Post by Grimm on Apr 27, 2006 19:12:04 GMT -5
Phinehas Grimm stood in the prow of the Kingdom Come. The old man was at the wheel of the not-quite-as-old-as-he-was fishing boat, trolling along at a few knots. They had set out from Shallowbag Bay early that morning as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, when the sky was beginning to turn a faint shade of pink. The old man took them down island on Roanoke Sound, through the shifting channels of Oregon Inlet, and out into the Atlantic Ocean. Despite the ever-changing bathymetry, the old man had spent his entire life fishing these waters and could navigate the shoals better than anyone alive. The sands had claimed many a victim over the centuries, but the Kingdom Come would not be one of them. Not today.
They had picked a perfect day to spend on the water. A few scattered clouds traveling on a light breeze, relatively calms seas, and the humidity had not yet hit the brutal marks of mid-summer. Grimm was sure they would drop anchor and test how the fish were biting at some point today, but for now they were content to drift along where the Gulf Stream and Labrador Current collide. The old man cut the engine and stepped out of the pilot house. He struck a match, lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and walked to the bow to join Grimm. The pair stood with only the slap of the water against sides of the boat and the occasional creaking timber to break the silence.
“Did I ever tell ye the story of the time I went fishin’ with Ernest Hemingway?”
Phinehas Grimm stared into the blue abyss and shook his head. He had the feeling he would hear the story whether it had been told before or not.
“We set off from the southern tip of Key West on the hunt for marlin, see, and ol’ Ernie had already been drinkin’ fer hours. Don’t get me wrong, I like me rotgut as much as the next old salt, but Ernie was on another level. Anyway, we set out through the channel and didn’t stop ‘til the island disappeared over the horizon…”
The old man continued but it wasn’t long before Grimm’s attention drifted…wavered…then shifted to a completely different topic. He kept staring off into the Atlantic, nodding occasionally, but he wasn’t listening. The Abomination of Desolation had one thing on his mind, and that was Pure Class Wrestling. It wasn’t that he was concerned about his upcoming bout with Benjamin Banks, mind you, for there was no doubt who would walk out the victor. No, it was the manner in which this came to be in the first place. Grimm had faced Banks several months ago and had picked up an overwhelming victory. Then Banks left, came back, left again, or maybe he didn’t…to be honest he fell off Grimm’s radar and that was the sort of thing professional wrestlers did quite a bit anyway. Regardless, the powers-that-be felt it would be a good idea to pair the two of them together. But then the match started.
It didn’t take long for Phinehas Grimm to realize that if they were to have any hope of winning, he would have to carry this team on his pale shoulders. As hard as it was to accept, even that would prove to be inadequate. The team of Grimm and Banks was defeated, and Grimm was forced to undertake the walk of shame down into the bowels of the arena. He was ashamed. He was embarrassed. And he was furious.
“…so there we were, gaff hooks in hand, tryin’ to fend off the rogue flounder. It lunged at Ernie, but I was there to give it a good whack right across the noggin. That nearly knocked it overboard, but it gathered its strength and made one last charge at us…”
Benjamin Banks was far from unbreakable and was no more a threat to Phinehas Grimm than, well, most anyone. He would lose. His head would be driven into the mat and fractured in three different places by The Harvest. It wouldn’t be pretty, but at least it would be quick. Grimm could promise him that much. He still felt the sting of the loss, and although Banks hadn’t personally assaulted him, he placed full blame on the self-proclaimed unbreakable one. And thus, he would receive what he deserved…a cold-blooded whuppin’ the likes of which Benjamin Banks had not yet had the misfortune of experiencing. But that would change at Trauma.
And then what? Another International title defense? Maybe another oddball tag team contest to shake things up…or perhaps he would get yet another shot at taking Ace Anderson down. Maybe none of the above. Maybe all of them. All Phinehas Grimm knew was that come what may, he would continue on this path he had chosen and add to the trail of the wretched and disheartened left in his wake.
“…which is how we finally managed to send the last body down to Davy Jones’ locker and resume our fishin’. Yarrrrr, ‘tis a convoluted story, I know, but remember it well, and ye’ll have nary a trouble with yer match, lad.”
It was at this point that Grimm almost wished he had listened to an entire story for once, but it was too late for that. The old man was moving towards the anchor, and they would be casting their lines any minute now. It was time to clear the mind, get lost in the rolling of the waves, and try not to think about just how unspeakable the beating that he would be inflicting on poor Benjamin Banks was going to be. As if he could ever get something like that out of his head.
They had picked a perfect day to spend on the water. A few scattered clouds traveling on a light breeze, relatively calms seas, and the humidity had not yet hit the brutal marks of mid-summer. Grimm was sure they would drop anchor and test how the fish were biting at some point today, but for now they were content to drift along where the Gulf Stream and Labrador Current collide. The old man cut the engine and stepped out of the pilot house. He struck a match, lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and walked to the bow to join Grimm. The pair stood with only the slap of the water against sides of the boat and the occasional creaking timber to break the silence.
“Did I ever tell ye the story of the time I went fishin’ with Ernest Hemingway?”
Phinehas Grimm stared into the blue abyss and shook his head. He had the feeling he would hear the story whether it had been told before or not.
“We set off from the southern tip of Key West on the hunt for marlin, see, and ol’ Ernie had already been drinkin’ fer hours. Don’t get me wrong, I like me rotgut as much as the next old salt, but Ernie was on another level. Anyway, we set out through the channel and didn’t stop ‘til the island disappeared over the horizon…”
The old man continued but it wasn’t long before Grimm’s attention drifted…wavered…then shifted to a completely different topic. He kept staring off into the Atlantic, nodding occasionally, but he wasn’t listening. The Abomination of Desolation had one thing on his mind, and that was Pure Class Wrestling. It wasn’t that he was concerned about his upcoming bout with Benjamin Banks, mind you, for there was no doubt who would walk out the victor. No, it was the manner in which this came to be in the first place. Grimm had faced Banks several months ago and had picked up an overwhelming victory. Then Banks left, came back, left again, or maybe he didn’t…to be honest he fell off Grimm’s radar and that was the sort of thing professional wrestlers did quite a bit anyway. Regardless, the powers-that-be felt it would be a good idea to pair the two of them together. But then the match started.
It didn’t take long for Phinehas Grimm to realize that if they were to have any hope of winning, he would have to carry this team on his pale shoulders. As hard as it was to accept, even that would prove to be inadequate. The team of Grimm and Banks was defeated, and Grimm was forced to undertake the walk of shame down into the bowels of the arena. He was ashamed. He was embarrassed. And he was furious.
“…so there we were, gaff hooks in hand, tryin’ to fend off the rogue flounder. It lunged at Ernie, but I was there to give it a good whack right across the noggin. That nearly knocked it overboard, but it gathered its strength and made one last charge at us…”
Benjamin Banks was far from unbreakable and was no more a threat to Phinehas Grimm than, well, most anyone. He would lose. His head would be driven into the mat and fractured in three different places by The Harvest. It wouldn’t be pretty, but at least it would be quick. Grimm could promise him that much. He still felt the sting of the loss, and although Banks hadn’t personally assaulted him, he placed full blame on the self-proclaimed unbreakable one. And thus, he would receive what he deserved…a cold-blooded whuppin’ the likes of which Benjamin Banks had not yet had the misfortune of experiencing. But that would change at Trauma.
And then what? Another International title defense? Maybe another oddball tag team contest to shake things up…or perhaps he would get yet another shot at taking Ace Anderson down. Maybe none of the above. Maybe all of them. All Phinehas Grimm knew was that come what may, he would continue on this path he had chosen and add to the trail of the wretched and disheartened left in his wake.
“…which is how we finally managed to send the last body down to Davy Jones’ locker and resume our fishin’. Yarrrrr, ‘tis a convoluted story, I know, but remember it well, and ye’ll have nary a trouble with yer match, lad.”
It was at this point that Grimm almost wished he had listened to an entire story for once, but it was too late for that. The old man was moving towards the anchor, and they would be casting their lines any minute now. It was time to clear the mind, get lost in the rolling of the waves, and try not to think about just how unspeakable the beating that he would be inflicting on poor Benjamin Banks was going to be. As if he could ever get something like that out of his head.