Post by Grimm on Oct 2, 2006 15:57:59 GMT -5
Pickin’ a little mandolin, swiggin’ on the moonshine jug, singin’ in a high lonesome voice about haints in the holler…Phinehas Grimm was accomplishing none of these. Oh, he had the mandolin. And he was picking it to the best of his ability. Unfortunately, seeing how he was a beginner at this particular instrument and had no formal musical training, his ability was unable to keep pace with his intentions. He was nowhere near what you would call ‘proficient’. Or even good. Maybe decent, if you were feeling generous, but that’s as strong a compliment as he would be getting anytime soon.
And there definitely wasn’t any moonshine involved. Even if he had been known to imbibe in the devil’s brew, which he was not, Grimm’s drink of choice would not have been ‘shine. He didn’t know of anyone who brewed the stuff. He had his suspicions, of course, but was not privy to any firsthand knowledge of where to find it and from whence it came. He wouldn’t dream of attempting his own hand at concocting it. Grimm had grown too fond of his eyesight, and his health in general, to guzzle down anything of that nature made by an amateur. Instead, he had nothing more than a cup of black coffee sitting beside him on the porch. The wide face of Jack Skellington grinned up at him from the mug.
It was early in the day and fog sat on the hills as if caught in the trees. When he was little, his mother told him that it was the rabbits making coffee. He smiled at the steam rising from his own cup. To be young again. If he was ever granted one wish, and only one, that would be it. He would not hesitate to ask the clock to rewind. Back to when the biggest obstacle was deciding which G.I. Joe figures to take down to the creek. When ‘what are you going to be when you grow up’ was an innocent question, and the answer was wide open. Before choices determined outcomes that you had yet to consider. Before he had taken the ill-fated road into the muck that was professional wrestling. Would he make the same decisions? Would he find himself back here, in this same spot at this same point in his life, again? Absolutely not. Phinehas Grimm did not subscribe to the idea of pre-destination…at least for the most part.
He plucked a few more strings. He could tell he was improving. The scales he had been struggling with were almost recognizable now. Grimm was teaching himself the mandolin and his opponent was looking for shoes. Marcus was trying his utmost to figure out what made the Abomination of Desolation tick and Phinehas pitied whoever fell into that abyss. Grimm had given up on delving into opponents’ psyches long ago. There was usually very little there to make it worth his while. Unaffectionate parents, tragedy at a young age, low self-esteem, a pervert in the park…it had been the same wherever he went. No, Grimm decided early on to leave that sort of thing to others and focus on what he did best. Finding out why someone ‘thrived on pain’, as was so often the clichéd case, would have no bearing on his approach to their match. It didn’t matter to him if mommy was a burlesque dancer and daddy got drunk and beat him regularly with a wire coathanger. He was out to desecrate everyone in his path. It really was as simple as that, and he didn’t need a degree in psychology to reach that conclusion. You’re my opponent =I stomp on your throat. Problem solved.
Not that Marcus had those sorts of issues. Granted, up until recently The Prophet and Grimm had not crossed paths, so he wasn’t exactly the person to comment on his upbringing or whatever mental health deficiencies Marcus may or may not suffer. All Grimm knew was that he did an admirable job in the ring and didn’t appear to bring any extra baggage into a match. That alone made him more dangerous than most. That being said, The Prophet was rattled. He was distracted, preoccupied. Obsessed, even, with finding that one thing which would give him the leverage he needed to walk out victorious on Tuesday night. It was a lost cause.
Phinehas knew that Marcus was afraid. He would have known even if Prophet hadn’t declared it for the whole world to hear. He had been in this business long enough and had gazed into enough opponents’ eyes to know fear when he saw it. After all, he had been the cause of more sleepless nights and rattled nerves than men much more physically imposing than himself. And Grimm had seen it in Marcus’s eyes, read it on his face. Smelled it in the halls. The Prophet was terrified of what might happen at Trauma. Grimm grinned and took a sip of coffee. He didn’t blame him.
So how did Prophet respond to this terror? By rummaging through a closet. Intimidating a cameraman. Those were the actions of a man at his wit’s end. One who had seen the destruction laying in wait. The Prophet had become just like the rest. He had been one of the very few men Grimm respected in this business, but now? Now the mere sight of Marcus cowering in the corner made him throw up in his mouth. Grimm was disgusted, but when disgusted he did not respond with pity. No, displays of cowardice and weakness and desperation made Phinehas more determined than ever to annihilate his foe. At one time Grimm might have counted Prophet as an acquaintance. A colleague, even. But now, of Marcus’s own volition, he had become nothing more than a lamb to the slaughter.
Grimm watched the shadows grow as the sun climbed over the hills. It shone through the trees as best it could. The fog would burn off soon enough. Phinehas shook his head and went back to work. This time, he picked away at one of the few songs he had mastered.
Go tell that long-tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the backbiter
Tell ‘em that God’s gonna cut ‘em down.
Tell ‘em that God’s gonna cut ‘em down.
And there definitely wasn’t any moonshine involved. Even if he had been known to imbibe in the devil’s brew, which he was not, Grimm’s drink of choice would not have been ‘shine. He didn’t know of anyone who brewed the stuff. He had his suspicions, of course, but was not privy to any firsthand knowledge of where to find it and from whence it came. He wouldn’t dream of attempting his own hand at concocting it. Grimm had grown too fond of his eyesight, and his health in general, to guzzle down anything of that nature made by an amateur. Instead, he had nothing more than a cup of black coffee sitting beside him on the porch. The wide face of Jack Skellington grinned up at him from the mug.
It was early in the day and fog sat on the hills as if caught in the trees. When he was little, his mother told him that it was the rabbits making coffee. He smiled at the steam rising from his own cup. To be young again. If he was ever granted one wish, and only one, that would be it. He would not hesitate to ask the clock to rewind. Back to when the biggest obstacle was deciding which G.I. Joe figures to take down to the creek. When ‘what are you going to be when you grow up’ was an innocent question, and the answer was wide open. Before choices determined outcomes that you had yet to consider. Before he had taken the ill-fated road into the muck that was professional wrestling. Would he make the same decisions? Would he find himself back here, in this same spot at this same point in his life, again? Absolutely not. Phinehas Grimm did not subscribe to the idea of pre-destination…at least for the most part.
He plucked a few more strings. He could tell he was improving. The scales he had been struggling with were almost recognizable now. Grimm was teaching himself the mandolin and his opponent was looking for shoes. Marcus was trying his utmost to figure out what made the Abomination of Desolation tick and Phinehas pitied whoever fell into that abyss. Grimm had given up on delving into opponents’ psyches long ago. There was usually very little there to make it worth his while. Unaffectionate parents, tragedy at a young age, low self-esteem, a pervert in the park…it had been the same wherever he went. No, Grimm decided early on to leave that sort of thing to others and focus on what he did best. Finding out why someone ‘thrived on pain’, as was so often the clichéd case, would have no bearing on his approach to their match. It didn’t matter to him if mommy was a burlesque dancer and daddy got drunk and beat him regularly with a wire coathanger. He was out to desecrate everyone in his path. It really was as simple as that, and he didn’t need a degree in psychology to reach that conclusion. You’re my opponent =I stomp on your throat. Problem solved.
Not that Marcus had those sorts of issues. Granted, up until recently The Prophet and Grimm had not crossed paths, so he wasn’t exactly the person to comment on his upbringing or whatever mental health deficiencies Marcus may or may not suffer. All Grimm knew was that he did an admirable job in the ring and didn’t appear to bring any extra baggage into a match. That alone made him more dangerous than most. That being said, The Prophet was rattled. He was distracted, preoccupied. Obsessed, even, with finding that one thing which would give him the leverage he needed to walk out victorious on Tuesday night. It was a lost cause.
Phinehas knew that Marcus was afraid. He would have known even if Prophet hadn’t declared it for the whole world to hear. He had been in this business long enough and had gazed into enough opponents’ eyes to know fear when he saw it. After all, he had been the cause of more sleepless nights and rattled nerves than men much more physically imposing than himself. And Grimm had seen it in Marcus’s eyes, read it on his face. Smelled it in the halls. The Prophet was terrified of what might happen at Trauma. Grimm grinned and took a sip of coffee. He didn’t blame him.
So how did Prophet respond to this terror? By rummaging through a closet. Intimidating a cameraman. Those were the actions of a man at his wit’s end. One who had seen the destruction laying in wait. The Prophet had become just like the rest. He had been one of the very few men Grimm respected in this business, but now? Now the mere sight of Marcus cowering in the corner made him throw up in his mouth. Grimm was disgusted, but when disgusted he did not respond with pity. No, displays of cowardice and weakness and desperation made Phinehas more determined than ever to annihilate his foe. At one time Grimm might have counted Prophet as an acquaintance. A colleague, even. But now, of Marcus’s own volition, he had become nothing more than a lamb to the slaughter.
Grimm watched the shadows grow as the sun climbed over the hills. It shone through the trees as best it could. The fog would burn off soon enough. Phinehas shook his head and went back to work. This time, he picked away at one of the few songs he had mastered.
Go tell that long-tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the backbiter
Tell ‘em that God’s gonna cut ‘em down.
Tell ‘em that God’s gonna cut ‘em down.
