Post by Grimm on Mar 22, 2006 17:10:11 GMT -5
He didn’t acknowledge the fiddler crab scurrying across his bare feet. How could he, seeing as how he was so enthralled with his hands. These were the hands that now held the Pure Class Wrestling International championship belt. They were also hands that, at Game Over, committed one of the more heinous acts of his career. That was really saying something. Grimm had taken part in several barbaric matches over the years, but this was the first time he had been surrounded by glass. It called out to him, begging to be used in indescribable ways that he was more than happy to oblige. He had taken the opportunity to heart, swinging the glass bulbs with reckless abandon, indiscriminately shredding the flesh of his opponents regardless of race, creed, or gender.
He had broken Pegasus’ spirit for the fourth time.
He stopped rising star Melissa Malone dead in her tracks.
And he took a piece of jagged glass to ‘Mr. Showtime’ Mikey Wryght’s massive (and yet unfounded) ego.
Phinehas Grimm sat atop the ridge of dunes that ran the length of the barrier islands he currently called home. They were the only line of defense between the roads, homes, and businesses of the Outer Banks and the moody Atlantic Ocean. The very idea of mounds of sand standing up to the fury of the sea was laughable at best. And yet they were rebuilt year after year after year. When it’s the ocean versus the ingenuity of man, always bet on the ocean.
Grimm cast his gaze out over the water and realized that the ocean looked like a flat pane of glass this evening. The moon sat high on its throne, full and bright, illuminating the coast as much as any lighthouse ever aspired to. Grimm was surrounded by sea grass; it swayed in the perpetual offshore breeze while he dug his toes in and out of the sand. He was as calm as his surroundings.
Almost as calm as he had been at the end of Game Over, which was surprising. He’d heard people say they ‘snapped’ or ‘blacked out’ or ‘just lost it’ whenever they committed some sort of atrocity. Grimm didn’t know if that was just their attempt at defending their actions, but he was sure of one thing: he knew exactly what he was doing the entire match. He could still see it as if it were happening right in front of him a second time. The anger and disappointment on Showtime’s face turning to fear as he raised the broken shard of glass high overhead. The blood trickling from each successive cut, turning Wryght’s face into a crimson mask before pooling on the mat. How Grimm had concentrated his efforts on the forehead and nose before cutting down the right side of the face, slicing one cheek open and gashing the ear before bringing the glass around his chin and up the other side. The realization that he was actually grinning while Showtime looked as if he was resigning himself to death. And how he was thinking Mikey Wryght truly deserved it.
And yet, even after Grimm had taken the high road and allowed him to live, Mr. Showtime still insisted on spewing layer after layer of empty threats in his direction. Grimm sighed. The Captain’s proclamation didn’t concern him, for he had no intention of jumping Showtime outside of the ring. He felt like he had made his point at Game Over, and as far as he was concerned any future bloodbaths would be in full view of thousands of people, not in a darkened hallway with only the ghosts as witness. However, if the newly-masked Mr. Showtime even so much as brushed shoulders with Phinehas backstage, the Abomination of Desolation would resume his work. And the next time he wouldn’t stop at the face.
As such, he could think of no better timing for his rematch with Ace Anderson. Grimm was riding high after his Game Over performance, he had obtained his first PCW championship, and Ace had somehow defied logic and was still the world champ. Seeing as how Ace had handed Grimm his one and only loss since his return in November (and the fact that the loss was under extremely questionable circumstances), it made this a match-up not to be missed. Phinehas intended on making it a spectacle no one would forget anytime soon, titles on the line or not.
Grimm pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. No lights shone in any direction, no sound other than the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Suddenly his thoughts turned foul…
Gnawing on sun-bleached bones.
Feeling gristle liquefy under his fists.
Bile and pus dripping from pale spindly fingers.
He blinked and the images were gone. Sitting on the dune in the dark, blood pounding in his head, he rocked himself to sleep.
He had broken Pegasus’ spirit for the fourth time.
He stopped rising star Melissa Malone dead in her tracks.
And he took a piece of jagged glass to ‘Mr. Showtime’ Mikey Wryght’s massive (and yet unfounded) ego.
Phinehas Grimm sat atop the ridge of dunes that ran the length of the barrier islands he currently called home. They were the only line of defense between the roads, homes, and businesses of the Outer Banks and the moody Atlantic Ocean. The very idea of mounds of sand standing up to the fury of the sea was laughable at best. And yet they were rebuilt year after year after year. When it’s the ocean versus the ingenuity of man, always bet on the ocean.
Grimm cast his gaze out over the water and realized that the ocean looked like a flat pane of glass this evening. The moon sat high on its throne, full and bright, illuminating the coast as much as any lighthouse ever aspired to. Grimm was surrounded by sea grass; it swayed in the perpetual offshore breeze while he dug his toes in and out of the sand. He was as calm as his surroundings.
Almost as calm as he had been at the end of Game Over, which was surprising. He’d heard people say they ‘snapped’ or ‘blacked out’ or ‘just lost it’ whenever they committed some sort of atrocity. Grimm didn’t know if that was just their attempt at defending their actions, but he was sure of one thing: he knew exactly what he was doing the entire match. He could still see it as if it were happening right in front of him a second time. The anger and disappointment on Showtime’s face turning to fear as he raised the broken shard of glass high overhead. The blood trickling from each successive cut, turning Wryght’s face into a crimson mask before pooling on the mat. How Grimm had concentrated his efforts on the forehead and nose before cutting down the right side of the face, slicing one cheek open and gashing the ear before bringing the glass around his chin and up the other side. The realization that he was actually grinning while Showtime looked as if he was resigning himself to death. And how he was thinking Mikey Wryght truly deserved it.
And yet, even after Grimm had taken the high road and allowed him to live, Mr. Showtime still insisted on spewing layer after layer of empty threats in his direction. Grimm sighed. The Captain’s proclamation didn’t concern him, for he had no intention of jumping Showtime outside of the ring. He felt like he had made his point at Game Over, and as far as he was concerned any future bloodbaths would be in full view of thousands of people, not in a darkened hallway with only the ghosts as witness. However, if the newly-masked Mr. Showtime even so much as brushed shoulders with Phinehas backstage, the Abomination of Desolation would resume his work. And the next time he wouldn’t stop at the face.
As such, he could think of no better timing for his rematch with Ace Anderson. Grimm was riding high after his Game Over performance, he had obtained his first PCW championship, and Ace had somehow defied logic and was still the world champ. Seeing as how Ace had handed Grimm his one and only loss since his return in November (and the fact that the loss was under extremely questionable circumstances), it made this a match-up not to be missed. Phinehas intended on making it a spectacle no one would forget anytime soon, titles on the line or not.
Grimm pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. No lights shone in any direction, no sound other than the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Suddenly his thoughts turned foul…
Gnawing on sun-bleached bones.
Feeling gristle liquefy under his fists.
Bile and pus dripping from pale spindly fingers.
He blinked and the images were gone. Sitting on the dune in the dark, blood pounding in his head, he rocked himself to sleep.
