How to Not Be a Disappointment

“We’re both very proud that you’re…” said Dad, as always leading with a compliment before delving into criticism. “An individual.” He exchanged a look with Mom and the two seemed to nonverbally agree(for the first time in their lives) that my individuality was a praiseworthy quality. Since I was a child, the two preferred their double-team lectures to take place in our den. They strategically took positions on each end of the burgundy davenport in our den, so that they might present a united front against me, seated all alone in an especially uncomfortable Queen Anne armchair in brown vinyl and mahogany. Given my penchant for pastels, the chair was an attack on my sense of style as much as it was an attack on my back. Still, my posture stayed as rigidly perfect as all those pointless deportment classes demanded. My ability to space out my blinking proved useful in breaking my father’s eye contact. His smile flittered between reassurance and nervousness, and I saw him swirl the cocktail in his hand(a gesture I picked up through genes or observation). “But to be blunt, we just don’t get it.”



“Punch people for a living?” Mother said, the Shame Cop to his Good Cop. “It’s beneath you.”



This was two years ago, when I was nothing more than a newly minted adult with a college education, a trust fund and a wealth of options ahead of me. The progenitors hoped I might pursue further education, start my own clothing line for pets, perhaps backpack through some far-off corner of the world - on the age-old, rich white kid quest to ‘find myself.’ Even social media thottery would’ve been more palatable to their decadent sensibilities. It was something they could understand. Wrestling seemed a less reasonable alternative.



“Not just punching,” I pointed out. “Kicking, elbowing, stomping, chopping, suplexing, et cetera. Dominating and defeating an opponent with skill, conditioning, cleverness and physicality. All fighting styles welcome, leave your reservations at the door. Does the prospect honestly not excite either of you?”



Dad shrugged. “Rather not get hit in the face, if I can help it.”



“I plan to train for a year,” I said, retaking the conversation. “Then we’ll see what happens.”



“Your cousin’s doing pretty well with her dog Instagram,” said Mom, offering an alternative. “Maybe try that with your pig.”



“Atticus isn’t cut out to be an Insta-thot,” I answer. “I want something that’s mine. I’ll be keeping my inheritance, of course. Top-tier training is one of the few advantages I can give myself, so I’m taking it. I’ll need that much if I’m ever going to succeed in a world I otherwise have no place in. Provided I don’t, I’ll be eaten alive by a better wrestler or a monster or a maniac.”



Mother poured herself a drink – whisky and Coke - mostly whisky. The sight of the plastic bottle on our ebonywood table made me wince. “Monsters and maniacs. How reassuring.”



“It’s a mad world, wrestling,” I explained. “Conventional workplace hazards include broken bones, head trauma, felony assault that goes unprosecuted. Not to mention live burial, immolation, electrocution even. Not that I intend to subject myself to any of that. My interest is victories, championships, pushing myself. I would say that surely you two could appreciate that but…”



Mother drank deep from her mostly whisky. “But what? I haven’t worked since you were born. I gave up my career to focus on being a mom.”



“Great job, too,” Dad said. “We raised a sociopath. And I say sociopath would love, pumpkin.”



I waved the comment off. “Your consideration for my feelings is… endearing. I realize this may be difficult for you to understand, because you preferred to be handed a middle management career of minor importance so that you could be free to pursue your vices.”



This time Dad drank deep from his own glass. When he refilled it, he opted for more Coke. “That’s fair,” he said. “You’re right, I don’t get it. But I guess I don’t have to. You scare me sometimes, but you never disappoint me.”



An odd feeling struck my chest, as if an arrow of paternal affection pierced my heart. “That’s oddly reassuring, Dad.”



“So,” said Mom. “Every opportunity in the world at your fingertips and you want to flush it down the toilet so you can punch people? And I’m supposed to understand?”



I stared at her. Finally, I blinked. “Basically. In a more tragic sense, this is me striking back at my own species. A species that I don’t understand, that doesn’t understand me, blah blah blah, I’m so misunderstood. But in my defense, the two of you have had every opportunity to connect with me on some sort of human level and have utterly failed. And for all your flaws, I do believe you’ve tried. Which is why I harbor some… fondness for you. Call it love, if you want. But we’re fundamentally different on an insurmountable level. And at the risk of sounding like an angsty teen, I honestly have no faith that the two of you will ever, as they say, ‘get’ me.”



“Love you too, kiddo,” said Dad, raising his glass to me, his single greatest accomplishment.



Mom was less supportive. “Jesus fucking Christ, Regan.” She drained her drink.





An opportunity was laid before me and yet I found myself feeling uncharacteristically undeserving. 2021 proved to be what the Mayans foretold as the Year of the Regan. All my successes, the my terminal Turmoil failure and an elimination by Addy A of all fucking people in the CruiserHavoc Rumble. Imagine being good all year only to wake up on Christmas morning to see Santa’s taken a giant shit under your tree. Obviously, good in this case is subjective. I was good as a competitor, horrendous as a person. Always fancied myself a Lawful Evil lady, with a tendency to skew Chaotic when pressed.



If I’d been nicer, would I have gotten this far? I treated Joey Bunga like a self-sustaining pawn with an infinite lives cheat whom I could sacrifice over and over as necessity dictated. Useful, but even though he’s done surprisingly well for himself since his henching for me nearly got him killed-killed, it’s still an abysmal way to treat another living thing. I’d save a fern from a burning building before I’d save Joey Bunga, but then, so would anyone who’s met Joey. It certainly wasn’t an alliance of equals, because as cliche rich villain arrogance goes, I don’t consider anyone my equal. A mistake on my part. However deep in the toilet my interpersonal skills may be, Action Wrestling is stacked with competitors capable of defeating me by hook, crook or otherwise. Downfall’s proven that twice now, one-on-one and with a partner. It’s the type of thing that, if you have a certain personality type, might make you obsess.



The 2021 Wrestler of the Year is now the Action Wrestling World Champion, which is handy for me. One stone, two birds. But again, there’s a complication. I swore to myself that I would make dismantling Downfall my personal mission in 2022. Somewhere in my mental cutlery drawer there’s a perfect knife for carving up Downfall, piece by piece, until all the pieces that could defeat me are sliced away. I only have to ensure that the knife is sharpened just right.



But this whole embarrassing debacle has been educational. Perhaps my commitment to inhumanity isn’t the strength that I thought it was. Perhaps there is some value in interpersonal relationships and human interaction. Downfall’s gone from terrible person to less terrible person through a partnership with either a reincarnated Greek god. Should I deaden the part of my reptile brain that makes me an effective predator, so that I might find some comfort in connection with my own species. Is such a thing even possible? I still have no small measure of disdain for most of my coworkers, but Jill Park seems tolerable. And our interactions have been surprisingly pleasant. All this time, did I really just need a good gal pal? Someone to grab a chair with and club our enemies until their heads look like collapsed Jack O' Lanterns. Wake up the next morning, enjoy a light brunch, and do it all again. I've never been much for clubbing, but I could hardly imagine a better girls' night than reducing your enemies' brains to bloody pulp. 


Regan Voorhees may not be the Wrestler of the Year via Turmoil. But ask the fans, and somehow despite my sour disposition and antisocial tendencies, I’m their choice for Wrestler of the Year. Should I find that flattering? Do they like me, I mean really like me? Was it a show of respect following my Turmoil run, or have I actually earned some sort of following through my disregard for human life and smashing fashion sense? Was my way actually wrong this whole time? Is friendship the ultimate super power?



If it is, I’m going to vomit into my purse.





Two years later and I was back in that same Queen Anne armchair, Mom and Dad opposite me. Still on opposite ends of the couch, their bodies seemed to contort away from each other, trying to establish as much distance as possible. This time they had the decency to bring their whiskey-and-Coke premixed in a carafe. Still a display of white-trash leanings best kept secret. Affluence allowed them to better weather the ravages of aging than if they were working class, but Dad’s fake smiles were beginning to firmly cement smile lines into his face. There was a touch of paternal pride that was easy to read. Mom’s expression was dourer(I had to get it from somewhere), but the smirk I inherited kept playing upon her lips, despite her best efforts.



I fired back a smirk of my own. “Your daughter may be on the cusp of becoming a world champion. Do you want to give me a round of applause, or yourselves for creating me?”



“We could all applaud,” Dad offered.



Mom swirled her drink. So I could’ve gotten that particular fidget from either of them. “Or we could act like we have some semblance of dignity. Were you looking for a pat on the head, dear?”



“Oddly enough,” I said. “Yes, but strictly metaphorical. If either of you try to hug me, I’ll tase you. I haven’t necessarily abandoned my abject disgust for humanity, nor my candy-coated nihilism. But… perhaps my commitment to it was a bit overstated. I’ve resumed the undertaking of interpersonal relationships. Though the process is fraught with human interaction, which I don’t typically care for, I’ve been surprised to discover that it isn’t entirely unfulfilling.”



Mom rolled her eyes, looking especially like me when she did it. “The power of friendship has turned you from a pumpkin into a real girl.” She paused for a drink. “No, but really dear, I’m delighted for you. It’s wonderful that you’ve finally figured out human interaction after two-and-a-half decades of failing at it. God, when you were a girl every other child was terrified of you.”



“As well they should’ve been,” I said, a mixture of pride and defensiveness welling up inside me.



“How about we all agree this is a net positive?” Dad offered, his own glass filled to overflowing, as Coke and whiskey splashed to the tabletop in front of them. “Good for you, kiddo. Self-improvement isn’t easy.”



I raised a glass to him. “Agreed. You have my permission to stop beating yourselves up for your parental failures, if indeed you ever were. Despite the example set by your loveless sham of a marriage, I turned out quite well. A bit sociopathic, but otherwise peaches and cream.”



Mom cleared her throat. “Our marriage isn’t a sham, dear. We acknowledged its lovelessness years ago.”



“Fair point,” I conceded. “But your terrible example was actually helpful. Seeing what disasters you two are has been instrumental in my maturity. I do believe I’m in the process of fixing myself. Relatively speaking, of course. Can’t imagine I’ll stop wanting to gut people anytime soon, but personal growth is a journey, not a destination. I treat my shortcomings like any other opponent. Pick them part, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. And then, as usual, I win.”



Dad drank. Mom glared at me. “Does everything have to be a contest with you?”



“Would I be a future world champion if it wasn’t?”





Oh, Downfall. If only you could see the serial killer corkboard I have dedicated to you. Really, I hoped I would have more time to plan. Another tag match or two, some in-ring time, further assaults. More opportunities to sharpen the knife I’m saving especially for you. But I suppose it will never be sharp enough. Sooner or later I have to wrap my fingers around the handle and plunge it into your heart. Maybe cut it out and paint my nails with your blood. Anything to wipe Turmoil out of my brain. Anything to amend my greatest failure. My pride should at least be satisfied that you’re clearly untouchable as a competitor right now. Wrestler of the Year, top of the singles and tag divisions, the run of your lifetime. The run of anyone’s lifetime. In a sense, I’m happy for you. What a note to go out on. If this is your last year in the biz, it might be one of the greatest last years of all time. Imagine that, I take your title, retire you, the torch is passed and then I use that same torch to light your funeral pyre, only you’re not actually dead and let out a bloodcurdling scream as you roast alive. Wishful thinking on my part.



Hate to make you feel like a third wheel, Dandy. But really, there’s this whole thing between Downfall and I. A prior engagement that I would prefer you not to cut in on. I sympathize with your plight, butthurt over the title you just lost. Desperate, angry, determined to get it back. Been there myself, not an especially fun time. But really, I think Jill would be irked if I let you take the title back. Couldn’t do that to my partner, of course. How about you stay out of my way, I don’t Abattoir you, and then next Clash Jill and I can treat you to some chair shots? Maybe debut a tag finisher. I Abattoir you onto the World Title, perhaps we feed you Carter Shaw’s head. Just spitballing here, Dandy. I prefer to keep this professional, never mind some of Affluenza’s previously unprofessional behavior toward you. But if you get between me and the title, or more precisely me and Downfall… I’m not saying I’ll literally feed you your own intestines. But let’s say that I will most certainly be irritated enough to try and feed you your own intestines. You’ve been to the top of the mountain before. You understand that ravenous hunger to get there. But honestly, Dandy, were you ever as hungry as your first time? Is anyone?



Personally, I’m famished.