The Unknowable Regan Voorhees
Nov 7, 2021 14:44:22 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Lissie Hope, and 3 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Nov 7, 2021 14:44:22 GMT -5
Mother insisted seven-year-old Regan test her skills as a pageant kid. It was a decision informed by both vanity and obliviousness, a clear misinterpretation of my greatest talents. While my deathly pallor had not yet fully set in and my rosy cheeks were appropriately pinchable, I lacked the vapid eagerness required for success in this particular field, even after Mother adorned me in a nightmarish jumble of bubblegum pink taffeta. When Mother flailed at me from stage right, tracing her fingertips past the corners of her lips to remind me to smile at the judges and audience, my teeth sank into my bottom lip. The pain emboldened me, though I had long since decided to illustrate the talent of my choosing when the time arrived.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said one judge, an eerie facsimile of my own mother, but with worse hair and cheaper clothes. An idea occurred to me - how quickly would her bouffant ignite if it were hit with a perfectly arched flaming arrow? The notion twisted my lips into a genuine smile, and I daintily cleared my throat. Flaming Bouffant Judge seemed to mistake that for shyness. “Your talent is ballet, right?”
“Don’t let the sparkly tutu mislead you,” I said, my tiny, screeching soprano voice bouncing off the walls of the auditorium and drilling into the ears and brains of the human mass before me. “While I have little doubt in the superiority of my ballet skills, I feel it would just be an insulting display after Annabelle’s hackneyed baton-twirling. She has stolen sixty seconds of life from every person in this room, an offense akin to manslaughter in my opinion, and a grim reminder of our all-too-brief time on this planet.”
Dramatic sobs echoed from backstage, an attempt by Annabelle to earn pity points from the judges. They were clearly cowed by my frankness, but of course the show - making impressionable girls reinforce toxic societal practices because of tradition - must go on. Flaming Bouffant looked at the other judges and then back to me. “So what talent would you like to perform today?”
A wave of nausea overtook me, but I bit the vomit back through sheer will. With unapologetic honesty, a bit of nervousness was to be expected. “I have titled this thesis - Existential Dread and the Unnecessity of Pageants. As H.P. Lovecraft said ‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents... some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new Dark Age.’”
Mother’s shoulders slumped for a few moments, as her brain processed my speech. The judges and audience members exchanged looks, but I pressed on admirably through the introduction. It was then that Mother regained her sensibilities and struck at me like lightning, seizing my wrist and dragging me off stage before I could embarrass her further. My ballet honed flexibility allowed me to wrench free long enough to run back out and proclaim, “Everything in the world displeases me: but, above all, my displeasure in everything displeases me!” Mother returned posthaste, seizing me by the waist this time, but failing still to silence me. “That was Nietzsche. Read a book!” And then we were backstage, but apparently not far enough backstage. I was hauled through the building, past my weeping competition(Annabelle’s crocodile tears appeared to be contagious) and out a one-way door to the parking lot.
It was then that Mother finally released me, my ballet slippers resting on the sidewalk. I immediately unbunned my hair in protest. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS???” Mother screeched.
Our cold glares met, ice against ice. “We live on a placid island of ignorance, Mom,” I explained.
The standoff ended when Dad finally arrived, huffing and sweating, having clearly sprinted around the building from the auditorium. He was likely disappointed that my performance interrupted his attempts to flirt with a lady usher, but he maintained an impressive poker face. As he wedged himself in between us, he tried to ease the tension with his usual ineptitude. “I think maybe we should focus on the fact that a lot of people get nervous about public speaking, but Regan’s a natural. Proud of you, kiddo.”
“No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace, Dad,” I said from behind him, as mother continued to fume.
Dad’s poor peacemaking continued. “And H.P. Lovecraft was a huge racist, but she completely avoided the racism. Which, I think, says a lot about our parenting.”
Mother refused to unclench her teeth. “I. Am getting. The car.”
As she walked away from us, I could practically hear her teeth grinding. And as she rounded the corner, I definitely heard the hellish, inhuman scream that she let out. Dad winced at the sound, and tried to ease his own tension with a paternal mussing of my hair. “Hope this doesn’t make you think less of me and your mom.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” I said. “Generational wealth has insulated you from the struggles of real people and your mutual disdain for each other has left you numb--”
His wallet was out in a flash, and he was already fumbling for bills when he interrupted me. “Here’s five-hundred. Buy a dress or some video games or a book about that Dracula lady you like.”
I took the money. Being without a purse or pockets, I squeezed my fist around it covetously, a slave to the same banal greed that plagued Voorheeses since arriving in the hellscape of the New World. “Her name is Elizabeth Báthory. A bit of a lazy reference point, as she’s arguably the best known female serial killer in history. I’m actually more in Ranavalona right now.”
Another hair mussing, as Mother finally pulled the Mercedes around and glared at us to get in. “I bet you are, pumpkin,” Dad said. His chuckle was that of a man who saw doom before him, but knew he was helpless to resist.
Nearly three weeks since the Execution Cage match with Addy and my body still ached. If I had it to do over, I would’ve handled things differently. The feud, the matches, the everything probably took years off my career. The AW Cruiserweight Title was my first championship in wrestling. My attachment was as sentimental as it was professional, and in keeping that particular accolade on my own velvet pillow, I acted in especially rash ways. A lady never forgets her first, of course.
I’ve always prided myself on my ability to separate professional and personal. In a business where any minor indiscretion can spin out into a years-spanning blood feud, I aspired to be the exception. The person who always, always, always keeps her focus on winning, forward momentum, championships. Unfailing devotion to my own success paired with cold, clinical reasoning. A spotless scalpel of sensibility in a world full of dull hammers looking for rusty nails. If anyone else is unfortunate enough to get butthurt, or actual-for-real-hurt, in the wake of my accomplishments…
Well, that’s not really my problem, is it?
So I thought, but I was unprepared for the reality. The consequences that would follow when I pushed a person too far for the sake of my own gain. As it turns out, people who get actual-for-real-hurt - let’s say from getting run over by a car as an example - they tend to want to hurt back. I won the war against Addy, but emerged with no title and a shattered minion who, coincidentally, is also a human being who theoretically has friends, loved ones, and his own aspirations. To be perfectly honest, I never asked Joey myself because he had the conversation skills of a libidinous baboon. But I assume.
The outcome left me with a great deal to think about, so I went off the grid(mostly, but who can begrudge my hilarious tweets?), as the kids say.
Action Wrestling would surely be waiting while I recovered. And after such a grueling, costly battle I could expect an easy opponent when I made my triumphant return. A cakewalk to welcome back CruiserClash’s favorite daughter.
Such a naive idea. It’s tempting to think the universe laughed at me. But that’s only vanity.
The universe never cared at all.
I have no idea who trained me to wrestle.
Don’t worry. I’m not an amnesiac, a creature created in a laboratory or a tulpa willed into existence by those who fear me. This was by design. A practical decision made by someone who sees ties to other human beings as a liability. Those connections lead to easily exploitable weaknesses. If the identity of my trainer is known, they would have more insight into my skills and shortcomings than anyone, even myself. If pressed by a particularly savvy opponent, that would be disastrous. Not to mention the ever dangerous sentimentality, be it mutual or otherwise.
Naturally, I did the only sensible thing. My assistants were responsible for finding me a teacher according to certain criteria - a woman, similar build and body type to my own, at least a decade of in-ring experience, with an emphasis on technical expertise. From there, an algorithm was developed to rank the candidates. The position included a non-disclosure agreement, with a series of additional caveats. Being rich, I’m allowed to be eccentric.
The ring was setup at my home in Birmingham, within a spacious parlor. The furniture was removed, even the antique fainting couch, to make room for the squared circle. Per my conditions, the trainer had to work in a full mask and keep their entire body covered from fingertips to toes. The Mystery Trainer typically opted for a combination of ring gear and leotard. I charitably had a series of fans installed to ensure they would not overheat and promote air circulation over our eight-plus hours training Mondays through Saturdays. Not a perfect system, but it kept me from forming any impractical attachments and allowed me to focus exclusively on honing my skills.
On the first day, I explained myself, as I sat on one of the freshly carved wooden benches and laced my boots. “Consider this a business transaction. I am giving you rare authority to criticize me. Extensively. You have free reign to tell me if I’m doing something poorly, incorrectly, not at all. Don’t coddle me just because I’m paying you. My goal is to debut professionally in one year. Until then, I want to be trained as impeccably as possible.”
“I can do that,” said the Mystery Trainer. She started to crack her knuckles, but caught herself. Even nervous tics and go-to gestures would be an indicator of her identity, something my assistants would’ve advised against at my command. To guard against any interpersonal bonding, I planned to treat her like a soulless automaton. I asked only the same courtesy in return.
My boots laced, I stood up and noticed we were the same height. “Per the NDA, you will not be allowed to discuss my training with anyone, under penalty of law, blah blah blah. The too-long, didn’t-read version is I sue you into oblivion if the agreement is violated. I have no interest in your identity. To me, you are unknowable. An eldritch deity made flesh.”
“What?” the Mystery Trainer asked.
I pushed past her, taking the short walk to the ring. My ring. “You’ll get used to me. Where do we start?” I climbed the stairs, gripping the top rope and pulling myself to the apron. Once I entered, there would be no going back.
The Mystery Trainer, less dramatically, merely rolled into the ring and jumped to her feet. “Can you lock up?”
I stared at her. “No,” I admitted. “Show me.” And so I stepped through the ropes, forever casting my old life into the abyss, with no intent to look back.
I spent that year as an exceptional student. For the sake of my in-ring education, I relaxed my usual argumentative nature so that I could focus on learning. The progress was intoxicating, as incremental improvements led to mastery(or the closest thing to it I could achieve until I was faced with actual opponents). The year passed in a blink. Before long, the Mystery Trainer’s contract expired and we were on the final session. A review of the most basic of basics. Our last lockup. When I caught her in a hammerlock, she cracked me in the temple with an elbow. Back in session two, we discussed her not pulling punches. The discussion involved me telling her not to, quite literally, after my eyebrow was grazed by a right jab that I felt was lackadaisical. She agreed, but seemed to hide a certain enthusiasm at the prospect. What wage slave wouldn’t relish the opportunity to crack their boss in the face?
The elbow sent me tumbling back into the ropes, where I steadied myself for a counterattack. But then the buzzer blared and my training was concluded. “You good?” she asked, a final display of professionalism.
“Yes,” I said, but she had already rolled out of the ring, eager to rehydrate with a bottle of water from the makeshift gym’s fridge. An agreeable proposition, and I quickly followed, head still ringing from the elbow. The Mystery Trainer took a swig, draining half the bottle, before going to collect her gym bag from one of the benches. She suddenly seemed uncommunicative, which I found troubling. “Your final assessment of my progress?” I asked. It was mostly a question, partly a demand.
She shrugged. “Not really. You’ll probably do okay.”
My hand squeezed my own water bottle. If the top hadn’t been sealed, it would have erupted like a volcano, a (literally)clear metaphor for my simmering rage. “I’ll do okay? That’s it?”
Again, she shrugged. “I’m not here to give you a pat on the head. You wanted a business transaction, you got it. I’m off the clock.”
The Mystery Trainer turned her back to me, then walked out. The contract was fulfilled. Provided she didn’t violate the NDA, we were done. There was no discussion of my future from there. Not my own contractual prospects, my upcoming debut, none of it. As professional an arrangement as I demanded.
Another person discarded after my own needs were met. I wondered if that might be a bad thing, but remained uncertain. The two of us entered into an agreement, and both fulfilled our obligations. Yet I found myself expecting more. An undefinable reward for dedicating myself so fully. Sipping my water, I puzzled over the conundrum of interpersonal dynamics, human connection, the unfathomable.
But no, that couldn’t be it.
February 22nd, 2021 was something of an odd evening for me.
Not beating Lissie Hope at CruiserClash, of course. If you say you didn’t see that one coming, you’re a liar. I’m talking about the aftermath.
I won’t deny that my opinion of our species is often bleakly nihilistic. I believe that humanity’s happiest ending would be to blink into extinction in an instant, following a quick-freeze from a dying sun that was finally ready to enjoy some me-time after a few billion years of working its fingers to the photosphere. Of course, that would also be the end for all our planet’s delightful non-human species, not to mention my own existence(yes, I know, I’m part of the problem), so no bueno.
My confidence wasn’t lacking on that particular evening, but I’m not an idiot. Facing an Action mainstay like Lissie Hope was as much of an opportunity as it was a baptism by fire. A good showing, win or lose, and my career was established. Regan Voorhees was undeniable. Had I failed, however, a tumble down the card would follow. Curtain jerking, starting over, perhaps disappearing altogether like so many others who took their first major loss. I wouldn’t say I exceeded my own expectations, but I surprised a great many people who thought I was nothing more than a stunning sociopath with a penchant for pastels and faux-fur. I defeated Lissie Hope.
A gift and a curse, a tough act to follow, pick your cliche. Further success and titles would come after, along with more… questionable… deeds. But something about that evening was different, like it occurred in some fantastical bubble. A dream I woke up from, a recurring nightmare. Had I peaked already?
Two months into my career and I made Lissie Hope tap out to the Red Camelia. It was fucking delicious. The kind of syrupy sweetness that would make a pantheon of gods set the ambrosia and nectar aside, that they might drink deep from the well of Regan. The crowd couldn’t even believe it. No cheers, no jeers. Just stunned, horrified, unbelieving silence. Even after, I couldn’t take my eyes off the ring, that whole time I was backpedaling up the ramp. My legs worked, but I was numb.
My perfect teeth dug into my bottom lip, not a smile, but a reasonable facsimile. When I tasted blood, I knew the dream was reality. My way was right. No relationships - friendly, romantic, or otherwise - to complicate things. Atlanta, Georgia and the entire world saw Regan Voorhees beat Lissie Hope.
Then you nodded at me.
Fair enough. I was the promising rookie. You were the established veteran, the figurehead, the first ballot hall-of-famer, one-fourth of so many fans’ Action Wrestling Mount Rushmore. You didn’t have to face me, of course. While I certainly rose to the occasion, you provided me with the opportunity. Don’t think I’m oblivious to that. Some people might think I should actually be more grateful. Send a gift basket of vegan cheeses, a bottle of Balvenie, tickets to Immersive Van Gogh. Maybe I should cut off Atticus’ head and present it to Lissie Hope on a silver fucking platter. After all, she nodded at me.
After I won.
But it’s fine. A minor gesture. A show of respect. The dying art of sportsmanship. An acknowledgement that while I got the better of you this time, we would surely meet again. This was merely Regan Voorhees versus Lissie Hope: Part One.
And then the clapping, Lissie. But not just you. Them. The entire Hawks Arena joined in at your behest. Thousands of people, showing their respect, their admiration, their approval - as if it was something I needed. A nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. You turned my victory against me.
Polite to a fault, of course, I nodded back. It was all I could think to do, as I dug perfectly manicured fingernails into my palms. All that effort to avoid complications, human connection, the great unknown. You undid it all with a single nod. How could I not hate you in that moment?
Backstage I vomited, the cheers still ringing in my ears, shattering my equilibrium with a sense of Lissie-induced vertigo. My victory felt like a distant memory already. My career had been made in a single night, yet here I sat on a dirty bathroom floor, utterly undone by people clapping, because Lissie Hope told them to.
Not a situation I hoped to repeat. I never realized that in fighting to keep people from my personal orbit, I developed something of a psychological aversion to human acceptance. My practiced pretentiousness wasn’t enough of a deterrent. The solution? To armor myself in viciousness, go to unfathomable lengths to secure my own success, to absolutely ravage anyone who dared challenge me. Addy was only the beginning. Stone to sharpen my knife upon. Run a finger across the blade and you won’t even feel the steel bite into you until you're bleeding out.
I saw what you were doing with that nod, Lissie. To take away my accomplishment. To let the world know that you approve of Regan Voorhees, and that they had your permission to cheer for me. That night in Atlanta seems so long ago, but here we are, back in the Hollywood of the South. And I’m going to turn Monday into a horror movie. Burn down Lissie Hope and Atlanta both, if I have to.
I don’t just want Turmoil, Lissie. I want to make you sorry you ever thought I needed your endorsement.
I’m the one who defines Regan Voorhees. And redefines her.
I don’t think you’re going to like the new definition.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said one judge, an eerie facsimile of my own mother, but with worse hair and cheaper clothes. An idea occurred to me - how quickly would her bouffant ignite if it were hit with a perfectly arched flaming arrow? The notion twisted my lips into a genuine smile, and I daintily cleared my throat. Flaming Bouffant Judge seemed to mistake that for shyness. “Your talent is ballet, right?”
“Don’t let the sparkly tutu mislead you,” I said, my tiny, screeching soprano voice bouncing off the walls of the auditorium and drilling into the ears and brains of the human mass before me. “While I have little doubt in the superiority of my ballet skills, I feel it would just be an insulting display after Annabelle’s hackneyed baton-twirling. She has stolen sixty seconds of life from every person in this room, an offense akin to manslaughter in my opinion, and a grim reminder of our all-too-brief time on this planet.”
Dramatic sobs echoed from backstage, an attempt by Annabelle to earn pity points from the judges. They were clearly cowed by my frankness, but of course the show - making impressionable girls reinforce toxic societal practices because of tradition - must go on. Flaming Bouffant looked at the other judges and then back to me. “So what talent would you like to perform today?”
A wave of nausea overtook me, but I bit the vomit back through sheer will. With unapologetic honesty, a bit of nervousness was to be expected. “I have titled this thesis - Existential Dread and the Unnecessity of Pageants. As H.P. Lovecraft said ‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents... some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new Dark Age.’”
Mother’s shoulders slumped for a few moments, as her brain processed my speech. The judges and audience members exchanged looks, but I pressed on admirably through the introduction. It was then that Mother regained her sensibilities and struck at me like lightning, seizing my wrist and dragging me off stage before I could embarrass her further. My ballet honed flexibility allowed me to wrench free long enough to run back out and proclaim, “Everything in the world displeases me: but, above all, my displeasure in everything displeases me!” Mother returned posthaste, seizing me by the waist this time, but failing still to silence me. “That was Nietzsche. Read a book!” And then we were backstage, but apparently not far enough backstage. I was hauled through the building, past my weeping competition(Annabelle’s crocodile tears appeared to be contagious) and out a one-way door to the parking lot.
It was then that Mother finally released me, my ballet slippers resting on the sidewalk. I immediately unbunned my hair in protest. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS???” Mother screeched.
Our cold glares met, ice against ice. “We live on a placid island of ignorance, Mom,” I explained.
The standoff ended when Dad finally arrived, huffing and sweating, having clearly sprinted around the building from the auditorium. He was likely disappointed that my performance interrupted his attempts to flirt with a lady usher, but he maintained an impressive poker face. As he wedged himself in between us, he tried to ease the tension with his usual ineptitude. “I think maybe we should focus on the fact that a lot of people get nervous about public speaking, but Regan’s a natural. Proud of you, kiddo.”
“No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace, Dad,” I said from behind him, as mother continued to fume.
Dad’s poor peacemaking continued. “And H.P. Lovecraft was a huge racist, but she completely avoided the racism. Which, I think, says a lot about our parenting.”
Mother refused to unclench her teeth. “I. Am getting. The car.”
As she walked away from us, I could practically hear her teeth grinding. And as she rounded the corner, I definitely heard the hellish, inhuman scream that she let out. Dad winced at the sound, and tried to ease his own tension with a paternal mussing of my hair. “Hope this doesn’t make you think less of me and your mom.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” I said. “Generational wealth has insulated you from the struggles of real people and your mutual disdain for each other has left you numb--”
His wallet was out in a flash, and he was already fumbling for bills when he interrupted me. “Here’s five-hundred. Buy a dress or some video games or a book about that Dracula lady you like.”
I took the money. Being without a purse or pockets, I squeezed my fist around it covetously, a slave to the same banal greed that plagued Voorheeses since arriving in the hellscape of the New World. “Her name is Elizabeth Báthory. A bit of a lazy reference point, as she’s arguably the best known female serial killer in history. I’m actually more in Ranavalona right now.”
Another hair mussing, as Mother finally pulled the Mercedes around and glared at us to get in. “I bet you are, pumpkin,” Dad said. His chuckle was that of a man who saw doom before him, but knew he was helpless to resist.
The Unknowable Regan Voorhees
(Best paired with Graham Plowman’s “The King in Yellow” and The Lurking Fear)
Nearly three weeks since the Execution Cage match with Addy and my body still ached. If I had it to do over, I would’ve handled things differently. The feud, the matches, the everything probably took years off my career. The AW Cruiserweight Title was my first championship in wrestling. My attachment was as sentimental as it was professional, and in keeping that particular accolade on my own velvet pillow, I acted in especially rash ways. A lady never forgets her first, of course.
I’ve always prided myself on my ability to separate professional and personal. In a business where any minor indiscretion can spin out into a years-spanning blood feud, I aspired to be the exception. The person who always, always, always keeps her focus on winning, forward momentum, championships. Unfailing devotion to my own success paired with cold, clinical reasoning. A spotless scalpel of sensibility in a world full of dull hammers looking for rusty nails. If anyone else is unfortunate enough to get butthurt, or actual-for-real-hurt, in the wake of my accomplishments…
Well, that’s not really my problem, is it?
So I thought, but I was unprepared for the reality. The consequences that would follow when I pushed a person too far for the sake of my own gain. As it turns out, people who get actual-for-real-hurt - let’s say from getting run over by a car as an example - they tend to want to hurt back. I won the war against Addy, but emerged with no title and a shattered minion who, coincidentally, is also a human being who theoretically has friends, loved ones, and his own aspirations. To be perfectly honest, I never asked Joey myself because he had the conversation skills of a libidinous baboon. But I assume.
The outcome left me with a great deal to think about, so I went off the grid(mostly, but who can begrudge my hilarious tweets?), as the kids say.
Action Wrestling would surely be waiting while I recovered. And after such a grueling, costly battle I could expect an easy opponent when I made my triumphant return. A cakewalk to welcome back CruiserClash’s favorite daughter.
Such a naive idea. It’s tempting to think the universe laughed at me. But that’s only vanity.
The universe never cared at all.
(´・(00)・`)
I have no idea who trained me to wrestle.
Don’t worry. I’m not an amnesiac, a creature created in a laboratory or a tulpa willed into existence by those who fear me. This was by design. A practical decision made by someone who sees ties to other human beings as a liability. Those connections lead to easily exploitable weaknesses. If the identity of my trainer is known, they would have more insight into my skills and shortcomings than anyone, even myself. If pressed by a particularly savvy opponent, that would be disastrous. Not to mention the ever dangerous sentimentality, be it mutual or otherwise.
Naturally, I did the only sensible thing. My assistants were responsible for finding me a teacher according to certain criteria - a woman, similar build and body type to my own, at least a decade of in-ring experience, with an emphasis on technical expertise. From there, an algorithm was developed to rank the candidates. The position included a non-disclosure agreement, with a series of additional caveats. Being rich, I’m allowed to be eccentric.
The ring was setup at my home in Birmingham, within a spacious parlor. The furniture was removed, even the antique fainting couch, to make room for the squared circle. Per my conditions, the trainer had to work in a full mask and keep their entire body covered from fingertips to toes. The Mystery Trainer typically opted for a combination of ring gear and leotard. I charitably had a series of fans installed to ensure they would not overheat and promote air circulation over our eight-plus hours training Mondays through Saturdays. Not a perfect system, but it kept me from forming any impractical attachments and allowed me to focus exclusively on honing my skills.
On the first day, I explained myself, as I sat on one of the freshly carved wooden benches and laced my boots. “Consider this a business transaction. I am giving you rare authority to criticize me. Extensively. You have free reign to tell me if I’m doing something poorly, incorrectly, not at all. Don’t coddle me just because I’m paying you. My goal is to debut professionally in one year. Until then, I want to be trained as impeccably as possible.”
“I can do that,” said the Mystery Trainer. She started to crack her knuckles, but caught herself. Even nervous tics and go-to gestures would be an indicator of her identity, something my assistants would’ve advised against at my command. To guard against any interpersonal bonding, I planned to treat her like a soulless automaton. I asked only the same courtesy in return.
My boots laced, I stood up and noticed we were the same height. “Per the NDA, you will not be allowed to discuss my training with anyone, under penalty of law, blah blah blah. The too-long, didn’t-read version is I sue you into oblivion if the agreement is violated. I have no interest in your identity. To me, you are unknowable. An eldritch deity made flesh.”
“What?” the Mystery Trainer asked.
I pushed past her, taking the short walk to the ring. My ring. “You’ll get used to me. Where do we start?” I climbed the stairs, gripping the top rope and pulling myself to the apron. Once I entered, there would be no going back.
The Mystery Trainer, less dramatically, merely rolled into the ring and jumped to her feet. “Can you lock up?”
I stared at her. “No,” I admitted. “Show me.” And so I stepped through the ropes, forever casting my old life into the abyss, with no intent to look back.
(´・(00)・`)
I spent that year as an exceptional student. For the sake of my in-ring education, I relaxed my usual argumentative nature so that I could focus on learning. The progress was intoxicating, as incremental improvements led to mastery(or the closest thing to it I could achieve until I was faced with actual opponents). The year passed in a blink. Before long, the Mystery Trainer’s contract expired and we were on the final session. A review of the most basic of basics. Our last lockup. When I caught her in a hammerlock, she cracked me in the temple with an elbow. Back in session two, we discussed her not pulling punches. The discussion involved me telling her not to, quite literally, after my eyebrow was grazed by a right jab that I felt was lackadaisical. She agreed, but seemed to hide a certain enthusiasm at the prospect. What wage slave wouldn’t relish the opportunity to crack their boss in the face?
The elbow sent me tumbling back into the ropes, where I steadied myself for a counterattack. But then the buzzer blared and my training was concluded. “You good?” she asked, a final display of professionalism.
“Yes,” I said, but she had already rolled out of the ring, eager to rehydrate with a bottle of water from the makeshift gym’s fridge. An agreeable proposition, and I quickly followed, head still ringing from the elbow. The Mystery Trainer took a swig, draining half the bottle, before going to collect her gym bag from one of the benches. She suddenly seemed uncommunicative, which I found troubling. “Your final assessment of my progress?” I asked. It was mostly a question, partly a demand.
She shrugged. “Not really. You’ll probably do okay.”
My hand squeezed my own water bottle. If the top hadn’t been sealed, it would have erupted like a volcano, a (literally)clear metaphor for my simmering rage. “I’ll do okay? That’s it?”
Again, she shrugged. “I’m not here to give you a pat on the head. You wanted a business transaction, you got it. I’m off the clock.”
The Mystery Trainer turned her back to me, then walked out. The contract was fulfilled. Provided she didn’t violate the NDA, we were done. There was no discussion of my future from there. Not my own contractual prospects, my upcoming debut, none of it. As professional an arrangement as I demanded.
Another person discarded after my own needs were met. I wondered if that might be a bad thing, but remained uncertain. The two of us entered into an agreement, and both fulfilled our obligations. Yet I found myself expecting more. An undefinable reward for dedicating myself so fully. Sipping my water, I puzzled over the conundrum of interpersonal dynamics, human connection, the unfathomable.
But no, that couldn’t be it.
(´・(00)・`)
February 22nd, 2021 was something of an odd evening for me.
Not beating Lissie Hope at CruiserClash, of course. If you say you didn’t see that one coming, you’re a liar. I’m talking about the aftermath.
I won’t deny that my opinion of our species is often bleakly nihilistic. I believe that humanity’s happiest ending would be to blink into extinction in an instant, following a quick-freeze from a dying sun that was finally ready to enjoy some me-time after a few billion years of working its fingers to the photosphere. Of course, that would also be the end for all our planet’s delightful non-human species, not to mention my own existence(yes, I know, I’m part of the problem), so no bueno.
My confidence wasn’t lacking on that particular evening, but I’m not an idiot. Facing an Action mainstay like Lissie Hope was as much of an opportunity as it was a baptism by fire. A good showing, win or lose, and my career was established. Regan Voorhees was undeniable. Had I failed, however, a tumble down the card would follow. Curtain jerking, starting over, perhaps disappearing altogether like so many others who took their first major loss. I wouldn’t say I exceeded my own expectations, but I surprised a great many people who thought I was nothing more than a stunning sociopath with a penchant for pastels and faux-fur. I defeated Lissie Hope.
A gift and a curse, a tough act to follow, pick your cliche. Further success and titles would come after, along with more… questionable… deeds. But something about that evening was different, like it occurred in some fantastical bubble. A dream I woke up from, a recurring nightmare. Had I peaked already?
Two months into my career and I made Lissie Hope tap out to the Red Camelia. It was fucking delicious. The kind of syrupy sweetness that would make a pantheon of gods set the ambrosia and nectar aside, that they might drink deep from the well of Regan. The crowd couldn’t even believe it. No cheers, no jeers. Just stunned, horrified, unbelieving silence. Even after, I couldn’t take my eyes off the ring, that whole time I was backpedaling up the ramp. My legs worked, but I was numb.
My perfect teeth dug into my bottom lip, not a smile, but a reasonable facsimile. When I tasted blood, I knew the dream was reality. My way was right. No relationships - friendly, romantic, or otherwise - to complicate things. Atlanta, Georgia and the entire world saw Regan Voorhees beat Lissie Hope.
Then you nodded at me.
Fair enough. I was the promising rookie. You were the established veteran, the figurehead, the first ballot hall-of-famer, one-fourth of so many fans’ Action Wrestling Mount Rushmore. You didn’t have to face me, of course. While I certainly rose to the occasion, you provided me with the opportunity. Don’t think I’m oblivious to that. Some people might think I should actually be more grateful. Send a gift basket of vegan cheeses, a bottle of Balvenie, tickets to Immersive Van Gogh. Maybe I should cut off Atticus’ head and present it to Lissie Hope on a silver fucking platter. After all, she nodded at me.
After I won.
But it’s fine. A minor gesture. A show of respect. The dying art of sportsmanship. An acknowledgement that while I got the better of you this time, we would surely meet again. This was merely Regan Voorhees versus Lissie Hope: Part One.
And then the clapping, Lissie. But not just you. Them. The entire Hawks Arena joined in at your behest. Thousands of people, showing their respect, their admiration, their approval - as if it was something I needed. A nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. You turned my victory against me.
Polite to a fault, of course, I nodded back. It was all I could think to do, as I dug perfectly manicured fingernails into my palms. All that effort to avoid complications, human connection, the great unknown. You undid it all with a single nod. How could I not hate you in that moment?
Backstage I vomited, the cheers still ringing in my ears, shattering my equilibrium with a sense of Lissie-induced vertigo. My victory felt like a distant memory already. My career had been made in a single night, yet here I sat on a dirty bathroom floor, utterly undone by people clapping, because Lissie Hope told them to.
Not a situation I hoped to repeat. I never realized that in fighting to keep people from my personal orbit, I developed something of a psychological aversion to human acceptance. My practiced pretentiousness wasn’t enough of a deterrent. The solution? To armor myself in viciousness, go to unfathomable lengths to secure my own success, to absolutely ravage anyone who dared challenge me. Addy was only the beginning. Stone to sharpen my knife upon. Run a finger across the blade and you won’t even feel the steel bite into you until you're bleeding out.
I saw what you were doing with that nod, Lissie. To take away my accomplishment. To let the world know that you approve of Regan Voorhees, and that they had your permission to cheer for me. That night in Atlanta seems so long ago, but here we are, back in the Hollywood of the South. And I’m going to turn Monday into a horror movie. Burn down Lissie Hope and Atlanta both, if I have to.
I don’t just want Turmoil, Lissie. I want to make you sorry you ever thought I needed your endorsement.
I’m the one who defines Regan Voorhees. And redefines her.
I don’t think you’re going to like the new definition.