Post by Regan Voorhees on Aug 7, 2022 13:19:35 GMT -5
“I’m selling the Voorhees Farms private jet.”
The announcement was met by outcries, mumbles and furious whispers throughout the boardroom, extending from my seat at the head of the table all the way to the empty far end, where no one was fit to sit opposite me. A cacophony of rabbling rabble, upset that one of their sweetest corporate perks would be taken away. I left them to their infantile mewling for a few moments, studying their exchanged looks, reading their angry lips, listening to their angry mutters. None dared argue, but still, I presented my case as any true leader.
“Keep in mind that if carbon emissions do eventually render the planet an unlivable, irradiated hellscape, I’m the only one in this room with enough money to build a technologically advanced pleasure dome that will guarantee my survival. And I can assure you, it will be protected by merciless automatons, not unlike myself, who will slaughter anyone who tries to claw their way inside. Best of luck with roving cannibals and super mutants.”
They were frightened into silence, each be-suited parasite taking a mental calculus of how they might survive in a scorched wasteland. Would they meet their fellow survivors with cooperation or predation? I left the question to them.
“Affluenza can only afford one climate criminal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be flying to Cleveland. And to set an example, I will be doing so…”
I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering, a revolting chill stabbing its way up my spine, vertebra by vertebrae
“Commercially.”
But I would not leave drones with a display of weakness. A single drop of blood in the water would be enough to make them swarm, avaricious sharks that they were.
“A break from my comfort zone, of course, but I have no doubt that I am up to the challenge. Thousands of people fly everyday. How bad could it possibly be?
“Leave the bottle.”
For the next four hours I would be at the mercy of the plane’s staff, doomed to endure their incompetence. An emergency exit and a drop of several miles was my only possible reprieve, but I saw no purpose in splattering against the earth just yet. As an exercise in personal growth, I decided to make the best of things, commanding my flight attendant to present me with the lone selection of subpar whiskey they had on board. Something called Southern Rush that the airline no doubt got for cheap and forced upon their captive passengers. Even in first class, with Atticus beside me(he prefered the window seat), my anxieties prickled. Unwilling to request refill upon refill, I made the only reasonable request I could think of. Allow me to serve as my own bartender, perhaps abandon civility altogether and drink straight from the bottle. A small indulgence, but one I was due, after sacrificing so much. The flight attended smiled at me, but I saw the terror in his eyes, dim as they were.
“Ma’am, we can’t really do that on an airplane.”
Atticus stared out the window at the clouds whizzing by, clearly aware that the situation was a hair away from turning nasty, and unwilling to watch me at my worst. I kept hold of my Southern Rush, red nails tapping on the glass. My own eyes stared back at the flight attendant, the gaze of a queen cobra, ready to spit blinding venom at my prey. I could practically feel my jaw unhinging so that I might swallow him whole.
“You know what, I’ll leave it.”
He fled, as prey so often did when it could hope for no better outcome than mere survival. I looked down the aisle, at the hundred-something passengers I watched shamble onto the plane after me like, like half-living phantasms. I felt decidedly un-Regan-like, voguish wardrobe and immaculate grooming abandoned in favor of creature comfort. Strategically torn jeans, a FRIEND OF ATTICUS t-shirt, periwinkle sunglasses, hair in a low ponytail, already sweating into my neck pillow. Comfort over fashion, cosplaying as one of the normals, a demigod descended from Olympus to walk among the mortals and remind myself that I was, at least partially, not all that different from them. In the interest of solidarity with my fellow humans, I twisted the top from the bottle and took my first swig of Southern Rush. It was certainly whiskey, if whiskey could be boot-flavored. I swigged again, my non-drinking hand tapping the screen in front of me, hoping to find some respite from sounds of humanity.
“Oh look, they have Misery.”
I do so hate the volatile nature of mix-and-match tag team bouts. Oh, look. My partner Jill and I, who will be in competition with one another at Uprising, teaming with Alice Gemini, who Jill will be facing a week before Uprising, in addition to both of us facing her at Uprising. Even saying that makes my nose gush blood.
It’s enough to make anyone want to get plastered in the sky. Naturally, the thing to do would be to eliminate Alice, legally or otherwise. Icepick through the back of the skull, then Jill’s a double-champion by forfeit and we both have one less opponent to worry about at All-In. But ‘Regan, that’s murder,’ you cry. Yes, and fond as I may be of the idea of murder, the logistics of committing it are so much more complicated. My point, however, stands - Alice Gemini being removed from the picture before August 22nd would be beneficial to both Jill and I. But aren’t things always so much more complicated?
Our three opponents here are also three of our opponents at All-In. And all three would do well to get their shit together as a team and eliminate one or more of us. At the very least, soften the competition up for the impending clusterfuck. Any wear and tear on a wrestler’s body is enough to make climbing a ladder so much harder, and if they can’t climb a ladder, they might as well not show up. High as the stakes may be for both of them individually on August 22nd, I do so hope that Jill and Alice are thinking further ahead. Playing peacemaker is not a part of my skill set.
Winning matches, however.
Messrs. Kemp, Cashe, and Phoenix. Don’t suppose I have any terribly personal issues with any of you, though I do admit King Shit’s victory over Affluenza was the cherry on top of the (king)shit sundae of our loss at Evolution. Former United States Champion, tag team championship number one contender, and visual novel enthusiast CJ Phoenix - I like to think I’m more dispassionate than I am spiteful, but if I had to take a sledgehammer to the ankles and hobble a specific member of the opposing team, you would be number one with a sickening crack. Getting between me and gold is a definite way to get my proverbial goat, and while you’re not packing a belt just yet, the fact that King Shit is higher on the tag totem pole than Affluenza? Well, consider my goat gotten.
As for Jason Cashe of Columbia Broadcasting System fame, I don’t suppose we have beef. Why would we? I’m vegan. But in addition to raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, one of my very favorite things is decimating wrestlers with years of experience. Using the careers, the accolades, the legacies they’ve built to prove that after less than two years in, I’m every bit as good - well, actually better - than they are. Don’t get butthurt when you take a knee to the face and get dropped with an Abattoir, Jason. We have a whole month to get to know each other. The next time I hit you with one, it will be ladder assisted. But as for Clash this week, don’t be sad when it’s over. Be happy that it happened.
The polite thing to do would be to save Kyle Kemp for Jill, but it’s a wrestling buffet, I’m obliged to try a little of everything. And I can’t possibly resist seasoning my tofurkey with a bit of former world champion and one-half of an iconic tag team. The sort of head on your wall that makes for a phenomenal conversation piece. An irresistible collectible for the lady who thinks she has everything. Personal grievances take priority, I suppose. But who says personal and professional can’t meet in a pair of knees to the dome, a Trend Killer: Kyle Kemp Edition that forever sends your name spiraling from the top of the card into merciful oblivion. We should all be so lucky.
I awakened to an oxygen mask dangling in front of me, the lights of the cabin flickering on and off, before finally settling back into steady illumination. The passengers around me were frightened and frazzled. When I looked back, I saw a great bit of luggage had spilled from the overhead compartments into the aisle. The attendants returned, ministering to the manic passengers, but the plane was perfectly level. Atticus trotted up from the back of the plane, squeezing past me to hop back into his seat. Disheveled and even more sweaty around my neck pillow, I took measure of the situation, blinking the sleep and alcohol from my weary eyes. The half-empty bottle of Southern Rush sloshed gently in my lap, settling down from whatever turbulence I slept through. Snapping my fingers, I summoned the flight attendant. When he ignored me in favor of attending to a hyperventilating passenger, I snapped again and loudly cleared my throat for additional visibility. The air-minion obeyed.
“Nothing to worry about, Miss Voorhees. Just some bad turbulence.”
“So the plane isn’t crashing?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. Suppose I missed the worst it, being terribly drunk.”
I reopened my whiskey and took another blissful swig. The flight attendant mistakenly took that as permission to assist the other passengers, but he stopped. Looking past me to offer Atticus some kind words.
“Thanks again for the help.”
Atticus snorted back. I looked back and forth, my booze-addled trying to piece the situation together.
“The what?”
“Things got a little chaotic, but Atticus managed to keep most of the passengers calm. That’s some pig, Miss Voorhees.”
Another snort, this one in agreement.
“Yes, some pig.”
Apparently my blackout coincided with the heroic rise of the Uncrashable Atticus Voorhees, keeping spirits high as the plane’s altitude did the opposite. I thought I heard a chant of ‘Atticus’ echoing from the back of the plane, but my noise-canceling headphones were already back in place. I gave Atticus some congratulatory ear scratches and returned to Misery, where a hobbled and furious James Caan force fed Kathy Bates pages of charred manuscript.
Upon landing in Cleveland, we were the first off the plane, with my Medusa glare freezing the passengers behind me like stone while Atticus and I gathered our belongings. My first commercial flight was a rousing success. Not only did Atticus further cement himself as the endlessly altruistic face of vegan virtue, buffering the spirits of those around him like a snouted cleric, but I also got quite intoxicated and suffered through the flight with minimal interpersonal conflict, keeping the entirety of my repressed rage focused on a single attendant. A professional and personal victory.
When we exited the gate tunnel, a gaggle of onlookers greeted us, recording our arrival with their cell phones and begging for attention from Atticus with waves and oinks. The tale of his heroism had already grown into legend. Instead of easing tensions during a particularly intense round of turbulence, Atticus might as well have taken the control wheel in his trotter and landed the plane himself. For a moment, we obliged the public. Me offering the mildest of smirks and Atticus’ eyes twinkling against their camera flashes. I still had quite a bit of prep for my match the next day.
But first, we would get #HeroPig trending.
The announcement was met by outcries, mumbles and furious whispers throughout the boardroom, extending from my seat at the head of the table all the way to the empty far end, where no one was fit to sit opposite me. A cacophony of rabbling rabble, upset that one of their sweetest corporate perks would be taken away. I left them to their infantile mewling for a few moments, studying their exchanged looks, reading their angry lips, listening to their angry mutters. None dared argue, but still, I presented my case as any true leader.
“Keep in mind that if carbon emissions do eventually render the planet an unlivable, irradiated hellscape, I’m the only one in this room with enough money to build a technologically advanced pleasure dome that will guarantee my survival. And I can assure you, it will be protected by merciless automatons, not unlike myself, who will slaughter anyone who tries to claw their way inside. Best of luck with roving cannibals and super mutants.”
They were frightened into silence, each be-suited parasite taking a mental calculus of how they might survive in a scorched wasteland. Would they meet their fellow survivors with cooperation or predation? I left the question to them.
“Affluenza can only afford one climate criminal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be flying to Cleveland. And to set an example, I will be doing so…”
I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering, a revolting chill stabbing its way up my spine, vertebra by vertebrae
“Commercially.”
But I would not leave drones with a display of weakness. A single drop of blood in the water would be enough to make them swarm, avaricious sharks that they were.
“A break from my comfort zone, of course, but I have no doubt that I am up to the challenge. Thousands of people fly everyday. How bad could it possibly be?
(▼✪(oo)✪▼)
“Leave the bottle.”
For the next four hours I would be at the mercy of the plane’s staff, doomed to endure their incompetence. An emergency exit and a drop of several miles was my only possible reprieve, but I saw no purpose in splattering against the earth just yet. As an exercise in personal growth, I decided to make the best of things, commanding my flight attendant to present me with the lone selection of subpar whiskey they had on board. Something called Southern Rush that the airline no doubt got for cheap and forced upon their captive passengers. Even in first class, with Atticus beside me(he prefered the window seat), my anxieties prickled. Unwilling to request refill upon refill, I made the only reasonable request I could think of. Allow me to serve as my own bartender, perhaps abandon civility altogether and drink straight from the bottle. A small indulgence, but one I was due, after sacrificing so much. The flight attended smiled at me, but I saw the terror in his eyes, dim as they were.
“Ma’am, we can’t really do that on an airplane.”
Atticus stared out the window at the clouds whizzing by, clearly aware that the situation was a hair away from turning nasty, and unwilling to watch me at my worst. I kept hold of my Southern Rush, red nails tapping on the glass. My own eyes stared back at the flight attendant, the gaze of a queen cobra, ready to spit blinding venom at my prey. I could practically feel my jaw unhinging so that I might swallow him whole.
“You know what, I’ll leave it.”
He fled, as prey so often did when it could hope for no better outcome than mere survival. I looked down the aisle, at the hundred-something passengers I watched shamble onto the plane after me like, like half-living phantasms. I felt decidedly un-Regan-like, voguish wardrobe and immaculate grooming abandoned in favor of creature comfort. Strategically torn jeans, a FRIEND OF ATTICUS t-shirt, periwinkle sunglasses, hair in a low ponytail, already sweating into my neck pillow. Comfort over fashion, cosplaying as one of the normals, a demigod descended from Olympus to walk among the mortals and remind myself that I was, at least partially, not all that different from them. In the interest of solidarity with my fellow humans, I twisted the top from the bottle and took my first swig of Southern Rush. It was certainly whiskey, if whiskey could be boot-flavored. I swigged again, my non-drinking hand tapping the screen in front of me, hoping to find some respite from sounds of humanity.
“Oh look, they have Misery.”
(▼✪(oo)✪▼)
I do so hate the volatile nature of mix-and-match tag team bouts. Oh, look. My partner Jill and I, who will be in competition with one another at Uprising, teaming with Alice Gemini, who Jill will be facing a week before Uprising, in addition to both of us facing her at Uprising. Even saying that makes my nose gush blood.
It’s enough to make anyone want to get plastered in the sky. Naturally, the thing to do would be to eliminate Alice, legally or otherwise. Icepick through the back of the skull, then Jill’s a double-champion by forfeit and we both have one less opponent to worry about at All-In. But ‘Regan, that’s murder,’ you cry. Yes, and fond as I may be of the idea of murder, the logistics of committing it are so much more complicated. My point, however, stands - Alice Gemini being removed from the picture before August 22nd would be beneficial to both Jill and I. But aren’t things always so much more complicated?
Our three opponents here are also three of our opponents at All-In. And all three would do well to get their shit together as a team and eliminate one or more of us. At the very least, soften the competition up for the impending clusterfuck. Any wear and tear on a wrestler’s body is enough to make climbing a ladder so much harder, and if they can’t climb a ladder, they might as well not show up. High as the stakes may be for both of them individually on August 22nd, I do so hope that Jill and Alice are thinking further ahead. Playing peacemaker is not a part of my skill set.
Winning matches, however.
Messrs. Kemp, Cashe, and Phoenix. Don’t suppose I have any terribly personal issues with any of you, though I do admit King Shit’s victory over Affluenza was the cherry on top of the (king)shit sundae of our loss at Evolution. Former United States Champion, tag team championship number one contender, and visual novel enthusiast CJ Phoenix - I like to think I’m more dispassionate than I am spiteful, but if I had to take a sledgehammer to the ankles and hobble a specific member of the opposing team, you would be number one with a sickening crack. Getting between me and gold is a definite way to get my proverbial goat, and while you’re not packing a belt just yet, the fact that King Shit is higher on the tag totem pole than Affluenza? Well, consider my goat gotten.
As for Jason Cashe of Columbia Broadcasting System fame, I don’t suppose we have beef. Why would we? I’m vegan. But in addition to raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, one of my very favorite things is decimating wrestlers with years of experience. Using the careers, the accolades, the legacies they’ve built to prove that after less than two years in, I’m every bit as good - well, actually better - than they are. Don’t get butthurt when you take a knee to the face and get dropped with an Abattoir, Jason. We have a whole month to get to know each other. The next time I hit you with one, it will be ladder assisted. But as for Clash this week, don’t be sad when it’s over. Be happy that it happened.
The polite thing to do would be to save Kyle Kemp for Jill, but it’s a wrestling buffet, I’m obliged to try a little of everything. And I can’t possibly resist seasoning my tofurkey with a bit of former world champion and one-half of an iconic tag team. The sort of head on your wall that makes for a phenomenal conversation piece. An irresistible collectible for the lady who thinks she has everything. Personal grievances take priority, I suppose. But who says personal and professional can’t meet in a pair of knees to the dome, a Trend Killer: Kyle Kemp Edition that forever sends your name spiraling from the top of the card into merciful oblivion. We should all be so lucky.
(▼✪(oo)✪▼)
I awakened to an oxygen mask dangling in front of me, the lights of the cabin flickering on and off, before finally settling back into steady illumination. The passengers around me were frightened and frazzled. When I looked back, I saw a great bit of luggage had spilled from the overhead compartments into the aisle. The attendants returned, ministering to the manic passengers, but the plane was perfectly level. Atticus trotted up from the back of the plane, squeezing past me to hop back into his seat. Disheveled and even more sweaty around my neck pillow, I took measure of the situation, blinking the sleep and alcohol from my weary eyes. The half-empty bottle of Southern Rush sloshed gently in my lap, settling down from whatever turbulence I slept through. Snapping my fingers, I summoned the flight attendant. When he ignored me in favor of attending to a hyperventilating passenger, I snapped again and loudly cleared my throat for additional visibility. The air-minion obeyed.
“Nothing to worry about, Miss Voorhees. Just some bad turbulence.”
“So the plane isn’t crashing?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. Suppose I missed the worst it, being terribly drunk.”
I reopened my whiskey and took another blissful swig. The flight attendant mistakenly took that as permission to assist the other passengers, but he stopped. Looking past me to offer Atticus some kind words.
“Thanks again for the help.”
Atticus snorted back. I looked back and forth, my booze-addled trying to piece the situation together.
“The what?”
“Things got a little chaotic, but Atticus managed to keep most of the passengers calm. That’s some pig, Miss Voorhees.”
Another snort, this one in agreement.
“Yes, some pig.”
Apparently my blackout coincided with the heroic rise of the Uncrashable Atticus Voorhees, keeping spirits high as the plane’s altitude did the opposite. I thought I heard a chant of ‘Atticus’ echoing from the back of the plane, but my noise-canceling headphones were already back in place. I gave Atticus some congratulatory ear scratches and returned to Misery, where a hobbled and furious James Caan force fed Kathy Bates pages of charred manuscript.
Upon landing in Cleveland, we were the first off the plane, with my Medusa glare freezing the passengers behind me like stone while Atticus and I gathered our belongings. My first commercial flight was a rousing success. Not only did Atticus further cement himself as the endlessly altruistic face of vegan virtue, buffering the spirits of those around him like a snouted cleric, but I also got quite intoxicated and suffered through the flight with minimal interpersonal conflict, keeping the entirety of my repressed rage focused on a single attendant. A professional and personal victory.
When we exited the gate tunnel, a gaggle of onlookers greeted us, recording our arrival with their cell phones and begging for attention from Atticus with waves and oinks. The tale of his heroism had already grown into legend. Instead of easing tensions during a particularly intense round of turbulence, Atticus might as well have taken the control wheel in his trotter and landed the plane himself. For a moment, we obliged the public. Me offering the mildest of smirks and Atticus’ eyes twinkling against their camera flashes. I still had quite a bit of prep for my match the next day.
But first, we would get #HeroPig trending.
