Brothers don't shake hands; brothers gotta hug
Jul 23, 2014 16:18:20 GMT -5
Cory Steel and Nathan Saniti like this
Post by Grimm on Jul 23, 2014 16:18:20 GMT -5
He’d seen it before. These people needed comfort. Why else would they pack his tent every night for a week, every night of a humid river valley summer? The gentlemen dabbing their foreheads with handkerchiefs, the ladies attempting to cool themselves with bulletins and promotional fans provided by the local funeral home. Every night. Though…there was something different in the air tonight. A feeling.
A vibe.
An apprehension.
They needed comfort, all right. Comfort and salvation. And he would give it to them. He spoke in the sing-song cadence of the mountain preacher, as one does, and he marched from one side of the tent to the other.
“You can’t hide from God, brothers and sisters. Oh, you can fool your neighbors. You can fool your family. You can fool me. But sooner or later, you will be found out.”
A few ‘amens’ and ‘preach it, brother’ from the crowd. The spirit was in this place. And it was growing stronger. As he continued, the flock clapped, and stomped, and soon fell in time along with his sermon.
Stomp. Clap. Stomp. Clap.
It ebbed and flowed like a trance. It sounded like the shuffle of the angels’ feet.
“So you tell that long-tongued liar. You tell that midnight rider. You tell ‘em that, yes, you may work in the dark against your fellow man, but friends, as sure as God made black and white, what’s done in the dark will be brought to the light.”
“And sooner or later, God’s gonna cut ‘em down.”
Oh my, yes, this was turning into a powerful service. But then the gathering fell out of time, and grew quieter, until there was only a smattering of half-hearted claps. The preacher turned on his heels to make his way back to the other side and he saw what had caused the distraction. It was a man standing outside the tent, just beyond the limits of the lanterns. The congregation seemed familiar with him. And he made them uncomfortable. Outsider as he was, the preacher could see that. The man, with his inferno hair and a beard even Samson would covet, stood silent and still. And the preacher looked at him. Uncouth in appearance, save for the eyes.
Those eyes.
Even in the dark, outside the tent, they drew the preacher in. He saw reflections of a great icy wasteland, where razor-edged peaks lurched out of the tundra and bottomless chasms opened up into the world below. He saw primeval forests where trees of an older standing grew so thick as to blot out the sun for all time. He saw magnificent desolations.
He was surprised that he did not see evil, but instead something holding the line between the sacred and profane. A single-mindedness that went beyond the obsessive. The preacher spoke again, though this time his words were measured and still.
“There are serpents in our midst, friends. False prophets. And you’d be well advised to seek out the truth before you find yourselves too far gone.”
The man clasped his hands in front of him and tilted his head at the preacher. Then dissolved away off into the dark.
The preacher could not collect his thoughts. He stood motionless. Those in attendance sat for a few more moments until they reached a silent consensus and they too shambled out into the night.
~~~~~~~~~
We’ve been here before. We’ve seen it several times over. They sometimes manage to watch TV, after all, and aren’t as ignorant as some parties like to think. Though they may not grasp the significance of it all this time, they know Hangtown can never be the same. The apprehension permeates the valley.
Phinehas Dillinger finds himself once again at a back table in the Rowdy Dwarf. A familiar wretchedness greets him. The odor of stale booze. The cobwebs clinging to every corner. The stains on the tables, on the chairs, splattered across the ceiling. It is a foul, miserable place standing on unconsecrated ground. Some windows have been boarded up, some have been left bare and exposed to the elements. Truth be told no one cares as long as the taps keep flowing and the “cook” keeps grilling up SnotOtter kabobs.
Grimm...the newest International Champion, and unashamed of it. No hard feelings, Mikey, but I refuse to don my sackcloth and heap ashes on my head. I will not mourn. You of all people know how this would end. Or could end. And even though it was as if you were trying to hurt me, I’ll let bygones be bygones. After all, we have more important concerns. For righteousness’ sake.
A man at the bar happens to look in Grimm’s direction, and the color drains from his face when he recognizes the Abomination of Desolation. He sits his drink down and takes slow (no sudden movements!) steps backwards, but the motion catches Phinehas’ eye (those eyes again). He turns his head in the direction of the drunken sot, who freezes ever so briefly before turning, sprinting, and throwing himself through one of the last intact windows. Glass shatters and everyone goes back to their drinks.
The Lord of Misrule tips up the Green Fairy and heads down the ol’ Absinthe Trail. He grimaces, then smiles.
People jumping out windows…that never gets old.
Not two sips later, the man comes crashing back in through what little window remains. This time he stays on the ground, covered in slivers of glass and a multitude of cuts. The blood congeals along with all the other mystery fluids dried in the woodwork. The patrons look down, then turn and go back to their mugs, even as Billy Sadistic of all people appears in the doorway. The lights dim, flicker, then return to their regular substandard intensity. He scans the room until he sees his brother. Sadistic steps over the crumpled form sprawled on the ground without so much as a glance.
“Phinehas.”
“Billy.”
“You ready for this?”
“Ready? You mean to remind PCW, and Nathan Saniti and Kelli Starr specifically, what the Dillingers are willing to do to any of them on any given night? Sure. I’ve got no particular quarrel with Psychedelica, but I suppose a right good pummeling would be a nice way to get things started. It seems like the appropriate thing to do.”
“I meant bring Wryght up to speed on the Black Hand, but yes, that too.”
The Brothers of Destruction, the Horrors of Hangtown, et cetera, et cetera, sit and talk about matters that the rest of us are not privy to. Things ancient and troubling in nature, things over which poisoned hat pins and mind altering substances cannot even begin to hold sway.
But please try.
Phinehas checks a silver pocket watch. He holds it up to his ear and frowns. Yes, it’s ticking. Yes, the time is correct. No, there is no Mr. Michael Wryght yet. The Dillingers rise from the table and step outside. Goodness knows what’s keeping the man. They both take a deep breath of the summer night. It smells of stump water and oppression. And then both jerk their heads in unison to the east. A commotion, growing louder, coming closer. Gas street lamps reveal Michael Wryght as he runs down the lane towards them, in and out of the circles of illumination. A horde (horde? A murder? A conspiracy?) of filthy, glassy-eyed little urchins trails not far behind. They spout gibberish. They pause to assault a lamp post and beat an innocent bench into splinters. They resume the chase, spewing curses and maledictions at Mr. Showtime, the sheer vulgarity of which catches Phinehas off-guard. It’s almost enough to make him blush.
A vibe.
An apprehension.
They needed comfort, all right. Comfort and salvation. And he would give it to them. He spoke in the sing-song cadence of the mountain preacher, as one does, and he marched from one side of the tent to the other.
“You can’t hide from God, brothers and sisters. Oh, you can fool your neighbors. You can fool your family. You can fool me. But sooner or later, you will be found out.”
A few ‘amens’ and ‘preach it, brother’ from the crowd. The spirit was in this place. And it was growing stronger. As he continued, the flock clapped, and stomped, and soon fell in time along with his sermon.
Stomp. Clap. Stomp. Clap.
It ebbed and flowed like a trance. It sounded like the shuffle of the angels’ feet.
“So you tell that long-tongued liar. You tell that midnight rider. You tell ‘em that, yes, you may work in the dark against your fellow man, but friends, as sure as God made black and white, what’s done in the dark will be brought to the light.”
“And sooner or later, God’s gonna cut ‘em down.”
Oh my, yes, this was turning into a powerful service. But then the gathering fell out of time, and grew quieter, until there was only a smattering of half-hearted claps. The preacher turned on his heels to make his way back to the other side and he saw what had caused the distraction. It was a man standing outside the tent, just beyond the limits of the lanterns. The congregation seemed familiar with him. And he made them uncomfortable. Outsider as he was, the preacher could see that. The man, with his inferno hair and a beard even Samson would covet, stood silent and still. And the preacher looked at him. Uncouth in appearance, save for the eyes.
Those eyes.
Even in the dark, outside the tent, they drew the preacher in. He saw reflections of a great icy wasteland, where razor-edged peaks lurched out of the tundra and bottomless chasms opened up into the world below. He saw primeval forests where trees of an older standing grew so thick as to blot out the sun for all time. He saw magnificent desolations.
He was surprised that he did not see evil, but instead something holding the line between the sacred and profane. A single-mindedness that went beyond the obsessive. The preacher spoke again, though this time his words were measured and still.
“There are serpents in our midst, friends. False prophets. And you’d be well advised to seek out the truth before you find yourselves too far gone.”
The man clasped his hands in front of him and tilted his head at the preacher. Then dissolved away off into the dark.
The preacher could not collect his thoughts. He stood motionless. Those in attendance sat for a few more moments until they reached a silent consensus and they too shambled out into the night.
~~~~~~~~~
We’ve been here before. We’ve seen it several times over. They sometimes manage to watch TV, after all, and aren’t as ignorant as some parties like to think. Though they may not grasp the significance of it all this time, they know Hangtown can never be the same. The apprehension permeates the valley.
Phinehas Dillinger finds himself once again at a back table in the Rowdy Dwarf. A familiar wretchedness greets him. The odor of stale booze. The cobwebs clinging to every corner. The stains on the tables, on the chairs, splattered across the ceiling. It is a foul, miserable place standing on unconsecrated ground. Some windows have been boarded up, some have been left bare and exposed to the elements. Truth be told no one cares as long as the taps keep flowing and the “cook” keeps grilling up SnotOtter kabobs.
Grimm...the newest International Champion, and unashamed of it. No hard feelings, Mikey, but I refuse to don my sackcloth and heap ashes on my head. I will not mourn. You of all people know how this would end. Or could end. And even though it was as if you were trying to hurt me, I’ll let bygones be bygones. After all, we have more important concerns. For righteousness’ sake.
A man at the bar happens to look in Grimm’s direction, and the color drains from his face when he recognizes the Abomination of Desolation. He sits his drink down and takes slow (no sudden movements!) steps backwards, but the motion catches Phinehas’ eye (those eyes again). He turns his head in the direction of the drunken sot, who freezes ever so briefly before turning, sprinting, and throwing himself through one of the last intact windows. Glass shatters and everyone goes back to their drinks.
The Lord of Misrule tips up the Green Fairy and heads down the ol’ Absinthe Trail. He grimaces, then smiles.
People jumping out windows…that never gets old.
Not two sips later, the man comes crashing back in through what little window remains. This time he stays on the ground, covered in slivers of glass and a multitude of cuts. The blood congeals along with all the other mystery fluids dried in the woodwork. The patrons look down, then turn and go back to their mugs, even as Billy Sadistic of all people appears in the doorway. The lights dim, flicker, then return to their regular substandard intensity. He scans the room until he sees his brother. Sadistic steps over the crumpled form sprawled on the ground without so much as a glance.
“Phinehas.”
“Billy.”
“You ready for this?”
“Ready? You mean to remind PCW, and Nathan Saniti and Kelli Starr specifically, what the Dillingers are willing to do to any of them on any given night? Sure. I’ve got no particular quarrel with Psychedelica, but I suppose a right good pummeling would be a nice way to get things started. It seems like the appropriate thing to do.”
“I meant bring Wryght up to speed on the Black Hand, but yes, that too.”
The Brothers of Destruction, the Horrors of Hangtown, et cetera, et cetera, sit and talk about matters that the rest of us are not privy to. Things ancient and troubling in nature, things over which poisoned hat pins and mind altering substances cannot even begin to hold sway.
But please try.
Phinehas checks a silver pocket watch. He holds it up to his ear and frowns. Yes, it’s ticking. Yes, the time is correct. No, there is no Mr. Michael Wryght yet. The Dillingers rise from the table and step outside. Goodness knows what’s keeping the man. They both take a deep breath of the summer night. It smells of stump water and oppression. And then both jerk their heads in unison to the east. A commotion, growing louder, coming closer. Gas street lamps reveal Michael Wryght as he runs down the lane towards them, in and out of the circles of illumination. A horde (horde? A murder? A conspiracy?) of filthy, glassy-eyed little urchins trails not far behind. They spout gibberish. They pause to assault a lamp post and beat an innocent bench into splinters. They resume the chase, spewing curses and maledictions at Mr. Showtime, the sheer vulgarity of which catches Phinehas off-guard. It’s almost enough to make him blush.
