Those who wish me dead
Aug 7, 2014 9:35:40 GMT -5
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Cory Steel, Derek Cosmos, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Aug 7, 2014 9:35:40 GMT -5
Over the years, Doctor Barber had become rather familiar with the composition of Phinehas Dillinger’s humors. They were, for the most part, in equilibrium, but when they were unbalanced, they were unbalanced. Fortunately for Mr. Dillinger and the rest of Hangtown, Doctor Barber was the most skilled doctor/barber for miles around.
He was the only doctor/barber for miles around, but still…
“Just think of it as a sacrifice of yourself, to yourself. I always find that helpful.”
It didn’t take much more than trifles and notions to throw things out of plumb. The phases of the moon. Equinoxes and solstices. Bad vapors. A blot of mustard, an underdone potato. And though there were myriad ways to address the excesses and deficits, Doctor Barber had the treatments down to a, dare I say, science.
“A good bleeding should get you in tip-top shape, Phinehas.”
“But I’ve been bled recently. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Hey, who’s the barber here?”
He’d tried the purges. The application of hot cups to the appropriate spots. Mixtures of herbs and minerals. Arsenic in a poultice bag. Some worked better than others, depending on the symptoms and the season, but Phinehas Dilllinger had always responded most favorably to the bleedings. His baseline readings of Blood and Phlegm had always been a bit lower than average, but that had never been a concern. Yellow Bile and Black Bile fluctuated over time, again contingent on a number of factors. But this visit revealed a higher level of Yellow Bile than Doctor Barber was comfortable with. Maybe it was the return of his brother Billy, or the fact his longtime foe Michael Wryght was back in the fold, or just the logistics of yet another upcoming match. Or the dead rotting bear carcass stinking up the edge of town. Maybe a combination of all the above. Who knew?
“You know the drill. Best to think about something else while we take care of this.”
There was no something else. There was only one something.
Dear Eira. Dear, sweet Eira.
A length of cord. An incision. A rubber tube.
Poor, pitiful Eira.
More flashes of the razor. More cups and buckets.
Phinehas Dillinger wasn’t stupid. Eira had been World Champion, after all. No matter the length of the reign or the circumstances surrounding it, a person didn’t ascend to the top without displaying at least some amount of skill. And she did manage to eke out a victory against Michael Wryght himself only a week ago. Of all people, Phinehas, or Grimm if you prefer, knew that was not an easy task.
A mason jar of leeches.
Grimm also knew that the Black Hand was about more than tick marks in the win column. It was about…
Well, you’ll see.
Spring, summer, fall, and winter. Air, fire, earth, and water.
Heart, liver, spleen, and brain. Sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic.
Moderation was the key. Otherwise, turning and turning, the center would not hold. And there would be no bringing the patient back. It was a lot to consider.
Light a candle. Look in the mirror. Say his name three times.
Eira had seen the playing card. Maybe that meant she was marked, maybe it didn’t. It wasn’t important at the moment, because regardless of the significance the booking committee had seen fit to set both Eira and Murdoc against the Brothers Gruesome.
That was fast.
And since his dear brother had the satisfaction of facing Murdoc, perhaps he would do Phinehas the favor of keeping his opponent occupied over the course of the evening. Because it was pleasant for Grimm to think about the possibility of not having the great brute around to make his grand surprise entrance, to place himself between Eira and whoever is trying to smear her all over the canvas.
You know...like he does every single event.
If so…what then, now?
You’d feel his presence everywhere, that’s what. In your closet. Under your bed. A squeak on the stairs. Outside, scratching at the window. Or was that just a dead tree in winter? Grimm may have been a walking folk tale, but he was no trickster. No duplicity here. No misdirection. There was nothing up his sleeve save for a wiry, tightly wound arm always on the verge of lashing out.
Fee fi fo fum? True, he may grind your bones, but not for his bread. No, he’d till your blood and bone meal into his pumpkin patch. Gotta make all those pumpkins fat and strong.
Lord of Misrule, mythological or not, Grimm was a crooked man, and once this was over he’d walk past that crooked fence, and settle into his crooked house. And he’d sit, and he’d think his crooked thoughts.
But for now, he faded. Those ice-capped eyes grew blank and even more pitiless. Shadows reeled, and Doctor Barber shuddered.
He was the only doctor/barber for miles around, but still…
“Just think of it as a sacrifice of yourself, to yourself. I always find that helpful.”
It didn’t take much more than trifles and notions to throw things out of plumb. The phases of the moon. Equinoxes and solstices. Bad vapors. A blot of mustard, an underdone potato. And though there were myriad ways to address the excesses and deficits, Doctor Barber had the treatments down to a, dare I say, science.
“A good bleeding should get you in tip-top shape, Phinehas.”
“But I’ve been bled recently. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Hey, who’s the barber here?”
He’d tried the purges. The application of hot cups to the appropriate spots. Mixtures of herbs and minerals. Arsenic in a poultice bag. Some worked better than others, depending on the symptoms and the season, but Phinehas Dilllinger had always responded most favorably to the bleedings. His baseline readings of Blood and Phlegm had always been a bit lower than average, but that had never been a concern. Yellow Bile and Black Bile fluctuated over time, again contingent on a number of factors. But this visit revealed a higher level of Yellow Bile than Doctor Barber was comfortable with. Maybe it was the return of his brother Billy, or the fact his longtime foe Michael Wryght was back in the fold, or just the logistics of yet another upcoming match. Or the dead rotting bear carcass stinking up the edge of town. Maybe a combination of all the above. Who knew?
“You know the drill. Best to think about something else while we take care of this.”
There was no something else. There was only one something.
Dear Eira. Dear, sweet Eira.
A length of cord. An incision. A rubber tube.
Poor, pitiful Eira.
More flashes of the razor. More cups and buckets.
Phinehas Dillinger wasn’t stupid. Eira had been World Champion, after all. No matter the length of the reign or the circumstances surrounding it, a person didn’t ascend to the top without displaying at least some amount of skill. And she did manage to eke out a victory against Michael Wryght himself only a week ago. Of all people, Phinehas, or Grimm if you prefer, knew that was not an easy task.
A mason jar of leeches.
Grimm also knew that the Black Hand was about more than tick marks in the win column. It was about…
Well, you’ll see.
Spring, summer, fall, and winter. Air, fire, earth, and water.
Heart, liver, spleen, and brain. Sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic.
Moderation was the key. Otherwise, turning and turning, the center would not hold. And there would be no bringing the patient back. It was a lot to consider.
Light a candle. Look in the mirror. Say his name three times.
Eira had seen the playing card. Maybe that meant she was marked, maybe it didn’t. It wasn’t important at the moment, because regardless of the significance the booking committee had seen fit to set both Eira and Murdoc against the Brothers Gruesome.
That was fast.
And since his dear brother had the satisfaction of facing Murdoc, perhaps he would do Phinehas the favor of keeping his opponent occupied over the course of the evening. Because it was pleasant for Grimm to think about the possibility of not having the great brute around to make his grand surprise entrance, to place himself between Eira and whoever is trying to smear her all over the canvas.
You know...like he does every single event.
If so…what then, now?
You’d feel his presence everywhere, that’s what. In your closet. Under your bed. A squeak on the stairs. Outside, scratching at the window. Or was that just a dead tree in winter? Grimm may have been a walking folk tale, but he was no trickster. No duplicity here. No misdirection. There was nothing up his sleeve save for a wiry, tightly wound arm always on the verge of lashing out.
Fee fi fo fum? True, he may grind your bones, but not for his bread. No, he’d till your blood and bone meal into his pumpkin patch. Gotta make all those pumpkins fat and strong.
Lord of Misrule, mythological or not, Grimm was a crooked man, and once this was over he’d walk past that crooked fence, and settle into his crooked house. And he’d sit, and he’d think his crooked thoughts.
But for now, he faded. Those ice-capped eyes grew blank and even more pitiless. Shadows reeled, and Doctor Barber shuddered.
