Post by Grimm on Sept 29, 2006 21:18:26 GMT -5
“And what will you be having?”
“I would like, um, a grande pumpkin latte.”
Ugh. That always sounded so…un-Grimm-like. But darn it, they were delicious. Screw you for judging me!
After being handed his mug of pumpkin spiced goodness he strolled to a booth tucked away in a back corner. That’s where he always sat when out in public. He wasn’t paranoid, just cautious. Years spent in a business where your co-workers had no qualms about bashing you in the back of the head with a chair tended to alter the way you thought about your fellow man.
He took a drink and wiped the whipped cream off the tip of his nose. He stayed to himself, enjoying his over-priced drink in peace, and considered his current situation. It wasn’t long ago that he sat in another corner booth in an eating and drinking establishment several hundred miles away. Granted, there had been much more drinking than eating taking place. Instead of brightly lit walls the color of autumn leaves, he had been surrounded by bare wood supposedly scavenged from shipwrecks. Grimm took a deep breath. It smelled of coffee beans gathered from the most exotic lands on earth, which was much more pleasant than rotgut, pickled eggs, and puke. And instead of loud bursts of cursing and breaking glass, he heard the faint strains of classical music. He took another drink. Location-wise, this place won hands down.
But the more he observed, the more disgusted he became. The Rowdy Dwarf may have been full of ignorant drunken fisherman, but that crowd seemed more…authentic. There had been no pretension. No one posed as something they were not. They had accepted their lot in life and were happy right where they were. What you saw was what you got and you could take it or leave it. They didn’t care which option you picked, either. But this crowd…they were nothing more than stereotypes. It was as if he had walked into a poorly written sitcom. Take that table over there. Packed with giggling high-schoolers desperately trying to be cool. Hanging out at the coffee shop, sipping their drinks, sharing the latest inane gossip. That was a bunch he desperately wanted to toss through a plate glass window, but it was his understanding that sort of thing was frowned upon in the outside world. And so he stayed his hand.
Moving his eyes to the opposite corner of the shop, he saw another one. Taking the occasional drink, tapping away at his tiny silver iMac. Maybe he was working on his daily blog. Posting unfounded opinions on subject matter that really made no difference in the grand scheme of things, and yet gobbled up by the sheep who swore by his every word. Or perhaps he was one of those people that took part in a bizarre game Grimm had recently found out about. Efedding, he believed it was called. Apparently there were actually folks out there who pretended to be wrestlers and wrote up stories for their characters. Grimm would always struggle with his decision to enter this world, but at least it was real life. Make-believe wrestling on the internet, though…that was beyond absurd.
Phinehas gnashed his teeth and glared at all the rest. Where had all this rage come from? It was one thing to pound an opponent into unconsciousness when it was your job, but the least of these had done nothing to him. They were soulless hulls drifting through life, yes, and yes, they made him sick to his stomach, but they had not offended him personally. Grimm was seconds away from renting his garments in twain out of fury. If the other patrons had looked into his eyes at that moment they would have been scarred for life. And he didn’t know why.
He thought. He pondered. He mulled things over. Sip after sip after sip. Marcus Murdoc…The Prophet. We’re not all that different, the two of us, Grimm realized. No one knows what to make of us. We’ve shattered all preconceived notions of the professional wrestler archetype. And we’ve been successful regardless of taking the road less traveled. Kindred spirits may be a bit of a stretch, but we have more in common with one another than with the rest of the PCW slugs. For that I tip my hat to you.
Yet now we find ourselves in opposing corners of the ring. Grimm took a drink and grinned, cream and spice dripping from the upturned corners of his mouth. Welcome back to the PCW, Marcus. You drop off the radar for weeks if not months and now find yourself face-to-face with the Abomination of Desolation. You have every right to be afraid. Anyone in your position who claimed otherwise would be a long-tongued liar. As admirable as your honesty is in these days of macho-posturing and falsehoods, it won’t be of much help Tuesday night. Or at the upcoming pay per view, for that matter. Sorry.
Grimm sighed and closed his eyes. He opened them after several deep breaths. He saw himself standing in the midst of the smoldering ruins of the coffee shop. He smelled melted plastic and the odd stench of burned coffee beans. Embers glowed red under his feet. He walked on coals and breathed in brimstone. Soot and ash rained down. He closed his eyes. Upon opening them, the baristas were back laughing behind the counter. An old man scribbled his memoirs in a small black notebook. The yuppie in line held everyone up while he scrolled through an email on his Blackberry. All was right with the world. Or at least as right as could be expected.
Phinehas Grimm chugged the rest of his latte and set the mug on the counter. A bell jingled as he walked out the door. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey zip-up hooded sweatshirt. It was cold and the days were growing shorter. Already, at this relatively early hour, the horizon was just now beginning to turn a pale shade of pink. Grimm felt better already.
“I would like, um, a grande pumpkin latte.”
Ugh. That always sounded so…un-Grimm-like. But darn it, they were delicious. Screw you for judging me!
After being handed his mug of pumpkin spiced goodness he strolled to a booth tucked away in a back corner. That’s where he always sat when out in public. He wasn’t paranoid, just cautious. Years spent in a business where your co-workers had no qualms about bashing you in the back of the head with a chair tended to alter the way you thought about your fellow man.
He took a drink and wiped the whipped cream off the tip of his nose. He stayed to himself, enjoying his over-priced drink in peace, and considered his current situation. It wasn’t long ago that he sat in another corner booth in an eating and drinking establishment several hundred miles away. Granted, there had been much more drinking than eating taking place. Instead of brightly lit walls the color of autumn leaves, he had been surrounded by bare wood supposedly scavenged from shipwrecks. Grimm took a deep breath. It smelled of coffee beans gathered from the most exotic lands on earth, which was much more pleasant than rotgut, pickled eggs, and puke. And instead of loud bursts of cursing and breaking glass, he heard the faint strains of classical music. He took another drink. Location-wise, this place won hands down.
But the more he observed, the more disgusted he became. The Rowdy Dwarf may have been full of ignorant drunken fisherman, but that crowd seemed more…authentic. There had been no pretension. No one posed as something they were not. They had accepted their lot in life and were happy right where they were. What you saw was what you got and you could take it or leave it. They didn’t care which option you picked, either. But this crowd…they were nothing more than stereotypes. It was as if he had walked into a poorly written sitcom. Take that table over there. Packed with giggling high-schoolers desperately trying to be cool. Hanging out at the coffee shop, sipping their drinks, sharing the latest inane gossip. That was a bunch he desperately wanted to toss through a plate glass window, but it was his understanding that sort of thing was frowned upon in the outside world. And so he stayed his hand.
Moving his eyes to the opposite corner of the shop, he saw another one. Taking the occasional drink, tapping away at his tiny silver iMac. Maybe he was working on his daily blog. Posting unfounded opinions on subject matter that really made no difference in the grand scheme of things, and yet gobbled up by the sheep who swore by his every word. Or perhaps he was one of those people that took part in a bizarre game Grimm had recently found out about. Efedding, he believed it was called. Apparently there were actually folks out there who pretended to be wrestlers and wrote up stories for their characters. Grimm would always struggle with his decision to enter this world, but at least it was real life. Make-believe wrestling on the internet, though…that was beyond absurd.
Phinehas gnashed his teeth and glared at all the rest. Where had all this rage come from? It was one thing to pound an opponent into unconsciousness when it was your job, but the least of these had done nothing to him. They were soulless hulls drifting through life, yes, and yes, they made him sick to his stomach, but they had not offended him personally. Grimm was seconds away from renting his garments in twain out of fury. If the other patrons had looked into his eyes at that moment they would have been scarred for life. And he didn’t know why.
He thought. He pondered. He mulled things over. Sip after sip after sip. Marcus Murdoc…The Prophet. We’re not all that different, the two of us, Grimm realized. No one knows what to make of us. We’ve shattered all preconceived notions of the professional wrestler archetype. And we’ve been successful regardless of taking the road less traveled. Kindred spirits may be a bit of a stretch, but we have more in common with one another than with the rest of the PCW slugs. For that I tip my hat to you.
Yet now we find ourselves in opposing corners of the ring. Grimm took a drink and grinned, cream and spice dripping from the upturned corners of his mouth. Welcome back to the PCW, Marcus. You drop off the radar for weeks if not months and now find yourself face-to-face with the Abomination of Desolation. You have every right to be afraid. Anyone in your position who claimed otherwise would be a long-tongued liar. As admirable as your honesty is in these days of macho-posturing and falsehoods, it won’t be of much help Tuesday night. Or at the upcoming pay per view, for that matter. Sorry.
Grimm sighed and closed his eyes. He opened them after several deep breaths. He saw himself standing in the midst of the smoldering ruins of the coffee shop. He smelled melted plastic and the odd stench of burned coffee beans. Embers glowed red under his feet. He walked on coals and breathed in brimstone. Soot and ash rained down. He closed his eyes. Upon opening them, the baristas were back laughing behind the counter. An old man scribbled his memoirs in a small black notebook. The yuppie in line held everyone up while he scrolled through an email on his Blackberry. All was right with the world. Or at least as right as could be expected.
Phinehas Grimm chugged the rest of his latte and set the mug on the counter. A bell jingled as he walked out the door. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey zip-up hooded sweatshirt. It was cold and the days were growing shorter. Already, at this relatively early hour, the horizon was just now beginning to turn a pale shade of pink. Grimm felt better already.
