Post by Regan Voorhees on Aug 28, 2022 6:29:54 GMT -5
My hand reached out, Leonardo DiCaprio-slipping-beneath-the-waves-in-Titanic style, though the world looked notably different when I was the one sinking and not the one watching someone sink. Dad was at the edge of the pier in an instant, thrusting one arm into the water to seize my wrist. Even with two ears full of lake water, I could hear his distorted screaming, which sounded like an alien language. A creature trying to communicate with something from a different world. A recurring theme in our relationship.
The fishing trip was meant to be an exercise in father-daughter bonding; we could both enjoy the great outdoors(along with the lack of people), and I could focus my antisocial tendencies on the simplest of nature’s creatures(he thought this might be a long-term way to make me more comfortable with the family business), and Dad could drink a mid-grade whiskey we picked up on a trip to Gatlinburg - tourist hellscape of the Tennessee/North Carolina border. Dad was desperate to convince Mom(and himself) that his tastes were more sophisticated than those of the common Alabamian. His case was only weakened when he chose caramel flavor, dreams of salty caramel appletinis dancing in his head. A one-two punch designed to satisfy both his sweet tooth and his need to get shitfaced. Unfamiliar though little Regan was with alcohol, the idea of obliterating one’s senses appealed to me.
Fishing, less so. A child’s hobbies and interests could change rapidly as they stumbled toward maturity, but at the time I was enraptured by a tome on deadly women throughout history. Dad insisted I leave it at home so that we could, in theory, better enjoy each other’s company and indulge one another in conversation. The situation was not ideal, but for the sake of reimbursement for nine years of room, board and some degree of emotional connection, I put a small amount of effort into becoming a fisherwoman, if only for a day. Impaling a worm upon my hook was reason enough to raise my first moral objection. Dad assured me that worms, and more importantly fish, were incredibly simplistic and did not feel pain. I informed him that he was incorrect about fish and should read more. Regrettably, I did not have the foresight to research the nervous system of the common annelid.
Things started off well enough. We both dropped poor, unfortunate, impaled worms into the water and waited for the lake natives to be taken in by our ruse. To his credit, Dad was content to drink while I prattled on about Boudica’s uprising against the Roman empire, and pointed out that she also used impalement as a punishment. “That Boudica,” Dad said, taking an especially big gulp of whiskey. “Sounds like she was something else.”
Clearly, he was unimpressed by my most recent choice of heroine, but still, deep within me a childish urge burned to instill pride in my father. Despite my convictions, I focused my attention on my fishing pole, my hook, the bobber floating on the lake’s surface. Ripples radiated across the water from the plastic sphere, and I tried with all my mental power to will it into sinking, an assurance that something was nibbling, biting, hooked. My desire to win at all costs was enough to set aside my principles, even for a creature as aesthetically unappealing as the Alabama bass, be it striped, largemouth, spotted or otherwise. The fishing rod slipped from my hands, clacking onto the wood of the pier. Dad turned to look at me as I stood up from my camping chair in eerie silence, gazing into the water like I was hypnotized. “You okay?” he asked.
Then I tumbled forward. My faceplant onto the water’s surface was enough to contort my momentum, leaving me to twist while I sank, so that I could gaze back at the world of dry land that I left behind. To his credit, Dad’s natural impulse to safeguard his progeny kicked in immediately; reaching, grabbing, pulling me to safety. The coughing was minimal when I rolled back onto the pier, having not been underwater for more than a few seconds, but I still received the obligatory good-job-on-not-dying pat-on-the-back. Several, in fact. Once the coughing stopped and my breathing normalized, Dad was quick to pull me into a hug, tighter and less performative than usual. The drinking and drama amplified his sincerity, as I assured him I was fine. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
Feeling obligated to answer his sincerity with some of my own, I explained. “I wondered what it would be like to drown.”
His hands were on both my shoulders, and his mouth hung open. Normally he was better at filtering his haunted reactions to my abnormal behavior, but not in this case. “You’re nine, how the fuck are you suicidal?”
My shrug was minimal, with his hands still in place on my shoulders. I patted one to reassure him. “Not suicidal, just curious.”
His blinks were rapid, his brain trying its best to make sense of his unknowable daughter and her inhuman impulses. “We can keep fishing,” I offered. In exchange for saving my life, I resolved to catch a single fish and present it to my father. Surely this would be met with a Mulan ending, where he tossed the fish back into the water from whence it came before assuring me that I am the greatest gift of all. Though my clothes were soaked, it was a miserable Alabama summer. I would dry out eventually.
Back to the camping chairs we went. Dad even baited my hook this time, skewering the worm so that I didn’t have to. When he refilled his tumbler with caramel whiskey, he jokingly looked over his shoulder before offering me the first sip. Partaking of an adult indulgence was irresistible, and I sipped away. It was terrible, but my heart relented. “It’s good, Dad,” I said, lying and ignoring how glaringly irresponsible he was. The sweetness of the whiskey only served to further emphasize that my father was little more than an adult child, but I was touched by his concern for my wellbeing. He tried and so I would try back.
“That’s my girl,” he said, mussing my hair with his right hand. A nanosecond later we both realized that my blond locks were now strewn with worm guts.
I grimaced at Dad and he grimaced back, looking away but again handing me his tumbler as a peace offering. I took another drink. It was truly awful.
Alice, Serenity, it’s ever so tempting to say I pity you. I understand the position you’re in, overburdened with potential, clawing for purpose. Racking up those rookie year accolades to prove you belong and aren’t just going to wash out when you get your first taste of true adversity. The struggle is real, as they say, and one I am all too familiar with.
And here we are, Jill and I, the sophomore class, putting the incoming freshmen through their paces while we lop the heads off the upperclassmen to make room for ourselves. Time is a flat circle, everything that has ever happened is doomed to happen again. Hold onto that gnawing hunger for success, if you actually have it. Maybe in the future, it will lead you to glory. But not this time.
I applaud you for the mini-vanquishing of your nemesis, Alice. Impressive run you had there, championing women and going toe-to-toe with Jill with two titles on the line. The sort of big match you can stake an early career on, proof that you have ‘arrived.’ Even your failure isn’t especially damning, considering who and what you were up against. But losing to Jill wasn't your only misstep. You seem to misunderstand me. I’m not someone you can win over with a few horror references and a pig plushie wrapped in a pink bow. If you think touting your manipulation skills is the same as deftly manipulating someone, then I’m embarrassed for you.
Even without my croquet mallet, I’m the closest thing this Wonderland has to a Queen of Hearts. Or more accurately, a Red Queen, screeching ‘Off with your head!’ before dropping you with an Abattoir. We’re both trying to be scary, of course. One of us is just better at it. You’re rude, bad, brutal, so you say. And I’m just an edgelord heiress with a punchy streak, so they say. Suppose if one of us is a poser, now would be the time to find out.
As for you, Serenity, I’m just disappointed. I regret showing you any respect after our match at XIII. You’re not a promising young upstart. You’re a nepotism baby with the wrongheaded belief that wanting something is the same as deserving it. Quick to try and dunk on me the second you thought it might earn you a few head-pats from the cool table. They don’t respect you either, Serenity. But they’ll pretend they do so you continue to stare back at them all with wide-eyed amazement and put on the aw-shucks, spunky kiddo routine. I know better. You’re Veruca Salt with shitty tattoos. Crying, ‘I want it now!’ as you were gifted opportunities your coworkers quite literally had to break their bodies for. And once again, the golden ticket written into your DNA leads to another opportunity. You’re a bad egg, Serenity. And bad eggs go down the garbage chute.
“My daughter wants to wrestle,” my mother said, her voice oozing displeasure. She and I sat across from the principal of my middle school. It was an institution of learning that was every bit as posh and prestigious as one would expect, and stupidly beholden to the most archaic traditions. Intergender sports were a laughable idea, but all the major ones had teams for the boys and the girls. The wrestling team, however, was woefully lacking in a female counterpart. Which left eleven-year-old me, along with my ever-growing violent tendencies, no recourse but to try out for the boys’ team.
I was denied the opportunity. And so, after no small amount of pestering on my part, my mother and I found ourselves opposite my idiot principal. His suit was an embarrassing shade of tweed, a green somewhere between vegetable vomit and a month-old corpse. The wall of his office was laden with degrees and accreditations that suggested he was infinitely more qualified to be an educator than he actually was. I smelled his weakness immediately when I first protested the team’s decision. But being a kid, I was seen as powerless in the eyes of the school. A mistake the natural world finds unforgivable - to not recognize a predator until their fangs are in your throat.
They seemed to forget that I was fucking rich. Even for an academy full of million-dollar brats and children still coasting off family names that became less prestigious every year. The Voorhees purse strings were strong enough to choke the life from the institution. “Mrs. Voorhees,” the principal stammered, his mustache flittering about like some fat, greying centipede. “We can’t allow Regan to wrestle boys. Think of the liability issues, not to mention the optics.”
“The optics of sexism?” Mom asked. My icy tones were a Great Value brand imitation of her own. Despite all our differences, she talked down to the stupid in a way that made me adore her, particularly when she was talking down to them on my behalf. “The optics of not allowing my daughter to even try out, the optics of displeasing a family that’s made sizable donations to this school? Which optics are you referring to?”
His pudgy, sweaty fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Those donations don’t mean you get special treatment.”
“Yes, they do,” Mom corrected. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot,” he said, through yellowing teeth that he tried his best not to clinch.
Having been silent for most of the meeting, I felt now was the time to add my lilting soprano to the Voorhees side. “Arguable.”
I was met with a glare. The principal and I had words months earlier over my dietary restrictions when he was unwilling to apply them to the entire student body. From that day forward, we were enemies. Finally, he buried his head in his hands. Watching him crumble filled me with grim satisfaction, like toppling the statue of a dictator after beheading them. “I’ll talk to the coach. Regan can try out.”
“My success is imminent,” I said, my face overtaken by the dead-eyed pageant kid smile that Mom taught me years earlier. My disdain for beauty pageants and all their creepy, spurious trappings was always a point of contention between us. In a rare display of motherly devotion, motivated by either her enthusiasm for browbeating strangers or genuine love for me, Mom reached out in the best way she knew how.
Outside of the office, she patted my shoulder, just like Dad did on the dock after I fell into the lake. As impossible as relating to me could be, she tried her best. Her voice was icy as ever, hiding any sort of affection. “You’re welcome, Regan.”
Truthfully, she was mortified that wrestling was my chosen sport. She insisted I try softball, soccer, volleyball, and even equestrianism. But my heart was set on person-to-person battling. Three matches after my successful tryout, I would dislocate a person’s shoulder for the first time. I can still hear the delightful pop it made. Mom filmed the match and pretended to be mortified at the sight of my opponent’s useless, dangling arm. Yet in my heart, I knew that her tears of revulsion were actually tears of pride.
When I stopped in place, she turned back, eyebrow quirked. An unfamiliar sensation swelled within me, and I could feel my heart pumping. My instinct was to flee from any sort of connection, but uncharacteristically I was drawn to this one. I decided to reach back, stepping forward and hugging my mother’s waist in a way I didn’t recall doing since I was much smaller. She only reciprocated with a single arm, but the feeling was surprisingly pleasant. “Thank you.”
She added a few pats on the back. Clearly hugging was not her specialty, but she stumbled for something pleasant to say while we shared our moment in the empty hallway. “I know it sounds cliché, but the day you were born is still the best day of my life,” she said. It was a nice enough thought, and something Mom never told me before. Unfortunately, both of us had a talent for ruining moments. “Until your father showed up, then it was a complete shit-show. Did I ever tell you he was having an affair with his secretary?”
“Yes.” She had, many times. It would seem all three of us knew how to ruin a moment.
Her smile was warm, not performative. Perhaps even real. “This is nice,” she said, giving me another squeeze before we finally released the hug.
“I’ll try to do it more often,” I lied.
CJ, as a fellow Despair Enjoyer, I have such a treat for you.
Congratulations on the tag title win. You truly are a king of shit, and no, I don’t mean that derisively. Jill and I learned the hard way how ultra-competitive the tag division is, and even though any champions will have a tough act to follow after the Vanguard super-reign, King Shit made it from inception to champions in record time. The rebellion is crushed. Long live your tag empire.
I don’t consider you a failure, CJ. Not in the slightest. You’ve got the cred and the titles, but more importantly, you have the self-awareness that’s so often lacking in an industry built on bluster and bravado. That willingness to acknowledge how failure can absolutely eat you alive until you’re nothing but a husk of a person. How those feelings create a certain obsessiveness, and how absolutely devastating that obsessiveness can be once it's weaponized.
Winning is wonderful, but what does it even do, CJ? Someone buys into their own hype and they become weak, soft, predictable. And then the first time things don’t go their way, they crack like an egg. Yolk goes everywhere. An absolute mess. Having experienced a few crushing failures of my own, I understand that pushing through them isn’t the easiest thing. But I suppose that’s the thing about despair. Once you get a taste, you’ll do anything to avoid eating it again. One King Shit sandwich was enough for me. Bring your appetite. I’m serving up a failure pile with a goddamn sadness bowl. You've never tasted anything quite like it.
Downy, Downing, Danny, Daniel, Dan. Robert Downfall Jr. My own personal Ultimate Despair, my Patron Saint of Failure Piles, my Head Chef of Sadness Bowls. We’re creeping up on a year since our Turmoil finals date. I hope you know that I brooded on that one for a long time. Your destruction of my picture-perfect rookie year. Sometimes I wonder if every loss since then, every in-ring mistake no matter how minuscule - does it all go back to that night? Did you irreparably throw me off my game?
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it. I won’t accept that. I beat you, finally. Certainly, it was with Jill’s help, but I did. Drove a giant spear through the belly of my own personal white whale. But you just won’t stop, you won’t die, you won't float belly up so I can harvest your body for ambergris. We both know that body will give out eventually. Doesn’t matter if you’re meaner than ever, you’re still just meat and I know better than anyone that all meat goes bad. Salt your wounds, put yourself on ice, it won’t matter. You will never take another moment from me.
“Regan,” said Jill Park’s voice from the speaker of my phone. “I’m sorry.”
It was the twenty-third time I listened to Jill apologize. My initial reaction was disbelief, assuming it was some sort of deep fake, a trick to sow confusion among us when I inevitably approached Jill to accept her apology. She would deny ever having made one, and we would both be left to wonder if our tag partner was mentally ill. Although I suppose we both do that already.
But to my shock and awe, it was sincere. An unexpectedly humbling act for Jill, the double champion, the Havoc runner-up, the better half of Affluenza. Certainly, I appreciated it. A couple of months ago, I couldn’t fathom Jill apologizing to anyone, particularly me. Look at the two of us, growing as people. Bonding. Being friends. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though I can’t imagine us hugging anytime soon.
Perhaps in a perfect world, where All-In allowed co-winners. But then again, there can only be one Action Wrestling World Champion, and I wanted more than anything for that champion to be me. Which meant another late-night training session. My home in Birmingham came equipped with a spacious gym and served as an ideal combination of balance and upper body training. I reached for the bars, not even bothering to keep track, thinking of the briefcase. I pushed myself until I gave out, took a break to recover then pushed some more. Jill wasn’t the only one capable of breaking through her limitations, be they physical or mental. I would push further. Minutes later, I was crouched on the floor. My arms thoroughly burned out, I could barely lift my water bottle to take a drink. Atticus trotted over and took a seat, extending a front trotter to shake in a display of solidarity.
I reached back.
I have to wonder, Teo. Do you see me the way I see Downfall? After I beat you in the semi-finals of Turmoil, did you harbor a grudge? A grudge you couldn’t settle after I left Cruiser Clash? Tragically, for me at least, I don’t think so. I would’ve loved to be your one and only, the person you obsess over destroying, day and night, until my continued existence leads you to eventually destroy yourself. But that just isn’t our relationship. You’re the face of Cruiser Clash, the man with a historic number of title reigns, the absolute best wrestler the brand has ever produced. When I left, did you forget all about me? Really, we never even had a proper feud, Teo. And I thought you were a gent.
I know the level of competition you deal with. Petulant children stumble in, pretending they’re the figurehead of the brand you carry on your back. I almost killed someone to keep the Cruiserweight Championship, and then she almost killed me. And people have the fucking nerve to call Cruiser Clash the B-Show. Prove them wrong, Teo. Fight your heart off, dive off a ladder, sprint up the steps, and come within a fingernail of that briefcase. But don’t get between it and me. I would hate to deprive Cruiser Clash of its second greatest champion ever.
I’m sure it surprises no one that my cinematic tastes skew pretentious. If I were in a lighter mood, I might try to brand Sam Kidsgrove as “Certified Rotten.” Organize a hashtag, even. But I know better than to overlook a wrestler with an unconventional background. A person has to be unhinged if they were a child actor. Personally, I find that more unsettling than a thousand death match wrestlers. Someone who everyone overlooked, dismissed, even made a little desperate. Either this is Sam Kidsgrove’s last chance at being a world champion, or he’s just acting like it’s his last chance. Doesn’t matter what the truth is, so long as he believes it. But call me a snob, I find his performance unconvincing.
And really, Jill and I should have a talk. I have the Red Camellia, she has the Franklelock. Why can’t we just make this easier on everyone and break all of Kyle Kemp’s limbs? Sprinkle on a little head trauma. If he repeats at All-In, the simians in the audience are going to fling their poop at the ring. Congratulations, Kyle. You did it already. Cashed in. Won. Instead of pressing your advantage, you’re whining about who does and doesn’t deserve to be here. Does a man who blindsides a champion, then ambushes him with an impromptu match deserve the title? Most people would say no, but use that little brain of yours. Deserving is irrelevant.
Oh, Jill. We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? If it isn’t me, I hope it’s you. Perhaps you feel the same. But after months as the B-member of Affluenza, my competitive pride is prickling. You’re on the run of your young career. Enough of a tear to be considered the run of anyone’s career. Two Belts Jill, reality icon, media mogul, the gal whose success makes her detractors vomit blood. I don’t consider myself a jealous person, but if I’m being honest, I’m totes jelly. And happy for you. They’re wrong about you, Jill. As a wrestler, a star, a human being. We’re both better than all of them, but at Uprising, for one night I need to prove to myself and the rest of the world that I’m better than you. I’m sure you understand. If not, then the us-killing-each-other plan is back on, no hard feelings.
Because they’re wrong about me, too. There are things about me that are good. Things that prove I deserve to be here, to win, to become a world champion. To be respected, appreciated, loved as a competitor and a person. Only a handful of people believe. Mom, Dad, Atticus. You too, Jill. The silent minority of fans who stretch their little arms out, hoping for a high-five I would never give them. That girl I terrified at the autograph signing.
They all believed in me. They all reached.
Now it’s my turn.
The fishing trip was meant to be an exercise in father-daughter bonding; we could both enjoy the great outdoors(along with the lack of people), and I could focus my antisocial tendencies on the simplest of nature’s creatures(he thought this might be a long-term way to make me more comfortable with the family business), and Dad could drink a mid-grade whiskey we picked up on a trip to Gatlinburg - tourist hellscape of the Tennessee/North Carolina border. Dad was desperate to convince Mom(and himself) that his tastes were more sophisticated than those of the common Alabamian. His case was only weakened when he chose caramel flavor, dreams of salty caramel appletinis dancing in his head. A one-two punch designed to satisfy both his sweet tooth and his need to get shitfaced. Unfamiliar though little Regan was with alcohol, the idea of obliterating one’s senses appealed to me.
Fishing, less so. A child’s hobbies and interests could change rapidly as they stumbled toward maturity, but at the time I was enraptured by a tome on deadly women throughout history. Dad insisted I leave it at home so that we could, in theory, better enjoy each other’s company and indulge one another in conversation. The situation was not ideal, but for the sake of reimbursement for nine years of room, board and some degree of emotional connection, I put a small amount of effort into becoming a fisherwoman, if only for a day. Impaling a worm upon my hook was reason enough to raise my first moral objection. Dad assured me that worms, and more importantly fish, were incredibly simplistic and did not feel pain. I informed him that he was incorrect about fish and should read more. Regrettably, I did not have the foresight to research the nervous system of the common annelid.
Things started off well enough. We both dropped poor, unfortunate, impaled worms into the water and waited for the lake natives to be taken in by our ruse. To his credit, Dad was content to drink while I prattled on about Boudica’s uprising against the Roman empire, and pointed out that she also used impalement as a punishment. “That Boudica,” Dad said, taking an especially big gulp of whiskey. “Sounds like she was something else.”
Clearly, he was unimpressed by my most recent choice of heroine, but still, deep within me a childish urge burned to instill pride in my father. Despite my convictions, I focused my attention on my fishing pole, my hook, the bobber floating on the lake’s surface. Ripples radiated across the water from the plastic sphere, and I tried with all my mental power to will it into sinking, an assurance that something was nibbling, biting, hooked. My desire to win at all costs was enough to set aside my principles, even for a creature as aesthetically unappealing as the Alabama bass, be it striped, largemouth, spotted or otherwise. The fishing rod slipped from my hands, clacking onto the wood of the pier. Dad turned to look at me as I stood up from my camping chair in eerie silence, gazing into the water like I was hypnotized. “You okay?” he asked.
Then I tumbled forward. My faceplant onto the water’s surface was enough to contort my momentum, leaving me to twist while I sank, so that I could gaze back at the world of dry land that I left behind. To his credit, Dad’s natural impulse to safeguard his progeny kicked in immediately; reaching, grabbing, pulling me to safety. The coughing was minimal when I rolled back onto the pier, having not been underwater for more than a few seconds, but I still received the obligatory good-job-on-not-dying pat-on-the-back. Several, in fact. Once the coughing stopped and my breathing normalized, Dad was quick to pull me into a hug, tighter and less performative than usual. The drinking and drama amplified his sincerity, as I assured him I was fine. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
Feeling obligated to answer his sincerity with some of my own, I explained. “I wondered what it would be like to drown.”
His hands were on both my shoulders, and his mouth hung open. Normally he was better at filtering his haunted reactions to my abnormal behavior, but not in this case. “You’re nine, how the fuck are you suicidal?”
My shrug was minimal, with his hands still in place on my shoulders. I patted one to reassure him. “Not suicidal, just curious.”
His blinks were rapid, his brain trying its best to make sense of his unknowable daughter and her inhuman impulses. “We can keep fishing,” I offered. In exchange for saving my life, I resolved to catch a single fish and present it to my father. Surely this would be met with a Mulan ending, where he tossed the fish back into the water from whence it came before assuring me that I am the greatest gift of all. Though my clothes were soaked, it was a miserable Alabama summer. I would dry out eventually.
Back to the camping chairs we went. Dad even baited my hook this time, skewering the worm so that I didn’t have to. When he refilled his tumbler with caramel whiskey, he jokingly looked over his shoulder before offering me the first sip. Partaking of an adult indulgence was irresistible, and I sipped away. It was terrible, but my heart relented. “It’s good, Dad,” I said, lying and ignoring how glaringly irresponsible he was. The sweetness of the whiskey only served to further emphasize that my father was little more than an adult child, but I was touched by his concern for my wellbeing. He tried and so I would try back.
“That’s my girl,” he said, mussing my hair with his right hand. A nanosecond later we both realized that my blond locks were now strewn with worm guts.
I grimaced at Dad and he grimaced back, looking away but again handing me his tumbler as a peace offering. I took another drink. It was truly awful.
(´･(00)･｀)
Alice, Serenity, it’s ever so tempting to say I pity you. I understand the position you’re in, overburdened with potential, clawing for purpose. Racking up those rookie year accolades to prove you belong and aren’t just going to wash out when you get your first taste of true adversity. The struggle is real, as they say, and one I am all too familiar with.
And here we are, Jill and I, the sophomore class, putting the incoming freshmen through their paces while we lop the heads off the upperclassmen to make room for ourselves. Time is a flat circle, everything that has ever happened is doomed to happen again. Hold onto that gnawing hunger for success, if you actually have it. Maybe in the future, it will lead you to glory. But not this time.
I applaud you for the mini-vanquishing of your nemesis, Alice. Impressive run you had there, championing women and going toe-to-toe with Jill with two titles on the line. The sort of big match you can stake an early career on, proof that you have ‘arrived.’ Even your failure isn’t especially damning, considering who and what you were up against. But losing to Jill wasn't your only misstep. You seem to misunderstand me. I’m not someone you can win over with a few horror references and a pig plushie wrapped in a pink bow. If you think touting your manipulation skills is the same as deftly manipulating someone, then I’m embarrassed for you.
Even without my croquet mallet, I’m the closest thing this Wonderland has to a Queen of Hearts. Or more accurately, a Red Queen, screeching ‘Off with your head!’ before dropping you with an Abattoir. We’re both trying to be scary, of course. One of us is just better at it. You’re rude, bad, brutal, so you say. And I’m just an edgelord heiress with a punchy streak, so they say. Suppose if one of us is a poser, now would be the time to find out.
As for you, Serenity, I’m just disappointed. I regret showing you any respect after our match at XIII. You’re not a promising young upstart. You’re a nepotism baby with the wrongheaded belief that wanting something is the same as deserving it. Quick to try and dunk on me the second you thought it might earn you a few head-pats from the cool table. They don’t respect you either, Serenity. But they’ll pretend they do so you continue to stare back at them all with wide-eyed amazement and put on the aw-shucks, spunky kiddo routine. I know better. You’re Veruca Salt with shitty tattoos. Crying, ‘I want it now!’ as you were gifted opportunities your coworkers quite literally had to break their bodies for. And once again, the golden ticket written into your DNA leads to another opportunity. You’re a bad egg, Serenity. And bad eggs go down the garbage chute.
(´･(00)･｀)
“My daughter wants to wrestle,” my mother said, her voice oozing displeasure. She and I sat across from the principal of my middle school. It was an institution of learning that was every bit as posh and prestigious as one would expect, and stupidly beholden to the most archaic traditions. Intergender sports were a laughable idea, but all the major ones had teams for the boys and the girls. The wrestling team, however, was woefully lacking in a female counterpart. Which left eleven-year-old me, along with my ever-growing violent tendencies, no recourse but to try out for the boys’ team.
I was denied the opportunity. And so, after no small amount of pestering on my part, my mother and I found ourselves opposite my idiot principal. His suit was an embarrassing shade of tweed, a green somewhere between vegetable vomit and a month-old corpse. The wall of his office was laden with degrees and accreditations that suggested he was infinitely more qualified to be an educator than he actually was. I smelled his weakness immediately when I first protested the team’s decision. But being a kid, I was seen as powerless in the eyes of the school. A mistake the natural world finds unforgivable - to not recognize a predator until their fangs are in your throat.
They seemed to forget that I was fucking rich. Even for an academy full of million-dollar brats and children still coasting off family names that became less prestigious every year. The Voorhees purse strings were strong enough to choke the life from the institution. “Mrs. Voorhees,” the principal stammered, his mustache flittering about like some fat, greying centipede. “We can’t allow Regan to wrestle boys. Think of the liability issues, not to mention the optics.”
“The optics of sexism?” Mom asked. My icy tones were a Great Value brand imitation of her own. Despite all our differences, she talked down to the stupid in a way that made me adore her, particularly when she was talking down to them on my behalf. “The optics of not allowing my daughter to even try out, the optics of displeasing a family that’s made sizable donations to this school? Which optics are you referring to?”
His pudgy, sweaty fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Those donations don’t mean you get special treatment.”
“Yes, they do,” Mom corrected. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot,” he said, through yellowing teeth that he tried his best not to clinch.
Having been silent for most of the meeting, I felt now was the time to add my lilting soprano to the Voorhees side. “Arguable.”
I was met with a glare. The principal and I had words months earlier over my dietary restrictions when he was unwilling to apply them to the entire student body. From that day forward, we were enemies. Finally, he buried his head in his hands. Watching him crumble filled me with grim satisfaction, like toppling the statue of a dictator after beheading them. “I’ll talk to the coach. Regan can try out.”
“My success is imminent,” I said, my face overtaken by the dead-eyed pageant kid smile that Mom taught me years earlier. My disdain for beauty pageants and all their creepy, spurious trappings was always a point of contention between us. In a rare display of motherly devotion, motivated by either her enthusiasm for browbeating strangers or genuine love for me, Mom reached out in the best way she knew how.
Outside of the office, she patted my shoulder, just like Dad did on the dock after I fell into the lake. As impossible as relating to me could be, she tried her best. Her voice was icy as ever, hiding any sort of affection. “You’re welcome, Regan.”
Truthfully, she was mortified that wrestling was my chosen sport. She insisted I try softball, soccer, volleyball, and even equestrianism. But my heart was set on person-to-person battling. Three matches after my successful tryout, I would dislocate a person’s shoulder for the first time. I can still hear the delightful pop it made. Mom filmed the match and pretended to be mortified at the sight of my opponent’s useless, dangling arm. Yet in my heart, I knew that her tears of revulsion were actually tears of pride.
When I stopped in place, she turned back, eyebrow quirked. An unfamiliar sensation swelled within me, and I could feel my heart pumping. My instinct was to flee from any sort of connection, but uncharacteristically I was drawn to this one. I decided to reach back, stepping forward and hugging my mother’s waist in a way I didn’t recall doing since I was much smaller. She only reciprocated with a single arm, but the feeling was surprisingly pleasant. “Thank you.”
She added a few pats on the back. Clearly hugging was not her specialty, but she stumbled for something pleasant to say while we shared our moment in the empty hallway. “I know it sounds cliché, but the day you were born is still the best day of my life,” she said. It was a nice enough thought, and something Mom never told me before. Unfortunately, both of us had a talent for ruining moments. “Until your father showed up, then it was a complete shit-show. Did I ever tell you he was having an affair with his secretary?”
“Yes.” She had, many times. It would seem all three of us knew how to ruin a moment.
Her smile was warm, not performative. Perhaps even real. “This is nice,” she said, giving me another squeeze before we finally released the hug.
“I’ll try to do it more often,” I lied.
(´･(00)･｀)
CJ, as a fellow Despair Enjoyer, I have such a treat for you.
Congratulations on the tag title win. You truly are a king of shit, and no, I don’t mean that derisively. Jill and I learned the hard way how ultra-competitive the tag division is, and even though any champions will have a tough act to follow after the Vanguard super-reign, King Shit made it from inception to champions in record time. The rebellion is crushed. Long live your tag empire.
I don’t consider you a failure, CJ. Not in the slightest. You’ve got the cred and the titles, but more importantly, you have the self-awareness that’s so often lacking in an industry built on bluster and bravado. That willingness to acknowledge how failure can absolutely eat you alive until you’re nothing but a husk of a person. How those feelings create a certain obsessiveness, and how absolutely devastating that obsessiveness can be once it's weaponized.
Winning is wonderful, but what does it even do, CJ? Someone buys into their own hype and they become weak, soft, predictable. And then the first time things don’t go their way, they crack like an egg. Yolk goes everywhere. An absolute mess. Having experienced a few crushing failures of my own, I understand that pushing through them isn’t the easiest thing. But I suppose that’s the thing about despair. Once you get a taste, you’ll do anything to avoid eating it again. One King Shit sandwich was enough for me. Bring your appetite. I’m serving up a failure pile with a goddamn sadness bowl. You've never tasted anything quite like it.
Downy, Downing, Danny, Daniel, Dan. Robert Downfall Jr. My own personal Ultimate Despair, my Patron Saint of Failure Piles, my Head Chef of Sadness Bowls. We’re creeping up on a year since our Turmoil finals date. I hope you know that I brooded on that one for a long time. Your destruction of my picture-perfect rookie year. Sometimes I wonder if every loss since then, every in-ring mistake no matter how minuscule - does it all go back to that night? Did you irreparably throw me off my game?
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it. I won’t accept that. I beat you, finally. Certainly, it was with Jill’s help, but I did. Drove a giant spear through the belly of my own personal white whale. But you just won’t stop, you won’t die, you won't float belly up so I can harvest your body for ambergris. We both know that body will give out eventually. Doesn’t matter if you’re meaner than ever, you’re still just meat and I know better than anyone that all meat goes bad. Salt your wounds, put yourself on ice, it won’t matter. You will never take another moment from me.
(´･(00)･｀)
“Regan,” said Jill Park’s voice from the speaker of my phone. “I’m sorry.”
It was the twenty-third time I listened to Jill apologize. My initial reaction was disbelief, assuming it was some sort of deep fake, a trick to sow confusion among us when I inevitably approached Jill to accept her apology. She would deny ever having made one, and we would both be left to wonder if our tag partner was mentally ill. Although I suppose we both do that already.
But to my shock and awe, it was sincere. An unexpectedly humbling act for Jill, the double champion, the Havoc runner-up, the better half of Affluenza. Certainly, I appreciated it. A couple of months ago, I couldn’t fathom Jill apologizing to anyone, particularly me. Look at the two of us, growing as people. Bonding. Being friends. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though I can’t imagine us hugging anytime soon.
Perhaps in a perfect world, where All-In allowed co-winners. But then again, there can only be one Action Wrestling World Champion, and I wanted more than anything for that champion to be me. Which meant another late-night training session. My home in Birmingham came equipped with a spacious gym and served as an ideal combination of balance and upper body training. I reached for the bars, not even bothering to keep track, thinking of the briefcase. I pushed myself until I gave out, took a break to recover then pushed some more. Jill wasn’t the only one capable of breaking through her limitations, be they physical or mental. I would push further. Minutes later, I was crouched on the floor. My arms thoroughly burned out, I could barely lift my water bottle to take a drink. Atticus trotted over and took a seat, extending a front trotter to shake in a display of solidarity.
I reached back.
(´･(00)･｀)
I have to wonder, Teo. Do you see me the way I see Downfall? After I beat you in the semi-finals of Turmoil, did you harbor a grudge? A grudge you couldn’t settle after I left Cruiser Clash? Tragically, for me at least, I don’t think so. I would’ve loved to be your one and only, the person you obsess over destroying, day and night, until my continued existence leads you to eventually destroy yourself. But that just isn’t our relationship. You’re the face of Cruiser Clash, the man with a historic number of title reigns, the absolute best wrestler the brand has ever produced. When I left, did you forget all about me? Really, we never even had a proper feud, Teo. And I thought you were a gent.
I know the level of competition you deal with. Petulant children stumble in, pretending they’re the figurehead of the brand you carry on your back. I almost killed someone to keep the Cruiserweight Championship, and then she almost killed me. And people have the fucking nerve to call Cruiser Clash the B-Show. Prove them wrong, Teo. Fight your heart off, dive off a ladder, sprint up the steps, and come within a fingernail of that briefcase. But don’t get between it and me. I would hate to deprive Cruiser Clash of its second greatest champion ever.
I’m sure it surprises no one that my cinematic tastes skew pretentious. If I were in a lighter mood, I might try to brand Sam Kidsgrove as “Certified Rotten.” Organize a hashtag, even. But I know better than to overlook a wrestler with an unconventional background. A person has to be unhinged if they were a child actor. Personally, I find that more unsettling than a thousand death match wrestlers. Someone who everyone overlooked, dismissed, even made a little desperate. Either this is Sam Kidsgrove’s last chance at being a world champion, or he’s just acting like it’s his last chance. Doesn’t matter what the truth is, so long as he believes it. But call me a snob, I find his performance unconvincing.
And really, Jill and I should have a talk. I have the Red Camellia, she has the Franklelock. Why can’t we just make this easier on everyone and break all of Kyle Kemp’s limbs? Sprinkle on a little head trauma. If he repeats at All-In, the simians in the audience are going to fling their poop at the ring. Congratulations, Kyle. You did it already. Cashed in. Won. Instead of pressing your advantage, you’re whining about who does and doesn’t deserve to be here. Does a man who blindsides a champion, then ambushes him with an impromptu match deserve the title? Most people would say no, but use that little brain of yours. Deserving is irrelevant.
Oh, Jill. We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? If it isn’t me, I hope it’s you. Perhaps you feel the same. But after months as the B-member of Affluenza, my competitive pride is prickling. You’re on the run of your young career. Enough of a tear to be considered the run of anyone’s career. Two Belts Jill, reality icon, media mogul, the gal whose success makes her detractors vomit blood. I don’t consider myself a jealous person, but if I’m being honest, I’m totes jelly. And happy for you. They’re wrong about you, Jill. As a wrestler, a star, a human being. We’re both better than all of them, but at Uprising, for one night I need to prove to myself and the rest of the world that I’m better than you. I’m sure you understand. If not, then the us-killing-each-other plan is back on, no hard feelings.
Because they’re wrong about me, too. There are things about me that are good. Things that prove I deserve to be here, to win, to become a world champion. To be respected, appreciated, loved as a competitor and a person. Only a handful of people believe. Mom, Dad, Atticus. You too, Jill. The silent minority of fans who stretch their little arms out, hoping for a high-five I would never give them. That girl I terrified at the autograph signing.
They all believed in me. They all reached.
Now it’s my turn.
