Post by Grimm on Apr 11, 2006 16:30:39 GMT -5
It was an odd feeling. Normally, whenever anything happened along the lines of what took place during his match with Ace Anderson, Phinehas Grimm would brood and plot and lay the groundwork for the means in which to gut the guilty parties from crotch to sternum like so many rainbow trout. The referee deserved it most of all, obviously, for he was expected to be impartial and blameless. At least Grimm assumed it said something like that in the Professional Wrestling Officiating Code of Ethics…if anything like that even existed. And yet he had made fast counts for Ace and slooooow counts for Phinehas. Grimm couldn’t figure out why. He had always treated the officials with the utmost respect. There was no reason for the referee to be so blatantly crooked during the match, but that didn’t change the fact that he had. Maybe he had been paid off. Maybe threatened with his job or with bodily harm. Whatever the reason, he would come to regret it none the less.
Ace Anderson, on the other hand…he had been handed the match in a cute little Easter basket with a pretty pink bow on top and he took it without thinking twice. Try as he might Grimm couldn’t fault him for that. In a perfect world Ace would have refused to win that way, and would have insisted that the official call the match fair and square. But who was Grimm kidding? This wasn’t a perfect world. This wasn’t even a mildly tolerable world. This was professional wrestling, and there was nothing more foul and corrupt than this business. Grimm knew that. If the roles had been reversed he would have done just as Ace Anderson did. Take advantage of every opportunity or be left in the gutter. That’s the way it had always been. He just hoped that some day, eventually, they would face off once again and there would be no disputing the outcome. No outlawed props would be used as weapons, no dishonest officiating would come into play, and attention-starved mongoloids would actually stay in the back instead of ruining a perfectly good evening.
And speaking of attention-starved mongoloids…’Mr. Showtime’ Mikey Wryght seemed to require more validation than most. Despite being a veteran of several feds he begged to have gimmick matches changed to something more agreeable. And then he took it personal when Grimm merely did his job…a little too well, perhaps, but when booked in a Pain of Glass match, he couldn’t be faulted if he used the glass to vent his frustrations on any pests within reach. Wryght was far too experienced a wrestler to be surprised at the outcome of that particular match.
But as mentioned before, it was an odd sensation, mainly because Grimm didn’t feel like murdering every single person on the PCW payroll. He strummed the six-string in his lap while watching the sea grass dance on the dunes. Maybe it was his surroundings. Maybe it was the extra time off between the unpleasant ending of that match and Hostile Takeover. Whatever the reason, Grimm was focused on the upcoming task instead of wallowing in the corruption that had left him beaten and embarrassed. The fact that he would be facing Mr. Showtime one on one in a ladder match had to play a part in his good mood, though. There was nothing like taking to the air and seeing the look on your opponent’s face as you hurtled down on him, watching his spirit break at the moment he understood just how doomed he truly was. There would be no glass this time around and, lead pipe or not, Grimm anticipated leaving Mikey Wryght broken in the middle of the ring. One look at the bleeding, twitching ‘superstar’ and there would be no doubting who deserved to be called the International champion. This would be Grimm’s night for retribution. And Showtime would be begging for something as minor as a face carving. Leaving the arena looking like a jack o’ lantern should be the least of his worries.
Phinehas Grimm had quickly moved up the ranks of the Brethren of the Coast, and at one time had considered unleashing the more unsavory members on those closest to the man who had become a thorn in his side. Perfection…his agent…the guy who dry-cleaned his suits…but the more he thought about it the more crude it seemed. There was a time for terror and Grimm felt it would be more appropriate to concentrate it solely on his opponent this time. He couldn’t guarantee what would happen in the future, or what would occur if someone dared to interrupt his time to shine at Hostile Takeover. That poor soul would soon learn what true terror was. Grimm hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
He took a deep breath and smelled the salt in the air, the sand, the grasses and scrub brush dotting the landscape. He was thinking of…yes, he would take the kayak out for one more trip before making the final preparations for the pay per view. It was still several days away, but it was a lot of work pummeling a man senseless and he still had to finalize his game plan. For now, though, the water called to him.
Ace Anderson, on the other hand…he had been handed the match in a cute little Easter basket with a pretty pink bow on top and he took it without thinking twice. Try as he might Grimm couldn’t fault him for that. In a perfect world Ace would have refused to win that way, and would have insisted that the official call the match fair and square. But who was Grimm kidding? This wasn’t a perfect world. This wasn’t even a mildly tolerable world. This was professional wrestling, and there was nothing more foul and corrupt than this business. Grimm knew that. If the roles had been reversed he would have done just as Ace Anderson did. Take advantage of every opportunity or be left in the gutter. That’s the way it had always been. He just hoped that some day, eventually, they would face off once again and there would be no disputing the outcome. No outlawed props would be used as weapons, no dishonest officiating would come into play, and attention-starved mongoloids would actually stay in the back instead of ruining a perfectly good evening.
And speaking of attention-starved mongoloids…’Mr. Showtime’ Mikey Wryght seemed to require more validation than most. Despite being a veteran of several feds he begged to have gimmick matches changed to something more agreeable. And then he took it personal when Grimm merely did his job…a little too well, perhaps, but when booked in a Pain of Glass match, he couldn’t be faulted if he used the glass to vent his frustrations on any pests within reach. Wryght was far too experienced a wrestler to be surprised at the outcome of that particular match.
But as mentioned before, it was an odd sensation, mainly because Grimm didn’t feel like murdering every single person on the PCW payroll. He strummed the six-string in his lap while watching the sea grass dance on the dunes. Maybe it was his surroundings. Maybe it was the extra time off between the unpleasant ending of that match and Hostile Takeover. Whatever the reason, Grimm was focused on the upcoming task instead of wallowing in the corruption that had left him beaten and embarrassed. The fact that he would be facing Mr. Showtime one on one in a ladder match had to play a part in his good mood, though. There was nothing like taking to the air and seeing the look on your opponent’s face as you hurtled down on him, watching his spirit break at the moment he understood just how doomed he truly was. There would be no glass this time around and, lead pipe or not, Grimm anticipated leaving Mikey Wryght broken in the middle of the ring. One look at the bleeding, twitching ‘superstar’ and there would be no doubting who deserved to be called the International champion. This would be Grimm’s night for retribution. And Showtime would be begging for something as minor as a face carving. Leaving the arena looking like a jack o’ lantern should be the least of his worries.
Phinehas Grimm had quickly moved up the ranks of the Brethren of the Coast, and at one time had considered unleashing the more unsavory members on those closest to the man who had become a thorn in his side. Perfection…his agent…the guy who dry-cleaned his suits…but the more he thought about it the more crude it seemed. There was a time for terror and Grimm felt it would be more appropriate to concentrate it solely on his opponent this time. He couldn’t guarantee what would happen in the future, or what would occur if someone dared to interrupt his time to shine at Hostile Takeover. That poor soul would soon learn what true terror was. Grimm hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
He took a deep breath and smelled the salt in the air, the sand, the grasses and scrub brush dotting the landscape. He was thinking of…yes, he would take the kayak out for one more trip before making the final preparations for the pay per view. It was still several days away, but it was a lot of work pummeling a man senseless and he still had to finalize his game plan. For now, though, the water called to him.