An Icy Disposition(999 Words)
Mar 27, 2022 4:56:36 GMT -5
Addy A, Johnny Bacchus, and 3 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Mar 27, 2022 4:56:36 GMT -5
“Is something funny, Miss Voorhees?”
Faceless, nameless assistants go hand in hand with being an activist, a businesswoman, even - ugh, trying not to vomit up my apple cinnamon oat breakfast at the thought - a reality star. But one of the myriad ways in which Jill and I differ is that I don’t subject my staff to unnecessary, scattershot abuse. My abuse is carefully cultivated and laser-focused to instill fear-based loyalty and reinforce my highest expectations. For example, after completing a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with breakfast(I don’t use box tops for reference, as I am not a simpleton), I chuckle at the picture assembled before me. An instance of eye contact several seconds earlier with the twentysomething(thirtysomething?) woman across from me lets her know that she may inquire as to the source of my good humor. When I motion her over, I am instantly impressed with how well she hides her anxious trembling. Perhaps this one is a keeper.
“See for yourself.”
She looks at the puzzle, back to me, back to the puzzle. Her trembling becomes more apparent. I find that quite irritating.
“Are you familiar with poena cullei? Of course you’re not, I can tell by that glassy glint in your eyes. Read a book. It’s a Roman method of execution, Latin for ‘penalty of the sack.’ There is some debate over who the condemned’s sackmates would be, but this particular depiction includes a snake, a rooster and an ape. The animal cruelty is distasteful, but on a conceptual level, there’s a comedic element to the practice that tickles me.”
My fingers run over the paperboard, gently lining the puzzle’s edges with the edges of the table so that they run perpendicular. I don’t bother to make eye contact with the assistant, but she speaks anyway, hoping to wow me with her initiative. “I think I get it, Miss Voorhees.”
Clearly she doesn’t, but whereas Jill would yell, I am gracious enough to explain. “Really, what are interpersonal connections, relationships, alliances other than sewing yourself into a sack with someone and hoping you don’t drown? Metaphorically. Close proximity, high stakes, forcing yourselves into a position where you absolutely have to work together if you want to survive. Can’t imagine it’s that difficult to escape a sack when facing certain death, but things get so much more complicated when the ones who share your predicament start attacking you.”
“So… are you saying Miss Park is the snake? Or the rooster?”
A surprising question, that I don’t quite have a ready answer for. “More of a mythological hybrid, I suppose. Let’s say a cockatrice. Jill might find that unflattering but fortunately, she won’t ever know about this conversation. When trapped inside of a sack, it behooves one to get along with their sackmates. Jill and I have learned to reconcile our disparate natures. Whatever opposition might come our way, we face as a team. Our profession can be a lonely one. To know you have someone on your side is oddly… Reassuring. Heartwarming, even. Don’t want to find yourself drowning in a sack without any help.”
“Definitely not, Miss Voorhees.”
Again, a chuckle escapes me. “But that’s not what’s funny. Can you imagine someone choosing to sew themselves up with an animal? Sheer desperation making them so utterly stupid that they chain themselves to a monster and hope for the best? Oh, the melodrama of it all.”
“So that’s why you were laughing?”
“Laugh? I could just die.”
What has the world come to? Action Wrestling’s poor, pasty alternative sweetheart has been radicalized, forced to compromise his integrity because…
Because why? The Mean Girls vowed to destroy him over that awful dye job and suddenly he’s sipping chardonnay with Satan. Bravo, Johnny. You’re every bit as convictionless as the rest of us. I just hope Amazon can get your new backbone to Grand Forks by Monday so Ash Blake doesn’t find herself tagging with an invertebrate. I bet you even have a Prime membership, you Bezos-loving capitalist pig.
If you had a shred of dignity left, you would be number one on the next Vermin List, but I have no doubt there is an Olympian display of mental gymnastics prepared to explain why your unshakeable morals suddenly became so malleable. Gaze too long into the I’m-going-to-become-the-Joker meme and the meme gazes back. When the whole gosh-darn world goes crazy, maybe Johnny Bacchus can redeem Ash Blake with the magic of friendship. But you skipped all the drama of will-they-won’t-they and went straight to the ending. Ash is the beginning of the ending, Johnny. You failed everyone. Lived long enough to see yourself become the lolcow.
It’s almost over, Johnny Bovine. Momma has a bolt with your name on it, ready to punch through bone and brain and send you on your way to sweet oblivion. Somewhere you’ll never again have to face all the people you disappointed. Bet that sounds pretty swell right now. We can slice you open after and see if you ever actually had a heart or you just convinced people you did. I’ll make a cocktail out of what’s left. I’m just not sure what I want to drink more - your blood or your tears.
Tragic, really. This whole situation. Jill and I blame ourselves, but as much as we might enjoy weeks upon weeks of Johnny Bacchus failure porn, time is short. If we don’t act fast, God knows what Ash Blake might do to you. While you’re nibbling on that delicious friendship cheese, her Rat Trap is ready to snap. I’m sure it was wonderful dreaming that you weren’t vermin, Johnny. But the alarm clock’s blaring “Black Sheep” and it’s time to wakey-wakey. Affluenza gets first dibs on all your meaty parts. Ash can gnaw on the bones.
But if it makes you feel any better, I was wrong about you. All this time, I thought you were just obnoxious. But in the end…
You actually did make me laugh.
Faceless, nameless assistants go hand in hand with being an activist, a businesswoman, even - ugh, trying not to vomit up my apple cinnamon oat breakfast at the thought - a reality star. But one of the myriad ways in which Jill and I differ is that I don’t subject my staff to unnecessary, scattershot abuse. My abuse is carefully cultivated and laser-focused to instill fear-based loyalty and reinforce my highest expectations. For example, after completing a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with breakfast(I don’t use box tops for reference, as I am not a simpleton), I chuckle at the picture assembled before me. An instance of eye contact several seconds earlier with the twentysomething(thirtysomething?) woman across from me lets her know that she may inquire as to the source of my good humor. When I motion her over, I am instantly impressed with how well she hides her anxious trembling. Perhaps this one is a keeper.
“See for yourself.”
She looks at the puzzle, back to me, back to the puzzle. Her trembling becomes more apparent. I find that quite irritating.
“Are you familiar with poena cullei? Of course you’re not, I can tell by that glassy glint in your eyes. Read a book. It’s a Roman method of execution, Latin for ‘penalty of the sack.’ There is some debate over who the condemned’s sackmates would be, but this particular depiction includes a snake, a rooster and an ape. The animal cruelty is distasteful, but on a conceptual level, there’s a comedic element to the practice that tickles me.”
My fingers run over the paperboard, gently lining the puzzle’s edges with the edges of the table so that they run perpendicular. I don’t bother to make eye contact with the assistant, but she speaks anyway, hoping to wow me with her initiative. “I think I get it, Miss Voorhees.”
Clearly she doesn’t, but whereas Jill would yell, I am gracious enough to explain. “Really, what are interpersonal connections, relationships, alliances other than sewing yourself into a sack with someone and hoping you don’t drown? Metaphorically. Close proximity, high stakes, forcing yourselves into a position where you absolutely have to work together if you want to survive. Can’t imagine it’s that difficult to escape a sack when facing certain death, but things get so much more complicated when the ones who share your predicament start attacking you.”
“So… are you saying Miss Park is the snake? Or the rooster?”
A surprising question, that I don’t quite have a ready answer for. “More of a mythological hybrid, I suppose. Let’s say a cockatrice. Jill might find that unflattering but fortunately, she won’t ever know about this conversation. When trapped inside of a sack, it behooves one to get along with their sackmates. Jill and I have learned to reconcile our disparate natures. Whatever opposition might come our way, we face as a team. Our profession can be a lonely one. To know you have someone on your side is oddly… Reassuring. Heartwarming, even. Don’t want to find yourself drowning in a sack without any help.”
“Definitely not, Miss Voorhees.”
Again, a chuckle escapes me. “But that’s not what’s funny. Can you imagine someone choosing to sew themselves up with an animal? Sheer desperation making them so utterly stupid that they chain themselves to a monster and hope for the best? Oh, the melodrama of it all.”
“So that’s why you were laughing?”
“Laugh? I could just die.”
(▼✪(oo)✪▼)
What has the world come to? Action Wrestling’s poor, pasty alternative sweetheart has been radicalized, forced to compromise his integrity because…
Because why? The Mean Girls vowed to destroy him over that awful dye job and suddenly he’s sipping chardonnay with Satan. Bravo, Johnny. You’re every bit as convictionless as the rest of us. I just hope Amazon can get your new backbone to Grand Forks by Monday so Ash Blake doesn’t find herself tagging with an invertebrate. I bet you even have a Prime membership, you Bezos-loving capitalist pig.
If you had a shred of dignity left, you would be number one on the next Vermin List, but I have no doubt there is an Olympian display of mental gymnastics prepared to explain why your unshakeable morals suddenly became so malleable. Gaze too long into the I’m-going-to-become-the-Joker meme and the meme gazes back. When the whole gosh-darn world goes crazy, maybe Johnny Bacchus can redeem Ash Blake with the magic of friendship. But you skipped all the drama of will-they-won’t-they and went straight to the ending. Ash is the beginning of the ending, Johnny. You failed everyone. Lived long enough to see yourself become the lolcow.
It’s almost over, Johnny Bovine. Momma has a bolt with your name on it, ready to punch through bone and brain and send you on your way to sweet oblivion. Somewhere you’ll never again have to face all the people you disappointed. Bet that sounds pretty swell right now. We can slice you open after and see if you ever actually had a heart or you just convinced people you did. I’ll make a cocktail out of what’s left. I’m just not sure what I want to drink more - your blood or your tears.
Tragic, really. This whole situation. Jill and I blame ourselves, but as much as we might enjoy weeks upon weeks of Johnny Bacchus failure porn, time is short. If we don’t act fast, God knows what Ash Blake might do to you. While you’re nibbling on that delicious friendship cheese, her Rat Trap is ready to snap. I’m sure it was wonderful dreaming that you weren’t vermin, Johnny. But the alarm clock’s blaring “Black Sheep” and it’s time to wakey-wakey. Affluenza gets first dibs on all your meaty parts. Ash can gnaw on the bones.
But if it makes you feel any better, I was wrong about you. All this time, I thought you were just obnoxious. But in the end…
You actually did make me laugh.