Post by Grimm on Feb 25, 2014 9:44:44 GMT -5
As it was wont to do, the mind wandered as he packed for another trip to South Carolina. One minute you’re a champion of some renown and picking fights with whatever co-worker strikes your fancy, the next you’re drinking yourself into a stupor and carving up your own arm. The strain of losing that championship (admittedly due in part to a knifing incident) must have been more than Tyler Scott could bear. He didn’t seem well at the moment.
Or so it seemed in Phinehas Dillinger’s inexpert opinion. He was as much an observer of the human condition as anyone, especially anyone working in a business in which knowing the mindset of a person could be used for great benefit, but he wasn’t brazen enough to assume he ever understood what really went on down there in a person’s psyche. And most of the time, he felt it wise to not even try to probe too deep into his own.
Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Deodorant. Box cutter. Cracked mirror. Spool of twine.
Not to be disrespectful, but Grimm had shed older blood, more vibrant blood, more majestic blood, than that of Tyler Scott’s. But he would shed The British Lion’s once again, none the less. He could abase himself however much and in whatever manner he wanted, but that did not change the fact that the body could only withstand so much distress before shutting down.
Boots. T-shirt. Wax seal stamp. A sachet of quartz. Pants for the match.
So Scott had decided to be a cutter now, and somehow that lent itself to match preparation. Even if he had come up with a way to simulate the effects of The Harvest, any ill-conceived attempt at becoming invulnerable to such a maneuver would have ended in a serious concussion -- at the very least. Maybe Scott had suffered worse in his past, maybe not. But a Grimm beating was always a Grimm beating. The Harvest, the Lament Configuration, the Sword of Heimdell, and even the Winding Stair, had been worked and tweaked and adjusted until they did exactly what Grimm needed them to do whenever he needed them to do it. Tyler could abuse himself as much as he wanted. The spirit may be willing, but the Horror of Hangtown would be there to step in when the flesh was too weak to carry it out to the conclusion.
Pen and pocket notebook. Box of matches. The Thing in the Jar.
From the pile of fetishes Phinehas held up a small glass vial of the leftover powder. He kept returning to the conversation he’d had with Ruth.
“What did you do to Wryght?”
“You’re the one who gave him the snoot full of pixie dust, remember? And Granny prepared it, not me. I didn’t do anything. My hands are clean.”
She was not concerned at all. And by trying to make a preemptive strike against a divination that he assumed Ruth had been honest about, Phinehas may just have made things far worse. Between Mr. Showtime’s bizarre behavior during his match, and his wildly inappropriate attack backstage, he’d made it clear that something was very wrong. And at the end of the day, it was Phinehas’s doing.
Notions. Figments. Hallucinations.
He’d done all he could do. Time to hit the road.
Or so it seemed in Phinehas Dillinger’s inexpert opinion. He was as much an observer of the human condition as anyone, especially anyone working in a business in which knowing the mindset of a person could be used for great benefit, but he wasn’t brazen enough to assume he ever understood what really went on down there in a person’s psyche. And most of the time, he felt it wise to not even try to probe too deep into his own.
Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Deodorant. Box cutter. Cracked mirror. Spool of twine.
Not to be disrespectful, but Grimm had shed older blood, more vibrant blood, more majestic blood, than that of Tyler Scott’s. But he would shed The British Lion’s once again, none the less. He could abase himself however much and in whatever manner he wanted, but that did not change the fact that the body could only withstand so much distress before shutting down.
Boots. T-shirt. Wax seal stamp. A sachet of quartz. Pants for the match.
So Scott had decided to be a cutter now, and somehow that lent itself to match preparation. Even if he had come up with a way to simulate the effects of The Harvest, any ill-conceived attempt at becoming invulnerable to such a maneuver would have ended in a serious concussion -- at the very least. Maybe Scott had suffered worse in his past, maybe not. But a Grimm beating was always a Grimm beating. The Harvest, the Lament Configuration, the Sword of Heimdell, and even the Winding Stair, had been worked and tweaked and adjusted until they did exactly what Grimm needed them to do whenever he needed them to do it. Tyler could abuse himself as much as he wanted. The spirit may be willing, but the Horror of Hangtown would be there to step in when the flesh was too weak to carry it out to the conclusion.
Pen and pocket notebook. Box of matches. The Thing in the Jar.
From the pile of fetishes Phinehas held up a small glass vial of the leftover powder. He kept returning to the conversation he’d had with Ruth.
“What did you do to Wryght?”
“You’re the one who gave him the snoot full of pixie dust, remember? And Granny prepared it, not me. I didn’t do anything. My hands are clean.”
She was not concerned at all. And by trying to make a preemptive strike against a divination that he assumed Ruth had been honest about, Phinehas may just have made things far worse. Between Mr. Showtime’s bizarre behavior during his match, and his wildly inappropriate attack backstage, he’d made it clear that something was very wrong. And at the end of the day, it was Phinehas’s doing.
Notions. Figments. Hallucinations.
He’d done all he could do. Time to hit the road.