Post by Grimm on May 18, 2015 7:07:37 GMT -5
These were his people but sometimes he wearied of them. They were his neighbors but just look at them, standing there in the dark like mannequins. Faceless, barely moving, mere golems of clay and wood, waiting like they did year after year. They fancied themselves movers and shakers, but there was no question as to who did the moving and the shaking in Hangtown.
William may be the stronger personality. Ruth may know the intricacies beneath it all. But Billy never came to these events. And before Ruth conducted her readings, or wove her fingers through the bird entrails, or watched the sky for secret signs, who do you think shuffled those cards? Who cut the deck? Who trapped the wren? Who found the clearing from which to measure the heavens?
Phinehas Dillinger, that’s who. He who did what must be done…by any means necessary.
Phinehas gripped the sides of the podium and looked out over the room. Horsehair plaster walls lined with hanging oil lanterns and candlelight sconces, with no regard to the wax dripping on the hardwood floors. The air inside was heavy, stuffy with equal parts river valley humidity and the mass of bodies. The old dripping windows wept condensation
A string quartet played Saint-Saëns’Danse Macabre with vigor in another room.
Phinehas stood at the podium with a single guttering candle at his right, casting him in a dance of light and shadow. He cleared his throat and began.
“Thank you all for coming. It’s hard to believe another year has passed already, but it is time once again for our annual pledge drive. Your gifts are vital to our subsistence.”
He regurgitated it by rote with little-to-no inflection. It was the same speech every year, so of course his mind wandered. Could there be any doubt as to what?
Brandon Noble had given up. As far as Phinehas knew they were all content to let him live out the rest of his life as a martyr in squalor. But then, after Loki had gone and soiled his reputation around the federation, he thought he could slip through the cracks and somehow emerge on the other side as this year’s tournament winner. Wishful thinking on his part, but that’s not how this worked. It was never how any of this worked. Non Compos Mentis put a stop to that right quick. And so…now what? What did Walker have lined up for Plan B? Or had he already washed his hands of his part in Loki’s un-retirement? After all that Brandon had been through, after what he had become, the wise decision would have been to avoid these old paths of temptation and degradation. If your eye caused you to sin, pluck it out. If it was your hand, cut it off. Stay as far removed from Pure Class Wrestling as you could. And for goodness’ sake, don’t insinuate yourself in the affairs of the Black Hand. But Brandon, as Loki, had. Woe unto you, ye worker of iniquity. And so we’ve moved beyond the realm of entertainment.
Phinehas droned on. “Hangtown and all its offerings, cultural and otherwise, simply cannot exist without your generosity. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your willingness to be here tonight.”
Phinehas wasn’t here to comment on Brandon’s personal failures, abundant though they may be. Such material was low hanging fruit, ripe for the harvest. Instead he chose to focus on the things that mattered, at least as far as they concerned the Hangtown Horror.
What was your legacy, Brandon? Not assaulting bystanders and PCW staff, thank goodness. That’s too coarse and vulgar for the likes of these two. Though, truth be told he hadn’t shown Grimm much in the way of professional courtesy since he’d returned. Loki mixed his mead with malice. Shovels and dented cardoors. Blackouts and sucker punches. Disappearing, flaking, ghosting…however he decided to label it, had it kept him safe from pain? From truth? From choice? At one time Loki had held his fair share of titles. But so had Grimm. And no one much cared about that anymore.
“The Hangtown that we know and love requires that we pay our fair share. The Hanging Tree stands empty now, and so we must add to the coffers in other ways if we want to keep on this path. Whether you see it as straight and narrow or wide and winding, it asks something of us. Of all of us.”
At that point Danse Macabre came to a stop, with a few notes lingering here and there before fading into the ether.
You can say those making threats and tossing insults were compensating for something. Phinehas wouldn’t argue that. What he would do was tell you what was going to happen at this pay per view. It would be a good match. A brutal match. Enough back-and-forth to keep it interesting and give folks the impression they’d gotten their money’s worth. A few near-falls and whatnot.
But then Grimm would unleash the doom he’d brought with him. That’s not a threat, that’s a statement of fact. Now, whether that resulted in his one hundredth victory in PCW remained to be seen. May be that any number of outside influences acted to postpone that to another day yet again. Grimm hoped otherwise, that this would be his opportunity to isolate Loki. Not to save him from himself, of course. Even as much as a trickster as he was, what with him convincing those young ladies he would make a suitable mentor and all, he was beyond a reckoning. Loki was already well on his way to losing his grip on the opportunity to make things right. No, Grimm wanted Loki alone and in the ring so he, the Lord of Misrule, could set things right.
”Thank you once again for the enthusiasm with which you offer to contribute. But as we all know, only one lucky soul can be chosen. So let’s go ahead and see who that is this year, shall we?”
Everyone in the room reached into a pocket or a handbag and produced a small burlap pouch. They each turned up the pouch and allowed a polished knuckle bone to roll into their palm. Each held up their bone to the nearest light. Which one bore the mark?
A woman of a certain age raised hers high above her pile of silver hair. “Oh, it’s me!” she said, with a little hop and a squeal. The rest of those in attendance fanned out to form a circle around her. Phinehas cricked his neck and the sound echoed through the house. The music resumed, louder this time. He undid the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Phinehas stepped down from the podium, opening and closing his fists. The crowd parted to let him in.
William may be the stronger personality. Ruth may know the intricacies beneath it all. But Billy never came to these events. And before Ruth conducted her readings, or wove her fingers through the bird entrails, or watched the sky for secret signs, who do you think shuffled those cards? Who cut the deck? Who trapped the wren? Who found the clearing from which to measure the heavens?
Phinehas Dillinger, that’s who. He who did what must be done…by any means necessary.
Phinehas gripped the sides of the podium and looked out over the room. Horsehair plaster walls lined with hanging oil lanterns and candlelight sconces, with no regard to the wax dripping on the hardwood floors. The air inside was heavy, stuffy with equal parts river valley humidity and the mass of bodies. The old dripping windows wept condensation
A string quartet played Saint-Saëns’Danse Macabre with vigor in another room.
Phinehas stood at the podium with a single guttering candle at his right, casting him in a dance of light and shadow. He cleared his throat and began.
“Thank you all for coming. It’s hard to believe another year has passed already, but it is time once again for our annual pledge drive. Your gifts are vital to our subsistence.”
He regurgitated it by rote with little-to-no inflection. It was the same speech every year, so of course his mind wandered. Could there be any doubt as to what?
Brandon Noble had given up. As far as Phinehas knew they were all content to let him live out the rest of his life as a martyr in squalor. But then, after Loki had gone and soiled his reputation around the federation, he thought he could slip through the cracks and somehow emerge on the other side as this year’s tournament winner. Wishful thinking on his part, but that’s not how this worked. It was never how any of this worked. Non Compos Mentis put a stop to that right quick. And so…now what? What did Walker have lined up for Plan B? Or had he already washed his hands of his part in Loki’s un-retirement? After all that Brandon had been through, after what he had become, the wise decision would have been to avoid these old paths of temptation and degradation. If your eye caused you to sin, pluck it out. If it was your hand, cut it off. Stay as far removed from Pure Class Wrestling as you could. And for goodness’ sake, don’t insinuate yourself in the affairs of the Black Hand. But Brandon, as Loki, had. Woe unto you, ye worker of iniquity. And so we’ve moved beyond the realm of entertainment.
Phinehas droned on. “Hangtown and all its offerings, cultural and otherwise, simply cannot exist without your generosity. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate your willingness to be here tonight.”
Phinehas wasn’t here to comment on Brandon’s personal failures, abundant though they may be. Such material was low hanging fruit, ripe for the harvest. Instead he chose to focus on the things that mattered, at least as far as they concerned the Hangtown Horror.
What was your legacy, Brandon? Not assaulting bystanders and PCW staff, thank goodness. That’s too coarse and vulgar for the likes of these two. Though, truth be told he hadn’t shown Grimm much in the way of professional courtesy since he’d returned. Loki mixed his mead with malice. Shovels and dented cardoors. Blackouts and sucker punches. Disappearing, flaking, ghosting…however he decided to label it, had it kept him safe from pain? From truth? From choice? At one time Loki had held his fair share of titles. But so had Grimm. And no one much cared about that anymore.
“The Hangtown that we know and love requires that we pay our fair share. The Hanging Tree stands empty now, and so we must add to the coffers in other ways if we want to keep on this path. Whether you see it as straight and narrow or wide and winding, it asks something of us. Of all of us.”
At that point Danse Macabre came to a stop, with a few notes lingering here and there before fading into the ether.
You can say those making threats and tossing insults were compensating for something. Phinehas wouldn’t argue that. What he would do was tell you what was going to happen at this pay per view. It would be a good match. A brutal match. Enough back-and-forth to keep it interesting and give folks the impression they’d gotten their money’s worth. A few near-falls and whatnot.
But then Grimm would unleash the doom he’d brought with him. That’s not a threat, that’s a statement of fact. Now, whether that resulted in his one hundredth victory in PCW remained to be seen. May be that any number of outside influences acted to postpone that to another day yet again. Grimm hoped otherwise, that this would be his opportunity to isolate Loki. Not to save him from himself, of course. Even as much as a trickster as he was, what with him convincing those young ladies he would make a suitable mentor and all, he was beyond a reckoning. Loki was already well on his way to losing his grip on the opportunity to make things right. No, Grimm wanted Loki alone and in the ring so he, the Lord of Misrule, could set things right.
”Thank you once again for the enthusiasm with which you offer to contribute. But as we all know, only one lucky soul can be chosen. So let’s go ahead and see who that is this year, shall we?”
Everyone in the room reached into a pocket or a handbag and produced a small burlap pouch. They each turned up the pouch and allowed a polished knuckle bone to roll into their palm. Each held up their bone to the nearest light. Which one bore the mark?
A woman of a certain age raised hers high above her pile of silver hair. “Oh, it’s me!” she said, with a little hop and a squeal. The rest of those in attendance fanned out to form a circle around her. Phinehas cricked his neck and the sound echoed through the house. The music resumed, louder this time. He undid the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Phinehas stepped down from the podium, opening and closing his fists. The crowd parted to let him in.
