Post by Grimm on Mar 12, 2015 12:57:22 GMT -5
Even for a man such as Phinehas Dillinger, whose propensity for indifference in all things was well known, this place made him uncomfortable. He had never gotten used to it. How could he? How could anyone? Even the shades constantly wandering the myriad staircases had to stop to reorient themselves at every turn. It took a concentrated effort to keep his wits about him every time Phinehas visited the headquarters of the Black Hand.
He, and the others, walked in and out.
Around and through.
Between.
Beside.
Beyond.
Phinehas stood in one of many gravity wells. He watched other members climb both sides of the stairs, passing by on the two different faces of the step without acknowledgement. They saw one another as if through a mirror dimly, and even then only if one looked directly at the other. Billy and Michael, too, wandered among the basements and attics and higher attics. In and around the weathervanes and windmills, the doors and windows, and they had no inclination of the other’s presence unless they just so happened to lock eyes at the right moment. Each was on his or her own journey and could ill afford to worry about anyone else or their task. Anyone else was not worried about you.
Among his duties, Phinehas tended the root cellar, for even the Black Hand was subject to the whims of the seasons. And winter was not done with them yet. Oh, they’d had a glimpse of spring, but here where the future worked its influence on the present they could look out the windows if they so desired to see the ice and snow round about. They could hear it crack, and hear the gnashing frozen winds roar and howl. And so Phinehas took inventory. Pickled this, pickled that, pigs feet and hog maw, bottle upon bottle of ale. Jars of honey.
He heard the bees hum, even here. They passed this way, droning to and fro, dancing their cartographies to one another. What have they seen? What else did they know?
Phinehas knew they were out there, too. Stumbling through their meager lives, unaware of the things watching and pulling the strings. Weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth at the thought of getting the Black Hand alone in the ring.
Gem, trained assassin turned professional wrestler.
What?
That was asking us to suspend a little too much disbelief for our own good. Almost as much as believing Sadistic didn’t know that unfortunate incident at Trauma was going to happen. It had to happen, otherwise how else were we supposed to reel her (and all the rest, don’t you know) in? Reel, and rout. Sometimes it helped if events twisted and turned until no one knew which way was up.
Phinehas emerged from the cellar on another level and walked back down on the underside of a set of stairs.
And she’s nowhere without her shadow. Unlike us…
Phinehas waved his hand at the absurdities surrounding him. Lanterns burned green, and blue, and white.
…Grant couldn’t be everywhere at once. He wanted to be. Gem wanted him there. Maybe it would be Mass Destruction. Maybe it would be some time later. He could be tardy to a meeting. Or a split second too slow in turning the corner. All it would take was a moment, and we’d be watching for it.
A flash, and the sulfur burn of a struck match. Phinehas turned his head but it was gone.
Elsewhere among the realms, no doubt lurking and brooding, Eira had her own hulking shadow she couldn’t shake. Him, of course, but also the parade of Orders and mystics and whatnot. How did everyone come to have so much baggage? One would think such an existence had to be a burden – but it was what it was. Hopefully she and the others could leave such concerns out of the ring, for their own sakes. But how many times can a person be abandoned before they’re ruined for life? And how long until career-threatening injuries are no longer a concern?
We don’t care how resilient and self-sufficient you’ve convinced yourself you are, Eira. The subconscious won’t let you forget something like that. Better be careful.
Phinehas closed his eyes as a furnace wind gusted in from elsewhere. He opened them to find himself sitting on a bench at the top of another set of stairs.
Somewhere in a darker cupboard, in a forgotten alley, Whitey Ford remained a shadow even when observed. Record-setting International champion, former world champ, now fainter than the rest, now struggling to remain present as much to himself as to the rest of us. He flitted in and out of the periphery. Here one week, gone the next. He fought his own battles just to exist. He fought to reclaim his place before the fabric pulled apart and stitches frayed on the wind. President Foley was a convenient excuse as to his current situation, no question about it, but self-sabotage was evident even to the untrained eye.
Make no mistake, all careers ebb and flow. Everyone walks through their own personal peaks and valleys. Phinehas wasn’t so oblivious as to think otherwise. It was just that Whitey Ford had been in a valley of inconsistency the federation had not seen the likes of for some time. It could serve as a case study of the potential rise and fall of anyone who has walked, or who will walk, through the doors of PCW Arena.
The doors and windows showed the rises and falls of them all. So many jubilations. So many lamentations. Lucky breaks and missteps.
As long as everyone understood that no matter what happened, this was, this is, and shall remain, Pure Class Wrestling. Home of the Black Hand (as it has always been). Where if one was not careful, careers could come to die if such an end was determined to serve the greater good. Or at least a certain greater good.
They, Phinehas and Billy and Michael and all the rest, would return each time as sadder and wiser men. Eyes glazed and weary. Not only could they make things come to pass, they could alter that which had already occurred. Just pick the thread they wanted to follow and see what led to that. And make sure it happened.
Sometimes it didn’t take much.
He, and the others, walked in and out.
Around and through.
Between.
Beside.
Beyond.
Phinehas stood in one of many gravity wells. He watched other members climb both sides of the stairs, passing by on the two different faces of the step without acknowledgement. They saw one another as if through a mirror dimly, and even then only if one looked directly at the other. Billy and Michael, too, wandered among the basements and attics and higher attics. In and around the weathervanes and windmills, the doors and windows, and they had no inclination of the other’s presence unless they just so happened to lock eyes at the right moment. Each was on his or her own journey and could ill afford to worry about anyone else or their task. Anyone else was not worried about you.
Among his duties, Phinehas tended the root cellar, for even the Black Hand was subject to the whims of the seasons. And winter was not done with them yet. Oh, they’d had a glimpse of spring, but here where the future worked its influence on the present they could look out the windows if they so desired to see the ice and snow round about. They could hear it crack, and hear the gnashing frozen winds roar and howl. And so Phinehas took inventory. Pickled this, pickled that, pigs feet and hog maw, bottle upon bottle of ale. Jars of honey.
He heard the bees hum, even here. They passed this way, droning to and fro, dancing their cartographies to one another. What have they seen? What else did they know?
Phinehas knew they were out there, too. Stumbling through their meager lives, unaware of the things watching and pulling the strings. Weeping, and wailing, and gnashing their teeth at the thought of getting the Black Hand alone in the ring.
Gem, trained assassin turned professional wrestler.
What?
That was asking us to suspend a little too much disbelief for our own good. Almost as much as believing Sadistic didn’t know that unfortunate incident at Trauma was going to happen. It had to happen, otherwise how else were we supposed to reel her (and all the rest, don’t you know) in? Reel, and rout. Sometimes it helped if events twisted and turned until no one knew which way was up.
Phinehas emerged from the cellar on another level and walked back down on the underside of a set of stairs.
And she’s nowhere without her shadow. Unlike us…
Phinehas waved his hand at the absurdities surrounding him. Lanterns burned green, and blue, and white.
…Grant couldn’t be everywhere at once. He wanted to be. Gem wanted him there. Maybe it would be Mass Destruction. Maybe it would be some time later. He could be tardy to a meeting. Or a split second too slow in turning the corner. All it would take was a moment, and we’d be watching for it.
A flash, and the sulfur burn of a struck match. Phinehas turned his head but it was gone.
Elsewhere among the realms, no doubt lurking and brooding, Eira had her own hulking shadow she couldn’t shake. Him, of course, but also the parade of Orders and mystics and whatnot. How did everyone come to have so much baggage? One would think such an existence had to be a burden – but it was what it was. Hopefully she and the others could leave such concerns out of the ring, for their own sakes. But how many times can a person be abandoned before they’re ruined for life? And how long until career-threatening injuries are no longer a concern?
We don’t care how resilient and self-sufficient you’ve convinced yourself you are, Eira. The subconscious won’t let you forget something like that. Better be careful.
Phinehas closed his eyes as a furnace wind gusted in from elsewhere. He opened them to find himself sitting on a bench at the top of another set of stairs.
Somewhere in a darker cupboard, in a forgotten alley, Whitey Ford remained a shadow even when observed. Record-setting International champion, former world champ, now fainter than the rest, now struggling to remain present as much to himself as to the rest of us. He flitted in and out of the periphery. Here one week, gone the next. He fought his own battles just to exist. He fought to reclaim his place before the fabric pulled apart and stitches frayed on the wind. President Foley was a convenient excuse as to his current situation, no question about it, but self-sabotage was evident even to the untrained eye.
Make no mistake, all careers ebb and flow. Everyone walks through their own personal peaks and valleys. Phinehas wasn’t so oblivious as to think otherwise. It was just that Whitey Ford had been in a valley of inconsistency the federation had not seen the likes of for some time. It could serve as a case study of the potential rise and fall of anyone who has walked, or who will walk, through the doors of PCW Arena.
The doors and windows showed the rises and falls of them all. So many jubilations. So many lamentations. Lucky breaks and missteps.
As long as everyone understood that no matter what happened, this was, this is, and shall remain, Pure Class Wrestling. Home of the Black Hand (as it has always been). Where if one was not careful, careers could come to die if such an end was determined to serve the greater good. Or at least a certain greater good.
They, Phinehas and Billy and Michael and all the rest, would return each time as sadder and wiser men. Eyes glazed and weary. Not only could they make things come to pass, they could alter that which had already occurred. Just pick the thread they wanted to follow and see what led to that. And make sure it happened.
Sometimes it didn’t take much.
