Post by Murdoc on Sept 26, 2006 23:40:01 GMT -5
"The most destructive element in the human mind is fear. Fear creates aggressiveness."
--Dorothy Thompson
***
"Phinehas...you and I, we must have a heart-to-heart talk.". As his lips move, a light CLICK sound underlies and accentuates his words. Hair tied back behind his head tightly, the ends meet together in a braid that falls between the ridges of his shoulder blades. His face pointing downwards, away from the video camera trained on him, he sighs a gentle breath and straightens himself in a slow manner.
Eyes closed, the tip of his tongue passes the barrier created by his lips and travels from one corner of his mouth to another. "Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought we would one day meet in combat. Ever since you arrived in Pure Class Wrestling...I've had one eye trained on you. One eye focused on YOUR exploits. And at this point...I'm glad I did."
"You see, I know about you Phinehas. I know about how you've steamrolled over the best that PCW has to offer. You've been taken to the further ends of yourself only a few times. It's a shame because...". Marcus pauses here. Bottom lip grasped between both upper and lower rows of teeth, his eyes remain closed as though his words were struggling to linger...bottled up within his throat. Battle of will being waged, it was a surprise to see the victor emerge.
"I'm sorry. -achem- Grimm...it's a shame that you've only been tested the few times that you have. Because I'm fairly certain what you are capable of. And THAT, Phinehas Grimm...that frightens me.". His head falling once more, face shaded from sight as the shadows play and dance along his features. The silence excruciating as the words seep in. The first time in a VERY long time that such thoughts even dared to cross his mind, it lent a certain air of importance to him.
Camera panning down to his hands, those strong and capable hands...clutching at a red cloth covering a waist-high table before him. Knuckles turning white at the pressure with which he exerts...cloth wrinkling and strained within his palms. Nearly in danger of pulling the entire cloth off of the table, the zooming out of the camera puts his entire body back into focus. Agonizing moments pass, the camera operator HIMSELF unsure of what would happen next.
"THAT'S RIGHT! I said it! You FRIGHTEN me, Grimm! Hear it, and hear it well...for you are the single man in the whole of the Pure Class organization that I would say such a thing to. Not Lantlas, not The Silence, not even The Icemann himself! YOU and you ALONE...stand upon a plateau that none set foot upon.". The light popping of thread, sonic waves thrashing against a beach of nothingness as the words are overtaken.
"Fear...does incredible things to people. In FEAR...people have been known to wipe out entire species of animal. In FEAR, people have indulged in mass genocide upon each other. But in fear, SOME people...some people slink off into the night, to wrap themselves in a cocoon and hope to never again see the light of day.". The man speaking truly from the soul, his eyes never once cast their usual steely gaze from the floor. It was almost a trick, some would say. "He's fooling everyone...there's no way this is real.". He could imagine such naysayers...and he couldn't help but say to himself how WRONG they would be.
Hands pulling apart from each other, the tablecloth begins to rip...the pressured woven threads having reached their limits. With nowhere left to go, the cloth rips between his hands...right down the middle until the force was directed elsewhere. The right hand moving away from the newly shredded fabric, traveling upwards and running over the soft hair that sits atop his head.
"Let's just hope I'm not one of the latter...". The words so low, so hushed...the microphone built in to the camera was barely strong enough to pick them up. For a few seconds, the camera zoomed in upon his face...struggling to discern facial features or more forthcoming words. Instead, all that is found is the man's right hand. Palm first, covering the camera lens and forcing it into the sudden blackness.
"H-hey! What the hell are you doing, man? You're telling the guy you're afraid of 'im?! That's no way to go about things!". The cameraman reaching up and switching the camera off, he stares at the hunched Prophet for a few seconds. No reply forthcoming, he was absolutely bewildered. In the midst of his bewilderment, there was no way for him to notice Murdoc's hands trembling upon the table. At least...not until it was too late.
"Your conference is NOT SOUGHT IN THIS MATTER!!". The sudden outburst ringing the cameraman's ears, the Prophet was quick to snatch the much smaller man up by the collar of his shirt. Eyes locked in a gaze that could quite possibly melt steel, he stared a hole straight through...completely unimpeded. Head tilted down and chin tucked in, the cameraman winced...fully expecting at THIS point to be beaten within an inch of his life.
Luckily enough for the suspended figure, Murdoc was in no mood to gain a hefty fine from PCW's parent company. Which meant...that disguised verbal barb would have to go unchecked. Sighing through gritted teeth, The Prophet slowly lowers the man back to the ground. His feet finally coming to rest upon the polished floor, his legs kick in an attempt to dash backwards.
His tennis shoes slipping and sliding as he tries to run, crashing him back first to the floor as he scrambles to grab the camera and take leave of the Prophet's company. Murdoc watching after the man as he leaves the homestead, the Prophet's eyes focused intently on the scuff mark left by the truant tennis shoe. <Damnit...>, he thinks to himself. Lowering himself into a crouching position just in front of the scuff marks, still trembling hands reach out and gingerly trace along the six-inch long black mark.
"...not sought in this matter..."
--Dorothy Thompson
***
"Phinehas...you and I, we must have a heart-to-heart talk.". As his lips move, a light CLICK sound underlies and accentuates his words. Hair tied back behind his head tightly, the ends meet together in a braid that falls between the ridges of his shoulder blades. His face pointing downwards, away from the video camera trained on him, he sighs a gentle breath and straightens himself in a slow manner.
Eyes closed, the tip of his tongue passes the barrier created by his lips and travels from one corner of his mouth to another. "Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought we would one day meet in combat. Ever since you arrived in Pure Class Wrestling...I've had one eye trained on you. One eye focused on YOUR exploits. And at this point...I'm glad I did."
"You see, I know about you Phinehas. I know about how you've steamrolled over the best that PCW has to offer. You've been taken to the further ends of yourself only a few times. It's a shame because...". Marcus pauses here. Bottom lip grasped between both upper and lower rows of teeth, his eyes remain closed as though his words were struggling to linger...bottled up within his throat. Battle of will being waged, it was a surprise to see the victor emerge.
"I'm sorry. -achem- Grimm...it's a shame that you've only been tested the few times that you have. Because I'm fairly certain what you are capable of. And THAT, Phinehas Grimm...that frightens me.". His head falling once more, face shaded from sight as the shadows play and dance along his features. The silence excruciating as the words seep in. The first time in a VERY long time that such thoughts even dared to cross his mind, it lent a certain air of importance to him.
Camera panning down to his hands, those strong and capable hands...clutching at a red cloth covering a waist-high table before him. Knuckles turning white at the pressure with which he exerts...cloth wrinkling and strained within his palms. Nearly in danger of pulling the entire cloth off of the table, the zooming out of the camera puts his entire body back into focus. Agonizing moments pass, the camera operator HIMSELF unsure of what would happen next.
"THAT'S RIGHT! I said it! You FRIGHTEN me, Grimm! Hear it, and hear it well...for you are the single man in the whole of the Pure Class organization that I would say such a thing to. Not Lantlas, not The Silence, not even The Icemann himself! YOU and you ALONE...stand upon a plateau that none set foot upon.". The light popping of thread, sonic waves thrashing against a beach of nothingness as the words are overtaken.
"Fear...does incredible things to people. In FEAR...people have been known to wipe out entire species of animal. In FEAR, people have indulged in mass genocide upon each other. But in fear, SOME people...some people slink off into the night, to wrap themselves in a cocoon and hope to never again see the light of day.". The man speaking truly from the soul, his eyes never once cast their usual steely gaze from the floor. It was almost a trick, some would say. "He's fooling everyone...there's no way this is real.". He could imagine such naysayers...and he couldn't help but say to himself how WRONG they would be.
Hands pulling apart from each other, the tablecloth begins to rip...the pressured woven threads having reached their limits. With nowhere left to go, the cloth rips between his hands...right down the middle until the force was directed elsewhere. The right hand moving away from the newly shredded fabric, traveling upwards and running over the soft hair that sits atop his head.
"Let's just hope I'm not one of the latter...". The words so low, so hushed...the microphone built in to the camera was barely strong enough to pick them up. For a few seconds, the camera zoomed in upon his face...struggling to discern facial features or more forthcoming words. Instead, all that is found is the man's right hand. Palm first, covering the camera lens and forcing it into the sudden blackness.
"H-hey! What the hell are you doing, man? You're telling the guy you're afraid of 'im?! That's no way to go about things!". The cameraman reaching up and switching the camera off, he stares at the hunched Prophet for a few seconds. No reply forthcoming, he was absolutely bewildered. In the midst of his bewilderment, there was no way for him to notice Murdoc's hands trembling upon the table. At least...not until it was too late.
"Your conference is NOT SOUGHT IN THIS MATTER!!". The sudden outburst ringing the cameraman's ears, the Prophet was quick to snatch the much smaller man up by the collar of his shirt. Eyes locked in a gaze that could quite possibly melt steel, he stared a hole straight through...completely unimpeded. Head tilted down and chin tucked in, the cameraman winced...fully expecting at THIS point to be beaten within an inch of his life.
Luckily enough for the suspended figure, Murdoc was in no mood to gain a hefty fine from PCW's parent company. Which meant...that disguised verbal barb would have to go unchecked. Sighing through gritted teeth, The Prophet slowly lowers the man back to the ground. His feet finally coming to rest upon the polished floor, his legs kick in an attempt to dash backwards.
His tennis shoes slipping and sliding as he tries to run, crashing him back first to the floor as he scrambles to grab the camera and take leave of the Prophet's company. Murdoc watching after the man as he leaves the homestead, the Prophet's eyes focused intently on the scuff mark left by the truant tennis shoe. <Damnit...>, he thinks to himself. Lowering himself into a crouching position just in front of the scuff marks, still trembling hands reach out and gingerly trace along the six-inch long black mark.
"...not sought in this matter..."
