Post by Grimm on Jun 25, 2014 18:21:57 GMT -5
Legacy?
You want to talk about legacies?
Grimm and Showtime’s wasn’t a glorious past. It wasn’t abominable. It wasn’t even past. They each had their own views, recollections, reconstructions. To justify to themselves all they’d done, not all of which might be true. The truth just got in the way. Told of what would never be finished, as they wandered apart but always found themselves colliding time and again ‘til kingdom come. And maybe after that, when they rent the heavens in twain with their unceasing conflicts. This past wouldn’t allow any other future to come to pass. Arkham made sure of that when he joined Extreme Kentucky Wrestling nigh on 15 years ago. And what of the present, this present, this point along eternity finding them facing off once again for an International Title?
This present was just another trip through the parade, the opening to a carnival of atrocities. A calliope played a funeral dirge as Grimm and Showtime got back in line over and over again. Living a Legacy Six would be yet another pass on a rickety deathtrap of a merry-go-round.
As it was, Phinehas stood watch over a valley of bleached bones as ashes and soot rained down on him. The smoke blanketed the sun. Crops withered. The old foundations stood scorched and crooked, but they still stood. The Desolation of the Ancients rose up, but he had no intentions of renewing the city. He blew out a match.
A nose full of sulfur brought him back to the present.
Behold the city. Hangtown wasn’t big enough to warrant ‘districts’, but districts it had. Unofficially, of course. There hadn’t been a legal census conducted in some time. Not since the last census taker had contributed to one district’s old namesake.
As names are wont to do, Boneyfiddle was a corrupted reference to the field of bones that had once been the center of the oldest part of town. Over time it had been pushed to the outskirts by newer ‘more respectable’ developments. Now it was home to the less savory aspects of life, and we’re not referring to sleight-of-hand artists and gentlemen thieves. Phinehas Dillinger had no legitimate reason to visit, but at the moment he sat at a table in a tavern on the edge of the edge of town. An establishment that had long ago given up on efforts to repair damage from incidents and mishaps. This was no place for decent folk.
Phinehas sat with his back against the far wall. He nodded off. He wavered. It felt like a fugue state, a waking dream. An incongruous whiff of low tide startled him. He looked up to see the sand leading to the water and the water stretching out to the horizon and on to the abyss beyond. The rib cage of a beached whale, picked clean, jutted out of a dune. Spindrift blew off the waves and speckled his beard. Fiddler crabs waved oversize claws at him. What was he doing among the driftwood here at the edge of the world? Those days were long…past? Ah. Yes.
Visitors shambled through the patrons in the tavern. Their eyes were famines, and Phinehas greeted them by unfurling a smile of ice and menace. He looked over forms decorated with anemones and barnacles. Sea worms and various bottom dwelling scavengers skittered in and out of myriad open wounds. The figure in front, the one with the bushy gray beard full of seaweed and dripping brine, leaned on the table and grinned.
“You look like someone just walked over your grave, Phinehas.” Jolly Roger’s breath made Grimm’s eyes water. Those same eyes narrowed. Was this a hallucination, or an overlap?
An anger, a wrath not encountered since the days of the Old Testament, rose. And Phinehas didn’t know why. It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. More like the situation. Too much had coalesced and swarmed over him at once.
The ongoing search for his sister.
Whitey Ford’s mockery of their match.
The lure of the International Title (yes, even the Lord of Misrule felt its pull).
All of this, and Grimm despised nothing more than being inconvenienced.
Jolly Roger smiled wider and a blackened tooth clattered onto the table. “Just how much oblivion do you require? You ought to go down to the river and purge yourself of that hate, lad.” The rest of Jolly Roger’s rotten crew closed in behind him. The stench threatened to overwhelm Phinehas.
This time a train whistle broke his reverie. Grimm looked up from his pint of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar to find himself sitting alone again. The other customers spoke to each other in hushed tones.
He took a drink and swished it around before swallowing. Phinehas had much to consider, Living a Legacy foremost (though he knew it should be Ruth…sometimes he was ashamed of himself). By the time Michael Wryght made his way to the ring, he’d be spent and maimed from this mindboggling ordeal. Grimm did not wish him any specific harm, but the odds were not in his favor. The Hangtown Horror would have to remind himself that none of this was really Showtime’s fault. He must keep his wits about him during the match, title or not. After all, Grimm had no reason to Harvest Wryght into oblivion.
That is…no reason of which he was aware just yet.
Down the hatch, Mandrake.
You want to talk about legacies?
Grimm and Showtime’s wasn’t a glorious past. It wasn’t abominable. It wasn’t even past. They each had their own views, recollections, reconstructions. To justify to themselves all they’d done, not all of which might be true. The truth just got in the way. Told of what would never be finished, as they wandered apart but always found themselves colliding time and again ‘til kingdom come. And maybe after that, when they rent the heavens in twain with their unceasing conflicts. This past wouldn’t allow any other future to come to pass. Arkham made sure of that when he joined Extreme Kentucky Wrestling nigh on 15 years ago. And what of the present, this present, this point along eternity finding them facing off once again for an International Title?
This present was just another trip through the parade, the opening to a carnival of atrocities. A calliope played a funeral dirge as Grimm and Showtime got back in line over and over again. Living a Legacy Six would be yet another pass on a rickety deathtrap of a merry-go-round.
As it was, Phinehas stood watch over a valley of bleached bones as ashes and soot rained down on him. The smoke blanketed the sun. Crops withered. The old foundations stood scorched and crooked, but they still stood. The Desolation of the Ancients rose up, but he had no intentions of renewing the city. He blew out a match.
A nose full of sulfur brought him back to the present.
Behold the city. Hangtown wasn’t big enough to warrant ‘districts’, but districts it had. Unofficially, of course. There hadn’t been a legal census conducted in some time. Not since the last census taker had contributed to one district’s old namesake.
As names are wont to do, Boneyfiddle was a corrupted reference to the field of bones that had once been the center of the oldest part of town. Over time it had been pushed to the outskirts by newer ‘more respectable’ developments. Now it was home to the less savory aspects of life, and we’re not referring to sleight-of-hand artists and gentlemen thieves. Phinehas Dillinger had no legitimate reason to visit, but at the moment he sat at a table in a tavern on the edge of the edge of town. An establishment that had long ago given up on efforts to repair damage from incidents and mishaps. This was no place for decent folk.
Phinehas sat with his back against the far wall. He nodded off. He wavered. It felt like a fugue state, a waking dream. An incongruous whiff of low tide startled him. He looked up to see the sand leading to the water and the water stretching out to the horizon and on to the abyss beyond. The rib cage of a beached whale, picked clean, jutted out of a dune. Spindrift blew off the waves and speckled his beard. Fiddler crabs waved oversize claws at him. What was he doing among the driftwood here at the edge of the world? Those days were long…past? Ah. Yes.
Visitors shambled through the patrons in the tavern. Their eyes were famines, and Phinehas greeted them by unfurling a smile of ice and menace. He looked over forms decorated with anemones and barnacles. Sea worms and various bottom dwelling scavengers skittered in and out of myriad open wounds. The figure in front, the one with the bushy gray beard full of seaweed and dripping brine, leaned on the table and grinned.
“You look like someone just walked over your grave, Phinehas.” Jolly Roger’s breath made Grimm’s eyes water. Those same eyes narrowed. Was this a hallucination, or an overlap?
An anger, a wrath not encountered since the days of the Old Testament, rose. And Phinehas didn’t know why. It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. More like the situation. Too much had coalesced and swarmed over him at once.
The ongoing search for his sister.
Whitey Ford’s mockery of their match.
The lure of the International Title (yes, even the Lord of Misrule felt its pull).
All of this, and Grimm despised nothing more than being inconvenienced.
Jolly Roger smiled wider and a blackened tooth clattered onto the table. “Just how much oblivion do you require? You ought to go down to the river and purge yourself of that hate, lad.” The rest of Jolly Roger’s rotten crew closed in behind him. The stench threatened to overwhelm Phinehas.
This time a train whistle broke his reverie. Grimm looked up from his pint of Mandrake’s Old Peculiar to find himself sitting alone again. The other customers spoke to each other in hushed tones.
He took a drink and swished it around before swallowing. Phinehas had much to consider, Living a Legacy foremost (though he knew it should be Ruth…sometimes he was ashamed of himself). By the time Michael Wryght made his way to the ring, he’d be spent and maimed from this mindboggling ordeal. Grimm did not wish him any specific harm, but the odds were not in his favor. The Hangtown Horror would have to remind himself that none of this was really Showtime’s fault. He must keep his wits about him during the match, title or not. After all, Grimm had no reason to Harvest Wryght into oblivion.
That is…no reason of which he was aware just yet.
Down the hatch, Mandrake.
