the cup was actually the silver plated skull of Blackbeard himself. Phinehas was familiar with the legend of how the pirate had been killed and beheaded, but drinking out of a skull? That would explain the two dips along the lip, though…they were the right size and shape and in the perfect spot for two eye sockets. Could it be?
The rest of the group had moved on to another topic, though, so Grimm would have to look into the grisly tale some other time. For now, everyone seemed intent on discussing just how coldblooded Phinehas would be at Game Over. They were chomping at the bit so much when it came to the carnage that would be left in his wake, it almost sounded like they were as excited about the match as Grimm was. Even more so, if that was possible. He didn’t quite understand their enthusiasm until someone mentioned that the sporting world (sports entertainment, whatever) was one corner of the globe they had yet to conquer and this was their chance. And then it hit him. Grimm would no longer have to wait for summons to seedy bars or darkened alleys for meetings with the Brethren of the Coast. No more flinching at creaking floorboards or fleeting shadows.
He was one of them now. He had become the bump in the night. He was the scourge of the sea. He was the Abomination of Desolation, and the PCW International Title was as good as his.
