Here comes a candle to light you to bed...
Aug 21, 2015 12:20:58 GMT -5
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Sadistic likes this
Post by Grimm on Aug 21, 2015 12:20:58 GMT -5
It makes no difference what men think of war. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That was the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.
--Cormac McCarthy
See also:…and here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
Phinehas whistled a wordless, nameless tune. It had a jaunty lilt about it, and made you think you wanted to dance. But as soon as you got up to lead into the first rise-and-grind you’d be overcome by thoughts of soggy peat bogs, or stone circles atop a lonely windswept hill, and your knees would buckle and you’d be forced to take your seat.
He sat on the porch in a [REDACTED] chair so [REDACTED] as to [REDACTED]. The sun rose promising plague, flood, and fire. Trees stood silhouetted against the glow out of the east, and over the river. Pockets of fog wafted up from the darker corners of the hills, where rabbits made coffee.
Phinehas stopped to take a deep breath. He could smell it. Summer was on its way out, clawing, grasping to hold on, threatening a few more soupy days but then, Autumn. Fall. The Harvest. He’d already witnessed leaves showing signs of turning. A yellow edge here, a touch of orange there, a few fluttering down to be carried away by the creek. A harvest, but no ploughshares in sight. No cities of refuge. The Hangtown Horror came bearing only a sword. The rest had best make sure their Kevlar vests were on right.
But first…with a black-gloved hand he scratched the black-clad hound behind its ears. It was oft times considered an omen, and a foul one at that, but he found it to be a soothing presence when it came around. The hound’s dark dark eyes were like its master’s. Not Phinehas, but its real master, who had visited Grimm first, all those years ago before he was Grimm, and now had business with one William Dillinger now and again. And more so recently than in times past.
As he scratched and stared down All Souls Hollow, Phinehas caught snatches of murmurs and mutterings as they rustled the curtains and blew through the open windows just behind him. Visitors had come and gone over the past few days. He didn’t know who had stayed, who had gone, as each had something to attend to. Each something just as pressing as the others. And the House of Grimm held their echoes deep in its stones and in its timbers.
Michael Wryght was most likely, and understandably, sore about losing his match and therefore his title. No one liked to lose. But now, if Phinehas knew Michael, and after all these years it was safe to say he did, he would have moved on to strategizing his campaign (Mr. Showtime as President…will wonders ever cease). No doubt brainstorming with his advisors, his brain trust, developing potential…avenues concerning muckraking. Blackmail. Outright threats to life and limb. He was a man who knew how to get things by-God done.
In regards to Billy Sadistic, with whom Phinehas had not discussed recent events yet (YET), there could be no doubt as to where his concerns lay. For someone so resolute on proving herself, allowing daddy dearest to enter the fray and ruin a Pay Per View Main Event didn’t help Gem’s case. As she no doubt had noticed, it had been a nice clean match up until the point Lantlas showed up. Yet again, it seemed the spotlight hadn’t been bright enough. It’s never been bright enough. He was upset to learn the PCW Faithful chose not to live in the past, as they were apparently more concerned with what’s actually happening in the ring as opposed to a few old faces scattered around it. Heaven forbid they not shower him and Nacho with kisses just for showing up. They’d expected a beautiful parade upon their return and had been greeted with…nothing more than shrugs. And so they’d forced their way onto TV and into matches. Then again, that was standard operating procedure for that family. Shame on us for expecting more from them.
And even though the Black Hand lost a supposed member at Return to Glory, another convert stepped in to fill the void and keep the balance. A curious convert, given the trajectory of the man’s career and his very bearing, but the Black Hand did not welcome just anyone into the fold. Justin Michaels, businessman, entrepreneur, multiple-time champion and formidable opponent at any turn, was now one of them. He no doubt sat pondering his recent Revelation, and his place within the Black Hand. Despite their years together, Grimm and Stormm really hadn’t spent much time together inside the squared circle, and so he knew Justin would also be visualizing their approach to their impending match.
A match in which everyone and their brother promised chaos. And even though chaos by its very definition was disorder and confusion, it could be predicted. And if it could be predicted, it could be controlled. Manipulated. Not always, of course, but for even the smallest of windows one could, if one knew what he was looking for, take hold of that singularity and make use of it at its most effective point. For that briefest of moments one’s reach would not exceed one’s grasp. And that’s when you moved, once you’d waited for the most opportune moment to act.
Take those lightning bugs, for example, lingering in the last vestiges of night down there by the road. Totally random, meaningless patterns, but then…
One fleeting synchronous flash. And then immediately back to their seemingly arbitrary ignitions.
Speaking of chaos…and Grimm did…there would be so many people in and around the ring at Trauma. Who knew what would happen? Phinehas thought it wise to utilize that guerrilla warfare approach in such a situation – you know, weave in and out of the shadows, like some God of Frenzy. Rush over, around, and through in a scythe-wheeled chariot.
Four teams, none of which had any love lost for any of the others. What a debacle, most likely, especially considering all those involved…
The Unholy Alliance, Grimm and Stormm’s supposed partners, who, just like last time, turned on one another as soon as the titles were out of the picture. So many words and such little action. The poor saps have had a long hard row to hoe once those early days of PCW passed them by.
Psychedelica could hide behind all the masks and glitter and fancy hats it wanted, but it had become obvious that there was trouble in Candy Land. Almost as if outside influences were working from the inside to take them down. Call it love, call it infatuation, but whatever it was it could be a fickle whore when mishandled. Dollface should have known well enough to not be surprised by anything Saniti did, said, suggested, etc. Or to act shocked by something as simple as a punch in the face. There’s a reason for everything. Entropy and thermodynamics, for example. It’s basic science, Ms. Starr.
And finally, The Late Night Express. Maybe Lantlas or Gem would come down and give them a hand. Phinehas assumed as much, but, tag title contender or not, he didn’t feel like expending any more effort than he had to on that pairing. No offense to Derek Cosmos, for whom Grimm had nothing but a vague sense of regard (at least it wasn’t rage or ill-will, right?), but at this point in the proceedings a little bit of Gem-slash-Lantlas-slash-Grant went a long way. But in a match-up like this, a little bit might just do the trick.
The hound sighed, and Phinehas grinned. Not as wide and toothy as a grin from the dog’s master, but a Grimm grin none the less. As if the Crimson Demon needed to put a fine point on his work (See also: the possible incapacitation of PCW’s first Triple Crown Champion, Loki). So he settled into the chair and allowed the PCW to tend to itself for now. Grimm would let the results serve as testimony for themselves, as was his usual preference.
But then the hound’s ears perked up. It raised its head and turned those eyes of pitch towards the hills.
“I hear it, too.”
War drums.
--Cormac McCarthy
See also:…and here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
Phinehas whistled a wordless, nameless tune. It had a jaunty lilt about it, and made you think you wanted to dance. But as soon as you got up to lead into the first rise-and-grind you’d be overcome by thoughts of soggy peat bogs, or stone circles atop a lonely windswept hill, and your knees would buckle and you’d be forced to take your seat.
He sat on the porch in a [REDACTED] chair so [REDACTED] as to [REDACTED]. The sun rose promising plague, flood, and fire. Trees stood silhouetted against the glow out of the east, and over the river. Pockets of fog wafted up from the darker corners of the hills, where rabbits made coffee.
Phinehas stopped to take a deep breath. He could smell it. Summer was on its way out, clawing, grasping to hold on, threatening a few more soupy days but then, Autumn. Fall. The Harvest. He’d already witnessed leaves showing signs of turning. A yellow edge here, a touch of orange there, a few fluttering down to be carried away by the creek. A harvest, but no ploughshares in sight. No cities of refuge. The Hangtown Horror came bearing only a sword. The rest had best make sure their Kevlar vests were on right.
But first…with a black-gloved hand he scratched the black-clad hound behind its ears. It was oft times considered an omen, and a foul one at that, but he found it to be a soothing presence when it came around. The hound’s dark dark eyes were like its master’s. Not Phinehas, but its real master, who had visited Grimm first, all those years ago before he was Grimm, and now had business with one William Dillinger now and again. And more so recently than in times past.
As he scratched and stared down All Souls Hollow, Phinehas caught snatches of murmurs and mutterings as they rustled the curtains and blew through the open windows just behind him. Visitors had come and gone over the past few days. He didn’t know who had stayed, who had gone, as each had something to attend to. Each something just as pressing as the others. And the House of Grimm held their echoes deep in its stones and in its timbers.
Michael Wryght was most likely, and understandably, sore about losing his match and therefore his title. No one liked to lose. But now, if Phinehas knew Michael, and after all these years it was safe to say he did, he would have moved on to strategizing his campaign (Mr. Showtime as President…will wonders ever cease). No doubt brainstorming with his advisors, his brain trust, developing potential…avenues concerning muckraking. Blackmail. Outright threats to life and limb. He was a man who knew how to get things by-God done.
In regards to Billy Sadistic, with whom Phinehas had not discussed recent events yet (YET), there could be no doubt as to where his concerns lay. For someone so resolute on proving herself, allowing daddy dearest to enter the fray and ruin a Pay Per View Main Event didn’t help Gem’s case. As she no doubt had noticed, it had been a nice clean match up until the point Lantlas showed up. Yet again, it seemed the spotlight hadn’t been bright enough. It’s never been bright enough. He was upset to learn the PCW Faithful chose not to live in the past, as they were apparently more concerned with what’s actually happening in the ring as opposed to a few old faces scattered around it. Heaven forbid they not shower him and Nacho with kisses just for showing up. They’d expected a beautiful parade upon their return and had been greeted with…nothing more than shrugs. And so they’d forced their way onto TV and into matches. Then again, that was standard operating procedure for that family. Shame on us for expecting more from them.
And even though the Black Hand lost a supposed member at Return to Glory, another convert stepped in to fill the void and keep the balance. A curious convert, given the trajectory of the man’s career and his very bearing, but the Black Hand did not welcome just anyone into the fold. Justin Michaels, businessman, entrepreneur, multiple-time champion and formidable opponent at any turn, was now one of them. He no doubt sat pondering his recent Revelation, and his place within the Black Hand. Despite their years together, Grimm and Stormm really hadn’t spent much time together inside the squared circle, and so he knew Justin would also be visualizing their approach to their impending match.
A match in which everyone and their brother promised chaos. And even though chaos by its very definition was disorder and confusion, it could be predicted. And if it could be predicted, it could be controlled. Manipulated. Not always, of course, but for even the smallest of windows one could, if one knew what he was looking for, take hold of that singularity and make use of it at its most effective point. For that briefest of moments one’s reach would not exceed one’s grasp. And that’s when you moved, once you’d waited for the most opportune moment to act.
Take those lightning bugs, for example, lingering in the last vestiges of night down there by the road. Totally random, meaningless patterns, but then…
One fleeting synchronous flash. And then immediately back to their seemingly arbitrary ignitions.
Speaking of chaos…and Grimm did…there would be so many people in and around the ring at Trauma. Who knew what would happen? Phinehas thought it wise to utilize that guerrilla warfare approach in such a situation – you know, weave in and out of the shadows, like some God of Frenzy. Rush over, around, and through in a scythe-wheeled chariot.
Four teams, none of which had any love lost for any of the others. What a debacle, most likely, especially considering all those involved…
The Unholy Alliance, Grimm and Stormm’s supposed partners, who, just like last time, turned on one another as soon as the titles were out of the picture. So many words and such little action. The poor saps have had a long hard row to hoe once those early days of PCW passed them by.
Psychedelica could hide behind all the masks and glitter and fancy hats it wanted, but it had become obvious that there was trouble in Candy Land. Almost as if outside influences were working from the inside to take them down. Call it love, call it infatuation, but whatever it was it could be a fickle whore when mishandled. Dollface should have known well enough to not be surprised by anything Saniti did, said, suggested, etc. Or to act shocked by something as simple as a punch in the face. There’s a reason for everything. Entropy and thermodynamics, for example. It’s basic science, Ms. Starr.
And finally, The Late Night Express. Maybe Lantlas or Gem would come down and give them a hand. Phinehas assumed as much, but, tag title contender or not, he didn’t feel like expending any more effort than he had to on that pairing. No offense to Derek Cosmos, for whom Grimm had nothing but a vague sense of regard (at least it wasn’t rage or ill-will, right?), but at this point in the proceedings a little bit of Gem-slash-Lantlas-slash-Grant went a long way. But in a match-up like this, a little bit might just do the trick.
The hound sighed, and Phinehas grinned. Not as wide and toothy as a grin from the dog’s master, but a Grimm grin none the less. As if the Crimson Demon needed to put a fine point on his work (See also: the possible incapacitation of PCW’s first Triple Crown Champion, Loki). So he settled into the chair and allowed the PCW to tend to itself for now. Grimm would let the results serve as testimony for themselves, as was his usual preference.
But then the hound’s ears perked up. It raised its head and turned those eyes of pitch towards the hills.
“I hear it, too.”
War drums.
