Post by Regan Voorhees on Dec 3, 2021 23:54:12 GMT -5
Being eaten by wolves would’ve been lovely, a perfect bit of pig parallelism to accent my demise should I perish on a snow-covered mountain in Japan. Most people prefer to ring in the new year with alcohol, companionship or at the very least a warm place to lie down. But as 2020 bled out so that 2021 could slither forth from time’s womb, I trudged through ankle deep icy misery, across inhospitable stone in search of something greater than impending hangovers and empty resolutions. Still given to wild flights of childish whimsy, I couldn’t help but wear a red jacket complete with hood, in defiance of Japan’s regrettably extinct canids, be they big, bad or otherwise. As if my fashion choice was enough to will them out of extinction. Huffing, puffing - ready to gobble me up should I veer from my course. A fairy tail tulpa to spur me forward. Tragically, my best hope would likely be a group of hikers discovering my thawed body next spring. On the bright side, my corpse would surely ruin their day.
Ask a Takayama local where the secret, non-tourist-friendly Mount Hotakadake sanctuary is and you’re likely to be met with dumbfounded stares, dismissive glares, and impolite airs. I certainly was, and rudeness is not something I abide, whatever side of the world I might find myself on. Gifu prefecture winters were inhospitable enough for an Alabama native, but at least back home we had the decency to feign politeness. Fortunately, be it yen or dollar, money transcends manners and loosens tongues in any language.
I was an ignorant American tourist, convinced by wrestling legends and reddit threads that the mountain hid a reclusive guru who could teach me something beyond slams and suplexes. It was the stuff of kungfu pulp and anime banality, but wrestling was a world of marvels and mysteries still unfolding before me. With only one match to my credit and a second only days away, my logical mind puzzled over the seemingly impossible feats my new coworkers were capable of. Superhuman strength and endurance were impressive, but not unexplainable among top-tier athletes. Teleportation was another matter. Even necromancy, for lack of a better description. Was it all mere showmanship and chicancery? Or had my entry into the squared circle pierced the veil of reality itself?
The question seemed less important as my nose went increasingly numb. Attempts to further close my hoodie only provided so much protection, but I kept jerking the drawstrings every few seconds, a mindless repetition to keep my brain busy as I pressed forward, snow crunching beneath my boots like bone. Soon enough, I’d be putting my boots to people again. The thought kept me going, with a little help from the skinny caramel granola cluster in my stomach. On I went, through freezing temperatures, rocky terrain and impending frostbite until I finally saw light. The wind carried my laughter, which was every bit as cold, and sent it rebounding off the peaks surrounding me, like the frozen wail of some backpacking banshee. I trudged with renewed enthusiasm, eager to be in the presence of architecture once again. My knock on the door was devoid of any rhythm, just a ceaseless sound to let any inhabitants know that I was outside and I was persistent.
My hand kept knocking, even after the door swung open and there was nothing left to knock on. A Japanese woman answered, pajamaed but otherwise unperturbed, almost as if she was expecting an unwelcome guest on New Year’s Eve. Uncharacteristically relieved to see a human face, I rolled the snowball of conversation so that it might become an avalanche of discourse. “Gasshō-zukuri, late Edo Period if I’m not mistaken,” I said, remarking on her home’s style. Even in the frozen fingers of Death, I retained my ability to be a know-it-all. “So sorry for the intrusion, but the cold has left me a smidge delirious.”
Through a behemothian display of willpower, I managed not to invite myself in. Verbally, at least. My eyes darted from those of my wouldbe host, to the warm abode within. After several seconds, she took the hint and waved me through the door. Inside I was quick to shed my shoes and slide off my backpack. A fire within welcomed me, and it took my remaining determination not to collapse beside it, opting instead to cross my legs on the floor and remove my gloves so that some feeling might return to my fingers. The voice of my host startled me. “何があなたをここに連れて来るのか?” she asked.
“トランザクション.” I said, the words catching in my throat. The sound of my own unfamiliarity with her language made me groan. “Apologies, my Japanese is abysmal. Crash-coursed on the flight over, I’m afraid. I typically prefer to be a more respectful guest, but I’ve also been told you speak English. If you’re willing to indulge me, I think this exchange could be quite lucrative.” My lips smiled, a display of harmlessness without the need to bear my teeth. Not yet.
My hostesses did not smile back, but went about making a pot of tea. “Acting respectful doesn’t make you respectful, Miss Voorhees,” she said, her English less imperfect than my Japanese. “But it’s good that you made the trip without dying.”
This time I smiled with my teeth. “I agree.”
In the final round of Turmoil I meet Downfall. A delightful bit of double entendre to emphasize the finality. We each survived three rounds of an Action Wrestling who’s who so that one of us could fail all the more spectacularly. Turmoil finalist is reason enough for a wrestler to update their resume, but I can’t imagine you find the prospect of collapsing right before the finish line to be particularly appealing, Mr. Fehl. You seem like the type who would much rather go out with a bang than a whimper. Pummeled until you’re nothing more than a spot of blood on the mat, no excuses, no future, no regrets. Then I’ll use what’s left of you to spell my name, with an anarchy symbol for the A, of course.
Second-Best Wrestler of the Year just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Personally, I think I’d rather choke to death on a rice puff the night before than lose to you. An ignoble end over a grand defeat. Leaving the question of who’s better - Downfall or Regan Voorhees - forever a mystery. I worry that I won’t like the answer. And I worry even more that you’re not as worried as I am.
But I must confess, I’m dying to find out. The very notion of losing to you, Mr. Fehl, it terrifies me. Sickens me. Even with the years left in my career, all that time to gain experience, to get better. All the possibilities of Turmoils to come. Empty platitudes about getting them next year, sport. You have something I don’t. That desperation that comes prepackaged with a body ready to betray you. My countermeasure is rookie vigor and the absolutely salivating prospect of winning my first Turmoil in the first year of my career. I certainly think I’ll do whatever it takes to win today, but in a moment of decision, how willing am I to gamble with my tomorrows? I have all the time in the world. You don’t.
I thought I wanted to face Johnny Bacchus. The twisted reflection from my own generation, chaotic good to my lawful evil. Someone I could Twitter-spar with, in the age old battle of unfeeling establishmentarianism versus hipster militance. Poseur versus hauteur. You can pick which of us is which. But no, to paraphrase someone(Jill Park, I believe), what I’m looking for has been here the whole time. A bitter, miserable dying sun(or son if you prefer) determined to keep burning just to spite the cold, lifeless void. And that void’s name was Regan, Mr. Fehl
Order to chaos, civilization to savagery. Rampant, unchecked avarice wrapped in a bow and made law. The person whose insurance repairs the damage from your molotovs. Capitalism’s own bouncing baby girl. Born with more than I will ever need and taking more from people like just because I can. Just because even among your meager belongings, you have something that I want and I will not stop until I have it. You gave everything to the wrestling, Mr. Fehl.
I already had everything. Society dealt me a winning hand, and the stupids resent me for playing it. But in the end, all I could give is myself, the same as you. The difference between us is that I had options. I chose my path.
You’re the scion of Donald Fehl, destined to be here, a prince of professional wrestling playing the pauper. The sport runs in your blood. I got here on blood as well. Gallons of the stuff. Private wrestling training doesn’t come cheap.
An average slaughterhouse kills one-thousand pigs per hour, and that killing keeps me in comfort and cocktails. The honorable thing would be to shun the family fortune, or perhaps even dismantle the entire business. Leave the pigs to a less merciful butcher while I enjoy my moral superiority. Pat myself on the back for not reaping the benefits of something I abhor.
But morals are negotiable, Mr. Fehl. My tolerance keeps thousands of Voorhees Farms employees working, paying their bills, feeding their families. It would be fair to call me a hypocrite, but the cost of my altruism is a bottomless well of repressed rage, honed to laser focus so that I might thrive in a world I have no place in. Your world.
You were given more than you’ll ever realize. And I look forward to taking it from you.
“Very mature, Constance!” I screamed, my words aimed at the top of the rockface, a ten-foot climb from my current location. My fingers clinched the stones for dear life, but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the hundred-or-so feet of open air below so that I could watch my rope twist to the ground. The end was frayed from where Constance’s knife sawed through the fibers, her latest display of cousin-on-cousin violence following our graduation girls trip to Yellowstone. An octet of wolves gathered at the spot where I was most likely to impact once my grip gave out. It was then I realized that Constance smothered my boots in an experimental pork flavoring that Voorhees Farms had yet to implement. That explained their pursuit, the excuse for our trek up the rocks. As far as murder attempts went, it was a solid six-out-of-ten.
But along with my admiration, there was another, less familiar feeling. An odd sensation in my chest, seemingly a reaction to her betrayal. Despite our differences, Constance was the only Voorhees cousin I had any semblance of closeness with. Intent on breaking me out of what she called my ‘shell of sociopathy,” she dragged me along on many of her adrenaline junkie misadventures. Even though I found none particularly thrilling, there was an odd sense of gratification in having another person seek my company, and I began to look forward to our excursions. Swimming with sharks was pleasant, particularly when we chummed the waters for the tourists who swam after we did. Skydiving was ho-hum, though we shared a laugh at the embarrassing nature of our instructor’s chute failing to open(politely, we subdued said laughter when his remains were found - I hoped for some sort of cartoonish person-shaped hole in the ground but was left disappointed by the red stain that used to be Patrick but now seemed more like Flatrick). The camping and rock climbing were among our more lowkey jaunts, but the mood turned sour the night before during a bout of girl talk. As I inched up the crevice, gripping rock by jagged rock, a realization struck me. By the time I finally reached the top, I saw Constance sitting with her knees to her chest, horrified they I had pushed her so far to a mediocre attempted murder. “Are you going to apologize?” she squeaked.
I dusted myself off, then glanced back at the wolves one-hundred feet below us. My boots still reeked of pork, a predator’s ambrosia. I considered tying them around Constance’s neck and shoving her to a lupine doom, but I chose diplomacy and an explanation for my indiscretions. “He gave you a promise ring,” I reminded her. “Stop being a child and at least have the dignity to get properly engaged.”
Her voice devolved into a series of tearful shrieks, the type of sound that would frighten off any Yellowstone predator, apex or otherwise. The wolves below scattered back into the forest. Constance squealed something about rescinding a nonexistent offer for me to be her maid of honor. I realized then that she and I would soon be spending much less time together. Though I would develop a yearly ritual of indulging in an interpersonal relationship, just to remind myself of how awful they were. The sort of thing a normal person does when they eat a McRib.
Constance was still shaken, somewhere between furious and mournful, so I went about arranging lunch. From my knapsack, I removed a checkerboard napkin and set out a selection of snacks. I started with a cube of coconut pepper jack. “You know,” I said, reopening the conversational floodgate. “You really shouldn’t have cut the rope when I was this close to the top. The climb was barely an inconvenience. It’s like you weren’t even trying.”
“You’re insane,” she whined, clutching her knees tighter and turning her back to me.
My fingers pinched around a russet potato croquette that looked especially tasty. “I disagree.”
Ten days before I set foot on Mount Hotakadake, I stepped into an Action Wrestling ring for the first time, to make my professional debut in a battle royal. Amid the chaos of CruiserHavoc 3 I found something that had been missing. Constance tried her best to help find something that would thrill me, but the thing my heart longed for was glorious combat. A world of athletes, fighters, monsters and maniacs - all perfectly capable of orchestrating my doom. A world where I was actually challenged and would have to apply the entirety of my efforts to success. Everything I had ever wanted and more. Even failure was thrilling. The sensation was intoxicating, and in retrospect I have no doubt said intoxication made it that much easier for Sara Pettis to eliminate me. But the failure wasn’t just educational. It was a chance to reassess what I did wrong and improve. Defeat spurred me on. I wanted more.
With such an unexplored world before me, I was desperate to enhance my abilities. To learn things that my opponents wouldn’t expect from a preposterously privileged heiress who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be merely playing wrestler. That was what brought me to Japan, to Mount Hotakadake, to the sanctuary home of the woman before me. A satisfaction of my curiosity and a further honing of my skills. The secret I sought wasn’t what I was expecting, but that only seemed to make it more amusing. The two of us sipped tea that was thankfully loaded with rum, as the fire helped combat the cold wind screaming outside. My hands kept creeping back to the pill bottle she shared with me, examining the red capsules inside. “So…” I said, doing a poor job at hiding my disappointment. “This is the secret to red mist?”
She stared at me for a moment, surprised at my naivete. “Is that really the only reason you climbed a frozen mountain?”
Her accusatory tone made me defensive, as if she was implying I had no experience mountain climbing. I considered regaling her with the anecdote of how my cousin once tried to murder me on a mountain, but worried it might make my family seem deranged. “I’m here because I like to challenge myself. And I wanted to try the local Hoba Miso back in town - delectable, by the way. But I was really hoping for something a bit more… fantastical. Demonic possession, implanting a special mist gland. Would’ve even settled for an ancient martial arts technique.” To my horror, that last sentence sounded much more offensive when I said it outloud. Instead of apologizing, a took a long gulp of tea, the rum within silencing a further intercultural faux pas.
My hostess powered through, maintaining the steady conversational course of red mist. “Nope,” she said. “Just capsules. Pop it under your tongue where you can gather saliva, and when it starts to dissolve, get to spitting. Aim for the eyes, but don’t worry if you’re a little off. Sweat and panicked hand-rubbing will do the rest of the work. Try not to swallow them. They’re not easy on the digestive system. You’ll also want to brush your teeth after the match.”
“I do that anyway,” I said, without admitting to my post-CruiserHavoc vomiting session. Presumably caused by rookie nerves. Not something likely to become a habit. “Pardon my candor, but aesthetically, red mist fits me to a tee. Normally I would play the shrew negotiator, but I have no desire to waste your time. I want the whole bottle. How much?” The pills shifted inside the plastic container as it turned over in my hands. I was practically hypnotized, fantasies of blind and defenseless opponents dancing in my head, their destinies all converging in my Abattoir.
She waved me off. “Consider it a kindness, my reward for your perilous journey.”
That amused me. My teeth showed an approximation of a smile that my eyes did not reflect. “I’m not in the business of kindness. I came here for a transaction. Name your price and I’m sure I can meet it.”
Her eyes smiled, but her mouth didn’t. Mockery, an inverse of my own expression. A reclusive fighting guru would receive few visitors. She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to toy with me. “The price is that you accept my gift, Miss Voorhees. Nothing more.”
“You knew my name,” I reminded her. “I trust you’re familiar with who I am.”
The words were meant to inspire awe with a dash of intimidation. “I am,” she said. “You made quite the spectacle of yourself back in town. The rich American tourist who threatened multiple restaurants with one-star Yelp reviews. I do have wi-fi.”
Knots formed in my stomach, an intestinal demand to retake control of the conversation. Taking my phone from my backpack, I prepared her financial compensation. “Then you must have Venmo. How’s ten-thousand sound? For the capsules, the tea, the hospitality, the inconvenience. More than fair.”
She sipped her own tea, the corners of her lips playing at the slightest of smiles, though her face refused to commit. But her eyes twinkled with amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Or you can ring in 2021 here. We can enjoy each other’s company, some pleasant conversation, more tea. And in the morning you can walk back to Takayama with what you came for, free of charge. Those are my terms. If you would like to continue treating this as a negotiation, then your only counteroffer would be to walk out of my home and freeze to death on this mountain.”
My perfect teeth bit into my bottom lip. My right hand grabbed my tea cup, absorbing the uncomfortable heat, almost as if I could store it for the hike back. “Thank you very much for having me,” I said, not even bothering to sound sincere. Repacking my things, I left the mist capsules in front of the fire. Stealing was beneath me, no matter how much I wanted them, and I certainly wasn’t about to grovel. I used lacing up my boots as an exercise in meditation, something to focus my attention on instead of further acknowledging the woman. It was 10:14pm local time, according to my phone. I would arrive back in Takayama a few hours into 2021. Auld lang kill me.
The lacing stopped when I heard an unexpected, but familiar sound. The unwelcome wrath of the untamed world, brought back to life like some fairy tale monster. A howl. Either decided wolfen or belong to a South American monkey who was far from home and excellent at impressions. My hostess refilled my tea, and nodded to the spot where I was sitting a moment ago. Defeated, I unlaced my boots. “I thought all the wolves in Japan were extinct,” I mumbled, sounding more like a sulking child than I would’ve liked.
“So did I,” the woman said. “I’m sure they’ll be extinct again come morning.”
I retook my seat, hands pressing against the steaming mug in front of me. It occurred to me to scald her with it, but as always, I minded my manners. “I accept your arrangement,” I said, keeping my tone flat so as not to betray the misery of defeat. “Do excuse my earlier behavior. I can be a bit... difficult... when it comes to people.”
Her own mug billowed with steam, but the heat did not deter her from drinking. “That must be a lonely way to live your life, Miss Voorhees.”
I sipped the scalding tea, barely phased when it burned past my own lips. “I agree.”
Wolves run in packs. Even the baddest ones. I resent you for that, Mr. Fehl. A thus far unbetrayed Dionysus stands ready to cheer you to victory at Turmoil, another accolade to celebrate alongside your partner. All the way to the top, Wrestler of the Year, without burning every single bridge behind you. The ability to put as much faith in another person as you do yourself. You make me want to vomit.
The big bad wolf who might, deep down, have a heart of gold. The power of friendship has weakened you, like slow-burn arc of a recurring cartoon villain. You don’t even have what it takes to swallow a grandmother and assume her identity anymore. You destroyed all the stick and straw houses so long ago. But now you're in a world of bricks, Mr. Fehl. Huff all you like, but I’m about to bury an axe in your stomach and fill it with rocks. Swallow me whole, and I shall slice my way out. Bleed all you like on my hood. It's red already.
I’m not about to subject myself to watching you celebrate alongside your partner. You don’t get to share a victory with friends and fans at my expense. Wrestler of the Year is prize to be savored in solitary, a singular achievement for the exceptional. You certainly belong here, but facing an uncertain future and impending obsoletion, you just had to prove to the world that deep down, you might be an all right guy. It's enough to make a lady wonder.
After years of sabotaging relationships, shunning human connection, presenting an aura of awfulness - was I right? Putting myself above all others? Leaving no room in my life for any sapient creature? I knew there wouldn't be room for them to stand beside me at the top of the mountain and so... I spared them the pain of watching me surpass them. No one will share in my success or pat me on the back. I'm kindhearted in my own way, but I'm certainly not weak enough to fall prey to a toothless wolf. Bear your fangs, Downfall. I don't want your best. I want your worst.
Curious how mine compares. Am I just a pork snack for the Beast Unleashed. Or is this little piggy going to be your butcher?
Don't be afraid to show me a nightmarish evening. After Sunday, it's the only thing one of us will have left.
Ask a Takayama local where the secret, non-tourist-friendly Mount Hotakadake sanctuary is and you’re likely to be met with dumbfounded stares, dismissive glares, and impolite airs. I certainly was, and rudeness is not something I abide, whatever side of the world I might find myself on. Gifu prefecture winters were inhospitable enough for an Alabama native, but at least back home we had the decency to feign politeness. Fortunately, be it yen or dollar, money transcends manners and loosens tongues in any language.
I was an ignorant American tourist, convinced by wrestling legends and reddit threads that the mountain hid a reclusive guru who could teach me something beyond slams and suplexes. It was the stuff of kungfu pulp and anime banality, but wrestling was a world of marvels and mysteries still unfolding before me. With only one match to my credit and a second only days away, my logical mind puzzled over the seemingly impossible feats my new coworkers were capable of. Superhuman strength and endurance were impressive, but not unexplainable among top-tier athletes. Teleportation was another matter. Even necromancy, for lack of a better description. Was it all mere showmanship and chicancery? Or had my entry into the squared circle pierced the veil of reality itself?
The question seemed less important as my nose went increasingly numb. Attempts to further close my hoodie only provided so much protection, but I kept jerking the drawstrings every few seconds, a mindless repetition to keep my brain busy as I pressed forward, snow crunching beneath my boots like bone. Soon enough, I’d be putting my boots to people again. The thought kept me going, with a little help from the skinny caramel granola cluster in my stomach. On I went, through freezing temperatures, rocky terrain and impending frostbite until I finally saw light. The wind carried my laughter, which was every bit as cold, and sent it rebounding off the peaks surrounding me, like the frozen wail of some backpacking banshee. I trudged with renewed enthusiasm, eager to be in the presence of architecture once again. My knock on the door was devoid of any rhythm, just a ceaseless sound to let any inhabitants know that I was outside and I was persistent.
My hand kept knocking, even after the door swung open and there was nothing left to knock on. A Japanese woman answered, pajamaed but otherwise unperturbed, almost as if she was expecting an unwelcome guest on New Year’s Eve. Uncharacteristically relieved to see a human face, I rolled the snowball of conversation so that it might become an avalanche of discourse. “Gasshō-zukuri, late Edo Period if I’m not mistaken,” I said, remarking on her home’s style. Even in the frozen fingers of Death, I retained my ability to be a know-it-all. “So sorry for the intrusion, but the cold has left me a smidge delirious.”
Through a behemothian display of willpower, I managed not to invite myself in. Verbally, at least. My eyes darted from those of my wouldbe host, to the warm abode within. After several seconds, she took the hint and waved me through the door. Inside I was quick to shed my shoes and slide off my backpack. A fire within welcomed me, and it took my remaining determination not to collapse beside it, opting instead to cross my legs on the floor and remove my gloves so that some feeling might return to my fingers. The voice of my host startled me. “何があなたをここに連れて来るのか?” she asked.
“トランザクション.” I said, the words catching in my throat. The sound of my own unfamiliarity with her language made me groan. “Apologies, my Japanese is abysmal. Crash-coursed on the flight over, I’m afraid. I typically prefer to be a more respectful guest, but I’ve also been told you speak English. If you’re willing to indulge me, I think this exchange could be quite lucrative.” My lips smiled, a display of harmlessness without the need to bear my teeth. Not yet.
My hostesses did not smile back, but went about making a pot of tea. “Acting respectful doesn’t make you respectful, Miss Voorhees,” she said, her English less imperfect than my Japanese. “But it’s good that you made the trip without dying.”
This time I smiled with my teeth. “I agree.”
(´・(00)・`)
Red
(Best paired with Amanda Seyfried’s rendition of “Little Red Riding Hood” and a Scarlet Tea Cocktail)
In the final round of Turmoil I meet Downfall. A delightful bit of double entendre to emphasize the finality. We each survived three rounds of an Action Wrestling who’s who so that one of us could fail all the more spectacularly. Turmoil finalist is reason enough for a wrestler to update their resume, but I can’t imagine you find the prospect of collapsing right before the finish line to be particularly appealing, Mr. Fehl. You seem like the type who would much rather go out with a bang than a whimper. Pummeled until you’re nothing more than a spot of blood on the mat, no excuses, no future, no regrets. Then I’ll use what’s left of you to spell my name, with an anarchy symbol for the A, of course.
Second-Best Wrestler of the Year just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Personally, I think I’d rather choke to death on a rice puff the night before than lose to you. An ignoble end over a grand defeat. Leaving the question of who’s better - Downfall or Regan Voorhees - forever a mystery. I worry that I won’t like the answer. And I worry even more that you’re not as worried as I am.
But I must confess, I’m dying to find out. The very notion of losing to you, Mr. Fehl, it terrifies me. Sickens me. Even with the years left in my career, all that time to gain experience, to get better. All the possibilities of Turmoils to come. Empty platitudes about getting them next year, sport. You have something I don’t. That desperation that comes prepackaged with a body ready to betray you. My countermeasure is rookie vigor and the absolutely salivating prospect of winning my first Turmoil in the first year of my career. I certainly think I’ll do whatever it takes to win today, but in a moment of decision, how willing am I to gamble with my tomorrows? I have all the time in the world. You don’t.
I thought I wanted to face Johnny Bacchus. The twisted reflection from my own generation, chaotic good to my lawful evil. Someone I could Twitter-spar with, in the age old battle of unfeeling establishmentarianism versus hipster militance. Poseur versus hauteur. You can pick which of us is which. But no, to paraphrase someone(Jill Park, I believe), what I’m looking for has been here the whole time. A bitter, miserable dying sun(or son if you prefer) determined to keep burning just to spite the cold, lifeless void. And that void’s name was Regan, Mr. Fehl
Order to chaos, civilization to savagery. Rampant, unchecked avarice wrapped in a bow and made law. The person whose insurance repairs the damage from your molotovs. Capitalism’s own bouncing baby girl. Born with more than I will ever need and taking more from people like just because I can. Just because even among your meager belongings, you have something that I want and I will not stop until I have it. You gave everything to the wrestling, Mr. Fehl.
I already had everything. Society dealt me a winning hand, and the stupids resent me for playing it. But in the end, all I could give is myself, the same as you. The difference between us is that I had options. I chose my path.
You’re the scion of Donald Fehl, destined to be here, a prince of professional wrestling playing the pauper. The sport runs in your blood. I got here on blood as well. Gallons of the stuff. Private wrestling training doesn’t come cheap.
An average slaughterhouse kills one-thousand pigs per hour, and that killing keeps me in comfort and cocktails. The honorable thing would be to shun the family fortune, or perhaps even dismantle the entire business. Leave the pigs to a less merciful butcher while I enjoy my moral superiority. Pat myself on the back for not reaping the benefits of something I abhor.
But morals are negotiable, Mr. Fehl. My tolerance keeps thousands of Voorhees Farms employees working, paying their bills, feeding their families. It would be fair to call me a hypocrite, but the cost of my altruism is a bottomless well of repressed rage, honed to laser focus so that I might thrive in a world I have no place in. Your world.
You were given more than you’ll ever realize. And I look forward to taking it from you.
(´・(00)・`)
“Very mature, Constance!” I screamed, my words aimed at the top of the rockface, a ten-foot climb from my current location. My fingers clinched the stones for dear life, but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the hundred-or-so feet of open air below so that I could watch my rope twist to the ground. The end was frayed from where Constance’s knife sawed through the fibers, her latest display of cousin-on-cousin violence following our graduation girls trip to Yellowstone. An octet of wolves gathered at the spot where I was most likely to impact once my grip gave out. It was then I realized that Constance smothered my boots in an experimental pork flavoring that Voorhees Farms had yet to implement. That explained their pursuit, the excuse for our trek up the rocks. As far as murder attempts went, it was a solid six-out-of-ten.
But along with my admiration, there was another, less familiar feeling. An odd sensation in my chest, seemingly a reaction to her betrayal. Despite our differences, Constance was the only Voorhees cousin I had any semblance of closeness with. Intent on breaking me out of what she called my ‘shell of sociopathy,” she dragged me along on many of her adrenaline junkie misadventures. Even though I found none particularly thrilling, there was an odd sense of gratification in having another person seek my company, and I began to look forward to our excursions. Swimming with sharks was pleasant, particularly when we chummed the waters for the tourists who swam after we did. Skydiving was ho-hum, though we shared a laugh at the embarrassing nature of our instructor’s chute failing to open(politely, we subdued said laughter when his remains were found - I hoped for some sort of cartoonish person-shaped hole in the ground but was left disappointed by the red stain that used to be Patrick but now seemed more like Flatrick). The camping and rock climbing were among our more lowkey jaunts, but the mood turned sour the night before during a bout of girl talk. As I inched up the crevice, gripping rock by jagged rock, a realization struck me. By the time I finally reached the top, I saw Constance sitting with her knees to her chest, horrified they I had pushed her so far to a mediocre attempted murder. “Are you going to apologize?” she squeaked.
I dusted myself off, then glanced back at the wolves one-hundred feet below us. My boots still reeked of pork, a predator’s ambrosia. I considered tying them around Constance’s neck and shoving her to a lupine doom, but I chose diplomacy and an explanation for my indiscretions. “He gave you a promise ring,” I reminded her. “Stop being a child and at least have the dignity to get properly engaged.”
Her voice devolved into a series of tearful shrieks, the type of sound that would frighten off any Yellowstone predator, apex or otherwise. The wolves below scattered back into the forest. Constance squealed something about rescinding a nonexistent offer for me to be her maid of honor. I realized then that she and I would soon be spending much less time together. Though I would develop a yearly ritual of indulging in an interpersonal relationship, just to remind myself of how awful they were. The sort of thing a normal person does when they eat a McRib.
Constance was still shaken, somewhere between furious and mournful, so I went about arranging lunch. From my knapsack, I removed a checkerboard napkin and set out a selection of snacks. I started with a cube of coconut pepper jack. “You know,” I said, reopening the conversational floodgate. “You really shouldn’t have cut the rope when I was this close to the top. The climb was barely an inconvenience. It’s like you weren’t even trying.”
“You’re insane,” she whined, clutching her knees tighter and turning her back to me.
My fingers pinched around a russet potato croquette that looked especially tasty. “I disagree.”
(´・(00)・`)
Ten days before I set foot on Mount Hotakadake, I stepped into an Action Wrestling ring for the first time, to make my professional debut in a battle royal. Amid the chaos of CruiserHavoc 3 I found something that had been missing. Constance tried her best to help find something that would thrill me, but the thing my heart longed for was glorious combat. A world of athletes, fighters, monsters and maniacs - all perfectly capable of orchestrating my doom. A world where I was actually challenged and would have to apply the entirety of my efforts to success. Everything I had ever wanted and more. Even failure was thrilling. The sensation was intoxicating, and in retrospect I have no doubt said intoxication made it that much easier for Sara Pettis to eliminate me. But the failure wasn’t just educational. It was a chance to reassess what I did wrong and improve. Defeat spurred me on. I wanted more.
With such an unexplored world before me, I was desperate to enhance my abilities. To learn things that my opponents wouldn’t expect from a preposterously privileged heiress who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be merely playing wrestler. That was what brought me to Japan, to Mount Hotakadake, to the sanctuary home of the woman before me. A satisfaction of my curiosity and a further honing of my skills. The secret I sought wasn’t what I was expecting, but that only seemed to make it more amusing. The two of us sipped tea that was thankfully loaded with rum, as the fire helped combat the cold wind screaming outside. My hands kept creeping back to the pill bottle she shared with me, examining the red capsules inside. “So…” I said, doing a poor job at hiding my disappointment. “This is the secret to red mist?”
She stared at me for a moment, surprised at my naivete. “Is that really the only reason you climbed a frozen mountain?”
Her accusatory tone made me defensive, as if she was implying I had no experience mountain climbing. I considered regaling her with the anecdote of how my cousin once tried to murder me on a mountain, but worried it might make my family seem deranged. “I’m here because I like to challenge myself. And I wanted to try the local Hoba Miso back in town - delectable, by the way. But I was really hoping for something a bit more… fantastical. Demonic possession, implanting a special mist gland. Would’ve even settled for an ancient martial arts technique.” To my horror, that last sentence sounded much more offensive when I said it outloud. Instead of apologizing, a took a long gulp of tea, the rum within silencing a further intercultural faux pas.
My hostess powered through, maintaining the steady conversational course of red mist. “Nope,” she said. “Just capsules. Pop it under your tongue where you can gather saliva, and when it starts to dissolve, get to spitting. Aim for the eyes, but don’t worry if you’re a little off. Sweat and panicked hand-rubbing will do the rest of the work. Try not to swallow them. They’re not easy on the digestive system. You’ll also want to brush your teeth after the match.”
“I do that anyway,” I said, without admitting to my post-CruiserHavoc vomiting session. Presumably caused by rookie nerves. Not something likely to become a habit. “Pardon my candor, but aesthetically, red mist fits me to a tee. Normally I would play the shrew negotiator, but I have no desire to waste your time. I want the whole bottle. How much?” The pills shifted inside the plastic container as it turned over in my hands. I was practically hypnotized, fantasies of blind and defenseless opponents dancing in my head, their destinies all converging in my Abattoir.
She waved me off. “Consider it a kindness, my reward for your perilous journey.”
That amused me. My teeth showed an approximation of a smile that my eyes did not reflect. “I’m not in the business of kindness. I came here for a transaction. Name your price and I’m sure I can meet it.”
Her eyes smiled, but her mouth didn’t. Mockery, an inverse of my own expression. A reclusive fighting guru would receive few visitors. She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to toy with me. “The price is that you accept my gift, Miss Voorhees. Nothing more.”
“You knew my name,” I reminded her. “I trust you’re familiar with who I am.”
The words were meant to inspire awe with a dash of intimidation. “I am,” she said. “You made quite the spectacle of yourself back in town. The rich American tourist who threatened multiple restaurants with one-star Yelp reviews. I do have wi-fi.”
Knots formed in my stomach, an intestinal demand to retake control of the conversation. Taking my phone from my backpack, I prepared her financial compensation. “Then you must have Venmo. How’s ten-thousand sound? For the capsules, the tea, the hospitality, the inconvenience. More than fair.”
She sipped her own tea, the corners of her lips playing at the slightest of smiles, though her face refused to commit. But her eyes twinkled with amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Or you can ring in 2021 here. We can enjoy each other’s company, some pleasant conversation, more tea. And in the morning you can walk back to Takayama with what you came for, free of charge. Those are my terms. If you would like to continue treating this as a negotiation, then your only counteroffer would be to walk out of my home and freeze to death on this mountain.”
My perfect teeth bit into my bottom lip. My right hand grabbed my tea cup, absorbing the uncomfortable heat, almost as if I could store it for the hike back. “Thank you very much for having me,” I said, not even bothering to sound sincere. Repacking my things, I left the mist capsules in front of the fire. Stealing was beneath me, no matter how much I wanted them, and I certainly wasn’t about to grovel. I used lacing up my boots as an exercise in meditation, something to focus my attention on instead of further acknowledging the woman. It was 10:14pm local time, according to my phone. I would arrive back in Takayama a few hours into 2021. Auld lang kill me.
The lacing stopped when I heard an unexpected, but familiar sound. The unwelcome wrath of the untamed world, brought back to life like some fairy tale monster. A howl. Either decided wolfen or belong to a South American monkey who was far from home and excellent at impressions. My hostess refilled my tea, and nodded to the spot where I was sitting a moment ago. Defeated, I unlaced my boots. “I thought all the wolves in Japan were extinct,” I mumbled, sounding more like a sulking child than I would’ve liked.
“So did I,” the woman said. “I’m sure they’ll be extinct again come morning.”
I retook my seat, hands pressing against the steaming mug in front of me. It occurred to me to scald her with it, but as always, I minded my manners. “I accept your arrangement,” I said, keeping my tone flat so as not to betray the misery of defeat. “Do excuse my earlier behavior. I can be a bit... difficult... when it comes to people.”
Her own mug billowed with steam, but the heat did not deter her from drinking. “That must be a lonely way to live your life, Miss Voorhees.”
I sipped the scalding tea, barely phased when it burned past my own lips. “I agree.”
(´・(00)・`)
Wolves run in packs. Even the baddest ones. I resent you for that, Mr. Fehl. A thus far unbetrayed Dionysus stands ready to cheer you to victory at Turmoil, another accolade to celebrate alongside your partner. All the way to the top, Wrestler of the Year, without burning every single bridge behind you. The ability to put as much faith in another person as you do yourself. You make me want to vomit.
The big bad wolf who might, deep down, have a heart of gold. The power of friendship has weakened you, like slow-burn arc of a recurring cartoon villain. You don’t even have what it takes to swallow a grandmother and assume her identity anymore. You destroyed all the stick and straw houses so long ago. But now you're in a world of bricks, Mr. Fehl. Huff all you like, but I’m about to bury an axe in your stomach and fill it with rocks. Swallow me whole, and I shall slice my way out. Bleed all you like on my hood. It's red already.
I’m not about to subject myself to watching you celebrate alongside your partner. You don’t get to share a victory with friends and fans at my expense. Wrestler of the Year is prize to be savored in solitary, a singular achievement for the exceptional. You certainly belong here, but facing an uncertain future and impending obsoletion, you just had to prove to the world that deep down, you might be an all right guy. It's enough to make a lady wonder.
After years of sabotaging relationships, shunning human connection, presenting an aura of awfulness - was I right? Putting myself above all others? Leaving no room in my life for any sapient creature? I knew there wouldn't be room for them to stand beside me at the top of the mountain and so... I spared them the pain of watching me surpass them. No one will share in my success or pat me on the back. I'm kindhearted in my own way, but I'm certainly not weak enough to fall prey to a toothless wolf. Bear your fangs, Downfall. I don't want your best. I want your worst.
Curious how mine compares. Am I just a pork snack for the Beast Unleashed. Or is this little piggy going to be your butcher?
Don't be afraid to show me a nightmarish evening. After Sunday, it's the only thing one of us will have left.