Goddess of Wisdom (1,996 words)

“Ugh,” said Regan. From the lotus position, she attempted and failed at meditation. Instead she found herself glowering at the bust of Pallas Athena(in Regan’s own likeness, of course) atop the desk of her library. Its white marble eyes glared lifelessly back, but there was an unspoken accusation in the glare that Regan found particularly irritating. “I’ve become a cliche. Brooding on the bust of a goddess like some Poe reject. I might as well develop an opium addiction and start moping about lost Lenore. Someone immure me in a wall with a cask of whatever and get it over with."


Her eyes squeezed shut, mind searching the furthest reaches of her consciousness for an appropriate stratagem. The search was fruitless. “How I hate multi-person matches.”



All things considered, Affluenza’s first match as a team went as swimmingly as a loss could. Tweaks would be necessary to Jill and Regan’s in-ring cohesion, but time and experience would smooth out the wrinkles until they were a fully formed team. A tag title win in their first match together was an optimistic thought, but perhaps an overly ambitious one. As much as Regan hated losing, she would not let it deter her. Learn, move forward, refocus, win next time. To let a single loss get to you was to invite even greater failure. Regan would not let that happen. A defeat – be it to Downfall or both Downfall and Dionysus or even still at CruiserHavoc - would not unsettle her. She would not be bothered. Not over three, two or one loss. Utterly unbothered.



When her eyes reopened, the bust of Regan-as-Athena still stared. “I’m going to put a chisel through your face,” Regan decided.





Time rearranged itself for the sake of promo convenience to twelve hours earlier, when Regan stood in that very same study dressed in a cyan suit accented in white. Her hair was in an immaculate ponytail, sitting lower than usual to accommodate the matching cyan party hat centered atop her head. A large banner overhead read:





Regan took a fistful of confetti from a bucket atop her desk and threw it in the air. The pitiful smattering floated lightly, some to the floor and some back to the desk, as she tooted a noisemaker to further emphasize the revelry.



“Two weeks late, but my schedule’s quite demanding and I didn’t have time to properly celebrate. So long, 2021. You were good to me, but let us not rest upon our laurels and go mad with nostalgia. No matter how good last year was, the future beckons. Most importantly, let us all move past the single grand defeat I suffered in the finals of Turmoil and whatever side effects it might have caused to my effectiveness as a competitor. I have certainly put it behind me. Because if I don’t, I’m going to go completely insane.”



A brief, psychopathic cackle escaped her lips and she gave the noisemaker another blow. Perfectly manicured hands scrambled for the rummed-up coffee before her, even though some confetti landed in the cup. She drank anyway, coffee, confetti and all.



“But if I’m being honest, I find myself in the midst of a personal funk. Since Turmoil, my in-ring record has derailed like a freight train full of toxic gas that melts the skin and organs from children and then reanimates their undead skeletons so that they’re mildly worse than regular children. However, I endeavor to be an optimist without resting on my past successes. Whatever your stance is on resolutions, what with time being a human construct, a new year offers the opportunity for a soft reboot of life that most people are dying for. Wonderful news, if you’re bad at things. If you’re good, however, the pressure’s on to stay good. Quite a bit of pressure, in fact. And if you’re great, well, make sure you’re stocked up on happy pills, because staying great is going to enact quite the toll on your mental health. Runner-up for Wrestler of the Year, fan vote winner for Wrestler of the Year, three Cruiserweight Title runs. Plenty of successes to tout and yet, if I don’t follow 2021 with a banger of a 2022 then in just 365 days I slip from red hot rookie to being a punchline, an afterthought, the answer to a trivia question - what Action Wrestling superstar floundered the most in 2022? You might be wondering if I’m still exceedingly arrogant. Short answer is yes, of course, don’t be an idiot. The more nuanced one is that my new car smell has worn off and I’m now an established part of the Action Wrestling roster, with all the associated benefits, expectations and disadvantages that position entails.”



“And now John Black and Max Daemon have the opportunity to face me. Not to condescend, gentlemen. But given the timing, hacking my head off and putting it on a platter could do gangbusters for either of you. Prove that I’m either a flukey fluke, a pretend competitor pieced together from empty hype, pretension, and horror cliches. Or that you’re better than me, 2022 is all yours, who even is Regan Voorhees? Makes things so much more exciting, doesn’t it? Not to paint a target on my back, but climbing to the top is the name of the game. Yanking me off the ladder to my screaming death should be good for at least a couple of rungs.”



“Mr. Black, first off, love the casual-meets-cryptic aesthetic you have going. If masks weren’t so hard to pull off I might go for something in a porcelain doll. Helpful if you decide to put me face-first through a table, a guardrail, the mat itself. Considering some of the undignified behavior you’ve had to stomach from the worst parts of our fanbase, you have my sympathies. The fact that you’re still here speaks volumes for your resolve. Thick-skinned physically, emotionally, mentally. And frankly, I’m sure some of the opinions you have about Jill Park aren’t all too dissimilar from your opinions about me. Preposterous advantages, a far cry from everything you’ve ever known. But I certainly don’t think you’re the bad guy, Mr. Black. Some people are just too stupid to realize you’re the hero. And if that’s true, then you’re capable of greatness. Conquering all sorts of adversity, making a positive difference in the world, putting the real villains in the ground after showing them for the liars and hypocrites they are. Try as I might, my own worldview isn’t particularly optimistic either, but I’m more of a basic bitch than I let on. I have my own resolution, though it’s more an evolution of my own philosophy. Most simply, never take lightly or look past any opponent. I like to think that on a good night, I can beat anyone. But then, don’t we all? Which one of us is going to have a good night on Monday, I wonder?"


"Hopefully not Max Daemon. Oh, I’m kidding. Losing to either one of you will leave me vomiting backstage. Not out of disrespect, but because I can only take so many more of these failure dominos tumbling over before I paint a bathroom in Essence of Regan’s Insides. When will the madness stop, Mr. Daemon? Can’t we just agree to let me Abattoir and one-two-three you so all of us can get on with our lives and back to matches with only one versus? We both enjoy our indulgences."


She sipped, but the sip became a chug.



“Cheers to that. Look at us, being chummy. Not so different you and I, blah blah. Given a chance to wash off last week’s failure stink and emerge Monday as squeaky clean winners. I wouldn’t insult you with opponent math - if Regan plus Lissie equals Regan wins, and Lissie plus Max equals Lissie wins, then divide Max by Regan and solve for X. But given the situation, take into account the variable that Max and Regan are both butthurt over last week’s losses and likely to be more or less competent based upon said butthurt. The numbers don’t lie, as they say. But I have my own formula for this match, and the only answer I’m solving for is Regan wins. Subtract Max Daemon and John Black as needed. But first, I’m going to subtract this cocktail.”



Again, she chugged. The rum and coffee and everything else disappeared down Regan’s gullet, an unladylike burp escaping in its wake. When she slammed the mug back down on the table it kicked up a small cloud of confetti.



“The two of you are a test. Of my skills, my determination, my mental faculties, which have frankly seemed a little off lately. Oh, the team with Jill is great for my sense of camaraderie but we’re not joined at the hip, of course. We’re two modern women with our own identities and goals. But right now I feel like I’m the one with… less. The one with more to prove. Doesn’t sit well, of course. Not like one failure should define me, continue to define me, kill my career in its crib. Only if I let it. Only if I let my loss at Turmoil and my loss last week and everything in my career since it became interwoven with Downfall - only if I let all of that eat me alive until I’m stripped to the bone. All in front of millions of people, week in and week out. I would never let that happen. I’d die first.”



She slouched into the rolling chair behind her and stared deadeyed at the camera.



“Or kill first.”



Regan blew the noisemaker like it was the Horn of Gabriel. It only tooted.





The bust of Regan-as-Athena sat on the desk, while Regan-as-Regan studied it. Her right hand gripped a hammer; her left a chisel. She dragged the chisel across the marble, gently enough to leave no scratches, as she searched for imperfections. It kept staring at her.



“You have a weak point,” Regan said. The bust did not respond. “Everything, every person has one. I’ll find it eventually. And when I do, I’m going to destroy you.”



The bust stared.



Regan-as-Regan sighed. “Well, obviously I’m not talking about you, you marble clod. I’m being metaphorical. This is about Downfall. This is about my ability to win utterly unraveling, but me pushing through a difficult time and dealing with it in a healthy way and perfectly sane way.”



The bust continued to stare.



“But really, mental health is an ongoing struggle and while burying a chisel between the eyes of a marble effigy of myself might offer some catharsis in the moment, for the sake of my long-term wellbeing I should really address the root of my issue. But said root currently sits atop the Action mountain. Jill and I can get another crack at him and Dionysus soon enough, I have no doubt. But if I’m truly going to stake this psychological vampire, I need another match against Downfall. One-on-one.”



Regan stared back at the bust, but lowered her chisel.



“Oh please, you knew where this was going. It’s the only way I’ll ever stop obsessing. Unfortunately, with Downfall being the champion of champions, a number of competitors may very well be ahead of me in the challenger queue. Either he loses the title, in which case his dance card opens up, or…”



A wicked grin crept across her face and Regan pressed her forehead into the bust’s own.



“Or I get back to winning, back to climbing and soon enough Regan Voorhees - Feminist Icon, Turmoil Runner-Up, Fan’s Choice for Wrestler of the Year - could become...”



Her hands painted a picture.



“Regan Voorhees - Action Wrestling World Champion.”



The bust of Regan-as-Athena showed no sign of argument.



“How very agreeable.”