Do this in remembrance of me
Jul 2, 2015 8:47:30 GMT -5
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Post by Grimm on Jul 2, 2015 8:47:30 GMT -5
Far from the maddening crowd, down the hall and around the corner from the Black Hand’s room, behind a door marked simply GRIMM, he sat in a folding chair with his head in his hands. He’d embarrassed himself and the Black Hand. Gem might have been a fraction of his size, but everyone knew Pure Class Wrestling operated outside the natural order of things. The laws of physics did not apply here. Neither did reason. And so Sadistic and Wryght must have been shaking their heads in disappointment elsewhere in the arena.
Grimm was expected. Win or lose, Grimm was implied. That was no way to succeed in this business. He was still here plodding along all because of his name and past accomplishments. What was worse? Riding along on someone else’s coattails, or skirting by on who you used to be? It was a fragile hold on one’s self-worth, either way. Aren’t we all desperate insecure wretches constantly seeking validation? Isn’t that why we do this? Looking to give them reasons to respond, to remember us by. Provide spots for the clip shows. And, goodness gracious, that ever elusive RESPECT to which we all so desperately wish to cling.
Grimm stood and paced the sterile room. No kicking of furniture. No punching of lockers or walls. Just walking, eyes unfocused, trying to make sense of an evening come unraveled.
No one had uttered it in word or in print, of course, but he could tell. He knew they all thought his season had passed. At some point the Lord of Misrule had begun the inexorable descent into mediocrity. Sure, he had been the first to reach one hundred victories in PCW, but, really, anyone with a modicum of talent could do that as long as they stuck around. It was incredible what a person could accomplish as long as they were consistent and showed up when they were supposed to. So show him something else he needed to accomplish. Convince him of a point he had yet to prove. Or instead of tarnishing his reputation further, maybe…maybe it was time to retire.
Grimm found himself in the restroom. He placed his hands on the sink and peered into the mirror. Blood trickled and bruising erupted there beneath the matted hair and unkempt beard. Those pale blue eyes looking back at him had seen much. They’d watched with an air of detachment, uncorrupted by compassion, as his hands had conjured up a violence renowned throughout the annals of the federation.
Even so, perhaps he’d missed this final window. He should have thrown up the sash and blustered to anyone who’d listen just why he was the baddest man in the ring, and why exactly you should fear him. Instead of just showing up to work and by God getting things done for the past fifteen(-ish) years. Like a chump.
Who knows, maybe years later they’d still be whispering his name as a malediction in the corridors. Heaven forbid he’d be greeted with a shrug of the shoulders and a look at the program to see what was next on the schedule. We all have our exits and our entrances, and it behooves us to pay attention to when we make one or the other.
Bah, who are we kidding. This is GRIMM we’re talking about…
----------------------------
Even here, Phinehas Dillinger strived to impose design on the randomness of the wreckage. He walked among the ash and char, dragging his feet, kicking a labyrinth of ruin into place. The pattern spiraled in tighter while unraveling out wider. He knew the center could not, would not, hold, yet he walked on. Phinehas watched the crows reel from tree to tree while he waited for some revelation.
The people of Hangtown had been whipped into a frenzy, so now where once stood the Church of Jesus Christ and Prophecy with Signs Following had now become the haunt of owls and foxes. Phinehas stood where once loomed the choir loft. Torched pews collapsed upon one another. He picked up a handful of hymnal shreds and held it close. A deep breath smelled of incense. He tried to make sense of the remnants.
…here I raise my Ebenezer…see the mount I’m fixed upon it…
As he read, a shuffle and a voice sounded behind him.
“Can I help…oh, it’s you.”
Phinehas turned. Enoch White stood next to a red door smoking on its hinges, with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and soot stained.
Phinehas waved with the tatters. “Good morning, Preacher.”
“Wish I could say that it was, but we know that’s not the case.”
A slight tilt of the head and Phinehas returned to the tune. Enoch walked up to stand beside the Lord of Misrule. He sighed.
“This is a true blasphemy, and that’s really saying something for this town.”
Phinehas tossed the papers in the air and watched a wind carry them away.
“Good thing this wasn’t one of those papist cathedrals or the loss would be even greater.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“I’m sorry this happened. I don’t know why they felt they had to go this far, but at least they paid for it. And dearly, at that. It’s the least we could do.”
“I’m well aware of what happened that night. I have to say, though, this Black Hand code of yours…I don’t care for it.”
“I admit we’re not perfect, but who among us is? Let he who is without sin…”
“…cast the first stone, I know. I’m tired of people using that verse as a crutch. Mercy doesn’t give you free reign to do whatever you want.”
“Of course not.”
Enoch scratched his head and looked up into the trees. “There’s more to it than that, Phinehas. I’m not concerned about what the Black Hand may or may not have done over the course of history. I’m concerned about you, and your brother, and what you plan to do. What you have done. I know the very nature of your business is nothing but pure unadulterated violence. I’ve seen you cave a man’s head in with a shovel. I’ve seen you hold a man down and take turns beating him into a pulp. I’ve watched as a man seemingly as shrewd and calculating as you somehow fall under your influence. But I’ve also watched you commit acts that are above and beyond even those deemed acceptable in your line of work. Whether you were personally responsible or not, in some instances I would argue you are your brother’s keeper.”
Phinehas kept his eyes down. He cast his gaze over shards of stained glass that had portrayed ages of congregations’ blood and tears. Their joy and pain. Choices, secrets, shame. Judgments and grace.
And then he jerked his head up and narrowed those frozen pits of ice.
“I can still stand here and look any of you in the eye, Preacher. I didn’t cause this. I don’t make Billy do the things he does. I keep my own house in order. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it’ll stay.”
Enoch picked up an offering plate. He ran his finger along the curled edges of its red felt liner. Then whipped it away into the rest of the stones and blackened timbers.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Phinehas.”
Grimm was expected. Win or lose, Grimm was implied. That was no way to succeed in this business. He was still here plodding along all because of his name and past accomplishments. What was worse? Riding along on someone else’s coattails, or skirting by on who you used to be? It was a fragile hold on one’s self-worth, either way. Aren’t we all desperate insecure wretches constantly seeking validation? Isn’t that why we do this? Looking to give them reasons to respond, to remember us by. Provide spots for the clip shows. And, goodness gracious, that ever elusive RESPECT to which we all so desperately wish to cling.
Grimm stood and paced the sterile room. No kicking of furniture. No punching of lockers or walls. Just walking, eyes unfocused, trying to make sense of an evening come unraveled.
No one had uttered it in word or in print, of course, but he could tell. He knew they all thought his season had passed. At some point the Lord of Misrule had begun the inexorable descent into mediocrity. Sure, he had been the first to reach one hundred victories in PCW, but, really, anyone with a modicum of talent could do that as long as they stuck around. It was incredible what a person could accomplish as long as they were consistent and showed up when they were supposed to. So show him something else he needed to accomplish. Convince him of a point he had yet to prove. Or instead of tarnishing his reputation further, maybe…maybe it was time to retire.
Grimm found himself in the restroom. He placed his hands on the sink and peered into the mirror. Blood trickled and bruising erupted there beneath the matted hair and unkempt beard. Those pale blue eyes looking back at him had seen much. They’d watched with an air of detachment, uncorrupted by compassion, as his hands had conjured up a violence renowned throughout the annals of the federation.
Even so, perhaps he’d missed this final window. He should have thrown up the sash and blustered to anyone who’d listen just why he was the baddest man in the ring, and why exactly you should fear him. Instead of just showing up to work and by God getting things done for the past fifteen(-ish) years. Like a chump.
Who knows, maybe years later they’d still be whispering his name as a malediction in the corridors. Heaven forbid he’d be greeted with a shrug of the shoulders and a look at the program to see what was next on the schedule. We all have our exits and our entrances, and it behooves us to pay attention to when we make one or the other.
Bah, who are we kidding. This is GRIMM we’re talking about…
----------------------------
Even here, Phinehas Dillinger strived to impose design on the randomness of the wreckage. He walked among the ash and char, dragging his feet, kicking a labyrinth of ruin into place. The pattern spiraled in tighter while unraveling out wider. He knew the center could not, would not, hold, yet he walked on. Phinehas watched the crows reel from tree to tree while he waited for some revelation.
The people of Hangtown had been whipped into a frenzy, so now where once stood the Church of Jesus Christ and Prophecy with Signs Following had now become the haunt of owls and foxes. Phinehas stood where once loomed the choir loft. Torched pews collapsed upon one another. He picked up a handful of hymnal shreds and held it close. A deep breath smelled of incense. He tried to make sense of the remnants.
…here I raise my Ebenezer…see the mount I’m fixed upon it…
As he read, a shuffle and a voice sounded behind him.
“Can I help…oh, it’s you.”
Phinehas turned. Enoch White stood next to a red door smoking on its hinges, with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and soot stained.
Phinehas waved with the tatters. “Good morning, Preacher.”
“Wish I could say that it was, but we know that’s not the case.”
A slight tilt of the head and Phinehas returned to the tune. Enoch walked up to stand beside the Lord of Misrule. He sighed.
“This is a true blasphemy, and that’s really saying something for this town.”
Phinehas tossed the papers in the air and watched a wind carry them away.
“Good thing this wasn’t one of those papist cathedrals or the loss would be even greater.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“I’m sorry this happened. I don’t know why they felt they had to go this far, but at least they paid for it. And dearly, at that. It’s the least we could do.”
“I’m well aware of what happened that night. I have to say, though, this Black Hand code of yours…I don’t care for it.”
“I admit we’re not perfect, but who among us is? Let he who is without sin…”
“…cast the first stone, I know. I’m tired of people using that verse as a crutch. Mercy doesn’t give you free reign to do whatever you want.”
“Of course not.”
Enoch scratched his head and looked up into the trees. “There’s more to it than that, Phinehas. I’m not concerned about what the Black Hand may or may not have done over the course of history. I’m concerned about you, and your brother, and what you plan to do. What you have done. I know the very nature of your business is nothing but pure unadulterated violence. I’ve seen you cave a man’s head in with a shovel. I’ve seen you hold a man down and take turns beating him into a pulp. I’ve watched as a man seemingly as shrewd and calculating as you somehow fall under your influence. But I’ve also watched you commit acts that are above and beyond even those deemed acceptable in your line of work. Whether you were personally responsible or not, in some instances I would argue you are your brother’s keeper.”
Phinehas kept his eyes down. He cast his gaze over shards of stained glass that had portrayed ages of congregations’ blood and tears. Their joy and pain. Choices, secrets, shame. Judgments and grace.
And then he jerked his head up and narrowed those frozen pits of ice.
“I can still stand here and look any of you in the eye, Preacher. I didn’t cause this. I don’t make Billy do the things he does. I keep my own house in order. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it’ll stay.”
Enoch picked up an offering plate. He ran his finger along the curled edges of its red felt liner. Then whipped it away into the rest of the stones and blackened timbers.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Phinehas.”
