Grimm tidings we bring, to you and your kin
Sept 28, 2015 16:05:26 GMT -5
Sadistic, Nathan Saniti, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Sept 28, 2015 16:05:26 GMT -5
Scarecrow grin made of stitch
Dead leaves stagnant in a ditch
Trees sway naked through the fall
Silhouettes cast upon the wall
Pumpkins glowing in the night
Their empty eyes without sight
Crooked stares, the burrow deep
And burn away all hope for sleep
Autumn wind cuts to the bone
Wails like a cackle from a crone
On wings of black that beat like drums
Something wicked this way comes
The harvest moon casts its gaze
While church bells signal end of days
The echoes waft up through the sky
To mark the witching hour's nigh
Hither
The road to hell is paved with Good Intentions. To what, you may ask, do Deadly Intentions lead?
That has yet to be seen, but I know what they leave behind.
Yon
The gloaming settled in across one of the many patches of farmland scattered around the river valley. The corn had been harvested and the stalks gathered into foddershocks. River commerce stopped for nothing, and so, here a barge, there a barge, everywhere a barge. And the passing lights gave the bottom brief illuminations, drawing attention to wicker figures strung from the branches of the walnuts and the sycamores. And to the figures carrying torches as they weaved their way around the shocks. They moved in swirls and knots approximating the Golden Ratio and the orbits of the planets. The Music of the Spheres directed their motions. Will o’ the Wisps in the trees told them when to spark bonfires throughout the field.
Fires lit, the figures gathered in groups and circled around the blazes. Every rustle in the cornstalks was the hiss of a scythe. Every call of the whippoorwill was the whisper of an ancestor. Every winnow of fog off the river was a saint of old grasping at ankles.
Solomon, in all his wisdom, wrote in Ecclesiastes that there was a season for everything. A time for this, and a time for that. A season of withering, and a season of revival. That knowledge never made any of this any easier. Despite the fact it was an annual occurrence, an underlying anxiety coursed below the general festive atmosphere, almost to the point of being a physical sensation. A hum. A distorted drone. A discordant whistle. Thus, eyes darted. Figures glanced over shoulders. Shadows twitched as a coal-fired train rumbled by. They waited and watched for the Fiend in the Furrows. And the Fiend watched their proceedings from his perch atop a hill over yonder.
Hither
Phinehas Dillinger was a double-minded man. Certain in every way, yes, but still. On the one hand, he waited for the shrieking as the field below became a threshing room floor. On the other, he himself was haunted by the simple phrase Open to anyone who would like to participate. He knew all too well what that meant.
Last Chance Rumble, anyone?
There may be no chance of LoKi strolling down the aisle to the ring after the shabby way Grimm treated him at Return to Glory VI, but it was a big roster. There was no telling who might part those curtains, and so Grimm took that lesson to heart. Strike hard and swift and leave nothing to chance.
And for goodness’ sake, watch your back.
The usual accolades and observations applied here. Grimm had realized early on that indifference was a powerful tool. Indifference to your wellbeing, your career goals, your accomplishments, whether or not you had a title belt around your waist at the moment. The Lord of Misrule did not discriminate based on race, creed, color, nationality, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, or any other manner in which a person might define themselves. This approach had served him well, and it would continue to do so especially in a match of this type. A match full of past-present-future allies, enemies, and plain old associates. Grimm may not always win (who among us does?), but he made each opponent regret having ever stepped into the ring with him.
None of this should be a surprise to anyone. Grimm’s performance on any given night should not result in a federation-wide epiphany as to the brute force displayed by the man with the red hair and pale blue eyes. This was all simply a variation on a well-known theme. And yet it remained truth, not a tired cliché. This, and all that was to come, was nothing more than a cold hard statement of fact on what could be expected over the course of the Deadly Rumble.
Yon
The celebrants tossed more bones onto the fires.
Hither
Phinehas had run his finger down the list. He’d made note of some names in particular - tag team partner Justin Michaels, for one. The booking committee must have been pretty proud of themselves for that one. It was a diverse mix, and no mistake. Fighting for a shot at the World Title in your very first PCW match? Nothing like a trial by fire to welcome you to the federation. And even when they didn’t become the Number One Contender (for there can be only one), they could certainly use this night to make a statement. To show their mettle.
See me. Know me. Respect me.
It could be an opportunity to reclaim old glories. A chance to prove that one was still relevant.
Or someone could view this match as a way to take that next step up the rung, as one may not get another chance for some time. One never knew - you may never pass this way again.
So many names, with so many expectations, and so many goals. Grimm wouldn’t be too surprised if this thing degenerated into a pier sixer. Quite honestly, he’d be disappointed if it didn’t.
This Deadly Rumble was the first step. Best not forget that. Someone would be climbing up out of the rubble to face the world champion. Phinehas anticipated that champion would still be Billy Sadistic, but stranger things have happened. Never the less, not only had Sadistic proven himself a very capable champion by working his way through two strong opponents over the course of two brutal matches on back-to-back events, but his impending challenger Nathan Saniti had a lot on his already erratic mind. Saniti was bound to be flustered and discombobulated by the recognition of the mask, as well as his realization of what it had done to him and, as a consequence, his relationship with Ms. Starr. As a rule, no one liked to be manipulated, even when it was under the direction of the Infiniti Council. And seeing as how Nathan was not the most level headed at the best of times, well, he had a lot to overcome.
Although, reinventing himself was nothing new to Saniti. Masks of his own design, personas to fit whatever the situation called for, identities created and shed willy-nilly...this was old hat to old Nathan. Say what you would about the Dillingers (because they knew you would), if nothing else they were constant. Reliable as the sunset. They knew their lodestone, and they strived towards their fifth point on the compass no matter the circumstance.
"I know who I am. How many of you can say the same?"
Yon
Despite rumors to the contrary, neither Hangtown nor Pure Class Wrestling was any place to be a sinner. The Fiend had come to convert the heathen.
And the Harvest was great.
Dead leaves stagnant in a ditch
Trees sway naked through the fall
Silhouettes cast upon the wall
Pumpkins glowing in the night
Their empty eyes without sight
Crooked stares, the burrow deep
And burn away all hope for sleep
Autumn wind cuts to the bone
Wails like a cackle from a crone
On wings of black that beat like drums
Something wicked this way comes
The harvest moon casts its gaze
While church bells signal end of days
The echoes waft up through the sky
To mark the witching hour's nigh
Hither
The road to hell is paved with Good Intentions. To what, you may ask, do Deadly Intentions lead?
That has yet to be seen, but I know what they leave behind.
Yon
The gloaming settled in across one of the many patches of farmland scattered around the river valley. The corn had been harvested and the stalks gathered into foddershocks. River commerce stopped for nothing, and so, here a barge, there a barge, everywhere a barge. And the passing lights gave the bottom brief illuminations, drawing attention to wicker figures strung from the branches of the walnuts and the sycamores. And to the figures carrying torches as they weaved their way around the shocks. They moved in swirls and knots approximating the Golden Ratio and the orbits of the planets. The Music of the Spheres directed their motions. Will o’ the Wisps in the trees told them when to spark bonfires throughout the field.
Fires lit, the figures gathered in groups and circled around the blazes. Every rustle in the cornstalks was the hiss of a scythe. Every call of the whippoorwill was the whisper of an ancestor. Every winnow of fog off the river was a saint of old grasping at ankles.
Solomon, in all his wisdom, wrote in Ecclesiastes that there was a season for everything. A time for this, and a time for that. A season of withering, and a season of revival. That knowledge never made any of this any easier. Despite the fact it was an annual occurrence, an underlying anxiety coursed below the general festive atmosphere, almost to the point of being a physical sensation. A hum. A distorted drone. A discordant whistle. Thus, eyes darted. Figures glanced over shoulders. Shadows twitched as a coal-fired train rumbled by. They waited and watched for the Fiend in the Furrows. And the Fiend watched their proceedings from his perch atop a hill over yonder.
Hither
Phinehas Dillinger was a double-minded man. Certain in every way, yes, but still. On the one hand, he waited for the shrieking as the field below became a threshing room floor. On the other, he himself was haunted by the simple phrase Open to anyone who would like to participate. He knew all too well what that meant.
Last Chance Rumble, anyone?
There may be no chance of LoKi strolling down the aisle to the ring after the shabby way Grimm treated him at Return to Glory VI, but it was a big roster. There was no telling who might part those curtains, and so Grimm took that lesson to heart. Strike hard and swift and leave nothing to chance.
And for goodness’ sake, watch your back.
The usual accolades and observations applied here. Grimm had realized early on that indifference was a powerful tool. Indifference to your wellbeing, your career goals, your accomplishments, whether or not you had a title belt around your waist at the moment. The Lord of Misrule did not discriminate based on race, creed, color, nationality, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, or any other manner in which a person might define themselves. This approach had served him well, and it would continue to do so especially in a match of this type. A match full of past-present-future allies, enemies, and plain old associates. Grimm may not always win (who among us does?), but he made each opponent regret having ever stepped into the ring with him.
None of this should be a surprise to anyone. Grimm’s performance on any given night should not result in a federation-wide epiphany as to the brute force displayed by the man with the red hair and pale blue eyes. This was all simply a variation on a well-known theme. And yet it remained truth, not a tired cliché. This, and all that was to come, was nothing more than a cold hard statement of fact on what could be expected over the course of the Deadly Rumble.
Yon
The celebrants tossed more bones onto the fires.
Hither
Phinehas had run his finger down the list. He’d made note of some names in particular - tag team partner Justin Michaels, for one. The booking committee must have been pretty proud of themselves for that one. It was a diverse mix, and no mistake. Fighting for a shot at the World Title in your very first PCW match? Nothing like a trial by fire to welcome you to the federation. And even when they didn’t become the Number One Contender (for there can be only one), they could certainly use this night to make a statement. To show their mettle.
See me. Know me. Respect me.
It could be an opportunity to reclaim old glories. A chance to prove that one was still relevant.
Or someone could view this match as a way to take that next step up the rung, as one may not get another chance for some time. One never knew - you may never pass this way again.
So many names, with so many expectations, and so many goals. Grimm wouldn’t be too surprised if this thing degenerated into a pier sixer. Quite honestly, he’d be disappointed if it didn’t.
This Deadly Rumble was the first step. Best not forget that. Someone would be climbing up out of the rubble to face the world champion. Phinehas anticipated that champion would still be Billy Sadistic, but stranger things have happened. Never the less, not only had Sadistic proven himself a very capable champion by working his way through two strong opponents over the course of two brutal matches on back-to-back events, but his impending challenger Nathan Saniti had a lot on his already erratic mind. Saniti was bound to be flustered and discombobulated by the recognition of the mask, as well as his realization of what it had done to him and, as a consequence, his relationship with Ms. Starr. As a rule, no one liked to be manipulated, even when it was under the direction of the Infiniti Council. And seeing as how Nathan was not the most level headed at the best of times, well, he had a lot to overcome.
Although, reinventing himself was nothing new to Saniti. Masks of his own design, personas to fit whatever the situation called for, identities created and shed willy-nilly...this was old hat to old Nathan. Say what you would about the Dillingers (because they knew you would), if nothing else they were constant. Reliable as the sunset. They knew their lodestone, and they strived towards their fifth point on the compass no matter the circumstance.
"I know who I am. How many of you can say the same?"
Yon
Despite rumors to the contrary, neither Hangtown nor Pure Class Wrestling was any place to be a sinner. The Fiend had come to convert the heathen.
And the Harvest was great.
