Post by Grimm on Nov 13, 2006 17:14:43 GMT -5
The more he thought about it, the more Phinehas realized Lantlas may have been right. It seemed hard to accept sometimes, especially when the belt lay on the mantle, glinting in the fire light like some long-forgotten Aztec relic, as it was right now, but being the PCW world champion was both a blessing and a curse. He had been guilty of shrugging off his desire for most of his stay in the federation, but whether he or anyone else dared to admit it, that title belt was the ultimate prize. Oh, they could claim otherwise, as he had, but everyone dreamed of raising the belt high overhead after a match to end all matches, with the roar (or jeers, as the case may be) of the crowd ringing in their ears. They may convince the rest of the world that they are in the business for other reasons, and that the pursuit of such material success is for those of weaker stock. They may even be able to, superficially at least, convince themselves. But the fact remains there is a tiny piece of everyone that wants to be known as the best of the best. It may be hidden, perhaps, behind years of abuse and hurt and isolation, but it is there. For Phinehas Grimm it had been a matter of pride. Simply put, he did not want to sully himself with the pursuit of someone else’s recognition. He was above that, he told himself. Title belts were a promotional institution, and one of the many dark blots that made the business so unsavory to him. It was the arrogant, the egotistical, those of weak moral fiber who allowed such pursuits to consume them. He didn’t need a piece of metal to justify his existence. He was the Abomination of Desolation. Champion or not, Phinehas Grimm was the most feared man in the PCW.
But now? Now he was Phinehas Grimm. The Abomination of Desolation. Pure Class Wrestling world champion. And he was reveling in it. He could admit that now. He could also admit that when he had faced Ace Anderson those many months ago, when he had stared the Elven Warrior down time after time, and when he had fallen short, it hurt. Unnoticeable to most and barely perceptible to himself, but it indeed had hurt. How could he be dreaded by every soul in the back and yet unable to capture the most prestigious award in the business? It all seemed so very hypocritical to Grimm, and he had never been able to reconcile that within himself. Deadly Intentions put the final piece of the puzzle into place, though. He was still the ‘who’ in the call ‘who’s there?’, but now he was also the one standing atop the moldering heap of bodies making up the PCW.
Phinehas finally had it all, and it terrified him.
Before, he had nothing to lose. So what if he didn’t manage to get the pin? Win, lose, or draw, it was a given that Phinehas Grimm’s opponent would be punished like never before, and would loathe the day they were booked against him in the future. His pale blue eyes would still burrow into their very essence, his unsettling grin would continue to make skin crawl. In the past, the three-count was always inconsequential when it came to Grimm. Now, though…now he had everything to lose. The championship belt took him to lofty heights, but it also made him a marked man. A condemned man. He had to emerge victorious from every contest. It was expected of him, and woe to the man who did not live up to the expectations of this fickle world. He could already hear the mutterings behind his back, the whispers fluttering down the halls of the arena. Whether the title was on the line or not, every match would be reviewed under a microscope. He was the champion, after all. The best of the best. He didn’t anticipate suffering from the lack of confidence that was shown Lantlas, or at least the lack that Lantlas perceived, but that only meant that nothing less than an overwhelming victory week after week would be tolerated from the masses. Grimm had finally earned the title; now all he had to do was show why he deserved to keep it.
Grimm sat in his high-backed oak chair, its deep black stain reflecting the dance of the flames back into the hearth. His eyelids fluttered. Head drooping, hands resting on the yellowed pages of the arcane tome in his lap, he struggled to stay awake. Despite the late hour and the comforting crackle of the warm fire before him, though, he was still alert enough to ponder his upcoming match against Justin Michaels. Or ‘Stormm’, as he preferred to be called. It would be Grimm’s first singles match since becoming PCW champion and he was intent on setting a very high standard for the rest of what he was sure would be a ridiculously long title reign. If memory served Grimm correctly, Michaels had been a promising young talent upon his arrival into the federation. He had won his share of matches and had been tagged as a future champion by certain elements in the business.
Then something happened. Grimm wasn’t close enough to Michaels to even venture a guess at what had contributed to his undoing, but there was something obviously off-balance in his mindset, his ring work, his personal life…something somewhere had reared its ugly head and took his focus off the weekly meetings under the arena lights. True, he had won the series against the Polish Spirit, but that was yet another star who burned brightly for a few weeks before imploding on himself into a black hole of squandered talent. It was at this point that Grimm would have normally shaken his head at such a sad state of affairs had he not been so looking forward to decimating the ill-fated young man in front of everyone. As usual it was nothing personal against Justin Michaels. He was just in the wrong promotion at the wrong time, which in this case meant the misfortune of being on the receiving end of the Harvest…or the Lament Configuration…or any number of other trauma-inducing attacks sure to be inflicted on the poor man. Grimm could not be held accountable for what took place Tuesday night, for this was the life they had both chosen. They had to deal with the repercussions, no matter how distressing they may be. If Grimm had not already finished his cider he would have made a toast to no one in particular…
“Here’s to all future beatings, courtesy of the champ…may they all be equally excruciating and incredibly embarrassing.”
Deep breath. From somewhere Phinehas caught the scent of fir, of snow-covered hills under the watchful eye of a full winter’s moon. It smelled like Christmas to him, and he smiled.
But now? Now he was Phinehas Grimm. The Abomination of Desolation. Pure Class Wrestling world champion. And he was reveling in it. He could admit that now. He could also admit that when he had faced Ace Anderson those many months ago, when he had stared the Elven Warrior down time after time, and when he had fallen short, it hurt. Unnoticeable to most and barely perceptible to himself, but it indeed had hurt. How could he be dreaded by every soul in the back and yet unable to capture the most prestigious award in the business? It all seemed so very hypocritical to Grimm, and he had never been able to reconcile that within himself. Deadly Intentions put the final piece of the puzzle into place, though. He was still the ‘who’ in the call ‘who’s there?’, but now he was also the one standing atop the moldering heap of bodies making up the PCW.
Phinehas finally had it all, and it terrified him.
Before, he had nothing to lose. So what if he didn’t manage to get the pin? Win, lose, or draw, it was a given that Phinehas Grimm’s opponent would be punished like never before, and would loathe the day they were booked against him in the future. His pale blue eyes would still burrow into their very essence, his unsettling grin would continue to make skin crawl. In the past, the three-count was always inconsequential when it came to Grimm. Now, though…now he had everything to lose. The championship belt took him to lofty heights, but it also made him a marked man. A condemned man. He had to emerge victorious from every contest. It was expected of him, and woe to the man who did not live up to the expectations of this fickle world. He could already hear the mutterings behind his back, the whispers fluttering down the halls of the arena. Whether the title was on the line or not, every match would be reviewed under a microscope. He was the champion, after all. The best of the best. He didn’t anticipate suffering from the lack of confidence that was shown Lantlas, or at least the lack that Lantlas perceived, but that only meant that nothing less than an overwhelming victory week after week would be tolerated from the masses. Grimm had finally earned the title; now all he had to do was show why he deserved to keep it.
Grimm sat in his high-backed oak chair, its deep black stain reflecting the dance of the flames back into the hearth. His eyelids fluttered. Head drooping, hands resting on the yellowed pages of the arcane tome in his lap, he struggled to stay awake. Despite the late hour and the comforting crackle of the warm fire before him, though, he was still alert enough to ponder his upcoming match against Justin Michaels. Or ‘Stormm’, as he preferred to be called. It would be Grimm’s first singles match since becoming PCW champion and he was intent on setting a very high standard for the rest of what he was sure would be a ridiculously long title reign. If memory served Grimm correctly, Michaels had been a promising young talent upon his arrival into the federation. He had won his share of matches and had been tagged as a future champion by certain elements in the business.
Then something happened. Grimm wasn’t close enough to Michaels to even venture a guess at what had contributed to his undoing, but there was something obviously off-balance in his mindset, his ring work, his personal life…something somewhere had reared its ugly head and took his focus off the weekly meetings under the arena lights. True, he had won the series against the Polish Spirit, but that was yet another star who burned brightly for a few weeks before imploding on himself into a black hole of squandered talent. It was at this point that Grimm would have normally shaken his head at such a sad state of affairs had he not been so looking forward to decimating the ill-fated young man in front of everyone. As usual it was nothing personal against Justin Michaels. He was just in the wrong promotion at the wrong time, which in this case meant the misfortune of being on the receiving end of the Harvest…or the Lament Configuration…or any number of other trauma-inducing attacks sure to be inflicted on the poor man. Grimm could not be held accountable for what took place Tuesday night, for this was the life they had both chosen. They had to deal with the repercussions, no matter how distressing they may be. If Grimm had not already finished his cider he would have made a toast to no one in particular…
“Here’s to all future beatings, courtesy of the champ…may they all be equally excruciating and incredibly embarrassing.”
Deep breath. From somewhere Phinehas caught the scent of fir, of snow-covered hills under the watchful eye of a full winter’s moon. It smelled like Christmas to him, and he smiled.
