Post by Regan Voorhees on Oct 9, 2022 12:51:15 GMT -5
Continued from Sunk Cost:
“Jill,” Regan asked, surprised to see her tag team partner mysteriously show up at Voorhees Farms, particularly in Regan’s own private office. Jill appeared to be in the middle of a classic break-and-enter, and while Regan wouldn’t normally discourage criminal behavior under the right circumstances, she drew the line when it negatively affected her. “What are you doing?”
The reality star considered her explanation for a moment, mentally searching for a plausible reason to dig through private documents in her partner’s place of business. Perhaps uncharacteristically, Jill Park opted for honesty. “Paranoia-fueled breaking and entering.”
Regan considered right back. Given the past month, Jill had every reason to expect betrayal. Or given the past year. Or given Regan’s entire history from the time she was old enough to comprehend the concept of betrayal. The self-proclaimed Duchess of Pork also chose to behave uncharacteristically, rummaging through a periwinkle-tinted minifridge in search of a liquor foul enough to have been abandoned there. “I get it,” Regan said to Jill’s explanation, before pulling out a bottle of passion fruit rum. “This looks awful. Drinks?”
Jill Park and Regan Voorhees spent quite a bit of the evening venting and drinking. Past the lights creeping from Regan's window, Alabama darkness sprawled beyond them outside, punctuated by lamps left on for safety reasons. The release of slight intoxication was enough for each of them to release some emotional baggage as well.
“So I pushed her down the stairs,” Jill admitted, feelings and tongue loosened by alcohol. “What was her name? Rikki… Riley… Remington? No, that’s not it. Roxie? Roxie sounds right. She was trying to take over my show, what was I supposed to do?”
“Understandable,” Regan said, wincing as she took a gulp of passion fruit rum. “I actually did the same thing in middle school. Felicity Fitzgerald and I were inseparable for the better part of a month. She was especially braggadocious about besting me in a tennis match, but in an attempt to be a good friend, I let it go.”
“Aw, widdle Wegan made fwiend,” Jill said, her tone mocking. Regan glared back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, take a joke. How many times have you said, ‘you seem ill, Jill,’ to me?”
Regan stopped glaring and considered Jill’s point. “Only because I thought it was clever. It’s clever, isn’t?”
Jill rocked her hand in a so-so gesture. “Not after the first ten fucking times. By the way, I would not have let the tennis thing go.”
“Well, widdle Wegan weally wanted to keep her widdle fwiend,” Regan said, her face turning pink. “But then Felicity fed a hamster to a snake in the science lab, so naturally I had to retaliate.”
Mid-sip, Jill spit some of the rum back into her own glass. “That is seriously fucked up,” she said, trying to re-drink it. “The snake part, not the retaliating part.”
“She only shattered her knee when I shoved her down the steps, though,” Regan confessed. “My form was terrible, I pushed too low on her back and didn’t plant my feet properly.”
“Yeah, you definitely gotta plant your feet when you’re shoving someone down some stairs,” Jill admitted. “But that’s awesome, you were a little coldblooded animal vigilante dispensing your own brand of justice.”
Regan couldn’t stop herself from smirking. “Mom wasn’t happy that I got detention for a month. But after she shattered her knee, Felicity never beat me at tennis again.”
“Nice!” Jill said, and they clanked glasses. “Do you think little Regan would’ve watched my show?”
Draining her glass, Regan gave the question serious consideration. “Probably not, no.”
“Curious thing about being a queen. It makes people so much more eager to chop your head off. The head and the crown both go tumbling delightfully. Take the bloody crown and coronate the least ugly child in the front row. Total crowd-pleaser. And a Regan-pleaser. It seems as though people have forgotten just how bloodthirsty I can be. What better reminder than to slice your throat open and drip what comes out into my victory mimosa? Might even be worth breaking vegan edge.”
“I can appreciate your successes, Alice. Even respect them. Wasn’t so long ago that I was the rookie sensation, a future of prestige and promise before me. But tragically, when you have the greatest rookie year imaginable, there’s nowhere to go but down. Then suddenly every bug-eyed carrion eater starts pecking at you as if you’re already dead, all of them absolutely dying to be this year’s girl. Rest assured, though I might have the complexion of a well-made-up corpse, I am still very much alive and kicking, punching, biting, and gouging. And you have the entirety of my focus, my ire, my most malicious of intentions.”
“I understand the game, Alice. You got a crown for beating three AW mainstays in one night, the sort of victory you can hang a young career on. But impressive though that may be, it’s nothing compared to a one-on-one. The thing you really want is to be this year’s Regan Voorhees, the undeniable newcomer with limitless potential. All you have to do is beat me and your ticket is punched. 2023 could very well be the year of Alice Gemini. Regan who, the people ask? Oh, right, the pig girl. May she oink in peace.”
“I’m fucking insulted, Alice. Not the sort of insult where someone calls me a soulless cunt, an ice-wombed banshee, a dead-eyed psychopath unworthy of love or human connection of any sort. No, those are all perfectly acceptable and, to varying degrees, accurate. The insult is that you seem to think I’ve forgotten how to fucking fight. That a handful of missteps mean my will to win has been shattered and that you can piece my mind back together into whatever shape you desire. That just because my partner’s been successful, all of a sudden I can’t even get into my ring gear anymore. I’m well aware of Jill’s accolades, Alice. How could I not be? And since your brilliant strategy over the last month seems to be pointing them out to me, I have to wonder…”
“What else ya got? Jill’s won championships this year and I haven’t. And the well-worn wrestling trope is that tag teams inevitably implode due to one member’s jealousy of the other. I dabble in genre savvy. I’m aware. But did you ever consider that maybe, even if we’re the two worst people in the world, we’re the exception? What if we’re even, holy shit I can’t even believe that I’m going to say this HAPPY for each other's successes? Probably not, surely one of us is going to cannibalize the other one. But for the sake of argument, let’s pretend. If that’s the case, then what the fuck are you going to do?”
“So Alice, do tell me how you’re going to beat me. Step on my throat, break my fingers, pluck my eyes from their sockets? How exactly are you doing to stop me from popping your shoulder out the socket with a Red Camellia? Do you have a plan to prevent me from Abattoir-ing you into the mat until your head has the consistency of a rotten pumpkin? Is there a plan in your brain for actually beating me in a match? Or, when the referee is asking if you want to give up, are you just going to say ‘License to Jill, now streaming on Paramount Plus?’”
“If you think my shit isn’t together, perhaps you’re correct. Who doesn’t have an off day, an off week, or even an off year? But few things can be more motivating than the desire to punch someone until you can’t feel your fingers anymore. Championships are delightful, but they aren’t quite as sweet as feeling someone go limp as you choke the life from them. Congratulations, Alice. Before your banner year draws to a close, fate has seen fit to serve you one hundred percent pure, uncut Regan Voorhees. Either you live to fight another day, maybe even make it to 2023 after all...”
“Or you’re the first Action Wrestling star to receive a rookie of the year award posthumously.”
Leon was still tied to the rickety chair in the utility shed when Jill and Regan found him. “Goddammit, Jill,” Regan said, rushing over to untie the employee with uncharacteristic sympathy for a fellow human. “This is at least two hours of paperwork.”
“Sorry,” Jill said, giving Leon a wave that was enough to make him flinch. “If it helps, I can get him a free year of Paramount Plus.”
“I’m good, Miss Park,” Leon said, as he stood up from the chair, keeping as much distance from the reality star as the shed would allow. “I’m not gonna tell anybody.”
Jill offered a thumbs-up and began fumbling for her phone. “Great, you’re a solid guy, Leon. Tell you what, to make up for the whole taking-you-hostage thing, is there somewhere on the company website I can give you a five-star review or something?”
“You’ll still need to sign a waiver, Leon,” Regan said, pointing toward her office. Leon obeyed and let the door of the shed slam behind him.
Affluenza was alone again, still clutching their glasses of awful rum. “So…” Jill exhaled as she spoke, hoping the breath would release some of the tension already pent up in the shed where Leon spent the last three hours. When she sniffed the air and smelled a hint of urine, she did her best not to sniff again. “Not cool of me to take one of your employees hostage, my bad.”
Regan sniffed too and immediately regretted it. “I’m actually impressed. I didn’t think you had the capacity for stealth. But you managed to infiltrate, dodge security, take a hostage, and break into my office. Not bad, Jill.”
The reality star beamed, both from the compliment and the alcohol. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll actually do the tour sometime.”
“How about now?”
It was the middle of the night and outside of livestock, security, and a handful of essential works(including Leon), Voorhees Farms was practically deserted. Like any good tour guide, Regan knew to start and end with the gift shop. But Jill Park came dressed appropriately. Regan felt obligated to compliment her partner’s ‘Friend of Atticus’ shirt. “Thanks for repping the brand. Putting the pig’s face on merch was the single smartest business move I ever made.”
Jill nodded. “Yeah, people love that fucking pig. I keep getting asked about him doing a cameo on License to Jill.”
Regan’s eyes narrowed, leveling an unspoken accusation. “That might be… unfeasible.”
“Holy fuck, Regan,” Jill said, her voice betraying no small amount of genuine offense. “One, I wouldn’t hurt Atticus. Two, there’s a huge difference between a one-off guest spot and a supporting cast member trying to replace me.”
“I see the distinction,” Regan said, loading an Atticus-shaped fanny pack with pens, stickers and a keychain. She tossed it to Jill, who was too polite to say she would rather be shot into the sun than wear a fanny pack. “If it’s not your style, give it to one of your minions.”
There was a certain topic Jill wanted to broach, but she wasn’t quite sure how to accuse Regan of housing a cult dedicated to her pig. “Speaking of minions… I went to your farmhouse… Lots of… enthusiastic Atticus fans… Cool pig masks.”
“Oh, you mean the statue?” Regan asked. After a short walk, the two of them were in the farmhouse, staring up at the graven image of Atticus. To Jill’s relief, the worshippers had long since departed. But between the statue, the propaganda posters, and the general wrongness of what she saw earlier, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “I have to keep a certain degree of plausible deniability, of course. Noncommittal statements about how Atticus has a very passionate fanbase, yadda-yadda. Although if this gets recognized as an actual religion, there’s tax exemption to think about. Wanna be a saint?”
The thought of being formally recognized as a figure of worship for a specific faith never crossed Jill’s mind, but it was appealing. “Saint Jill?” she said, letting the name hang in the farmhouse air for a moment. “I could get into that.”
“You know everyone expects one of us to betray the other, right?” Regan said, her tone shifting. They both kept their eyes on the pig.
“I’m aware,” Jill said. The simplicity of her response was an answer all its own.
Regan couldn’t stop herself from smirking. “The thought of us not imploding, not giving into betrayal when everyone expects it… I find that quite amusing. You’ve done well for yourself this year and my own accomplishments don’t compare. Professionally, that stings a little. But friendship is supposed to be a source of strength for normal people. You even apologized to me for your own less admirable behavior. I suppose I should do the same. So I apologize, Jill. And I’m…” Regan bit into her bottom lip, groaning and forcing the words out, not an easy task for someone who very much preferred dispensing insults over compliments. “I’m proud of you, Jill. I think you’ll make an excellent world champion.”
“Thank you,” Jill said. “I appreciate that. And you’re not about to say you would make a better one?”
Scoffing, Regan shook her head. “No, I’m only thinking it. Would you like to try an experiment?”
Jill took a step back, putting her fists up for a moment, ready to fight her way out of any situation involving mad science. “You’re not gonna sew me to a pig, are you?”
“No,” Regan said, though she considered the idea for a moment, then dismissed its problematic nature. “Extend your arms.”
When Jill’s eyes finished rolling, she looked back to see Regan was serious. “Fine,” Jill said, sticking her arms out.
“Hug me,” Regan demanded, extending her own arms and advancing on Jill. She seized her partner in an embrace that was something akin to an alien doing its best impression of a hug. “There aren’t many YouTube tutorials on the correct way to hug someone.”
“This is so fucking weird,” Jill said, returning the hug as if she herself was the hostage.
They both held the embrace for a few more seconds. “Agreed,” Regan finally decided and they released each other. “I have a better idea. Let me show you something that isn’t on the tour.”
It was not Regan’s first time on a killing floor. She suspected that her brain actually blocked out the particular memory of her first time. The floor was little more than stainless steel grating, designed to catch gore and bone, while letting the rest of the bodily fluids drip below to pool and be flushed away. A procession of hooks ran through the room, attached to a conveyor system on the ceiling, carrying livestock in to be killed and gutted. The room stank from years of death.
The smell alone was enough to repulse Jill, but she managed to restrain her expression to a pained grimace.
Regan’s reaction was less icy than usual. Her eyes watered, but she seemed more angry than sad. “Millions of bodies have come through here. An endless procession of pain that afforded me my lifestyle. I hate this place, but from time to time I feel the need to remind myself that every advantage given to me was born from death and misery. Take a look, Jill. This is me at my most vulnerable. I’m showing you my jugular.”
“Okay,” Jill said, still repulsed by the room. “But why?”
“Because for all of my cold, calculating ruthlessness, I’m still a person,” Regan said. “A person choosing to trust you. I can certainly understand if you want to betray that, given the last year. But instead of plotting against you, I am choosing to show you me at my weakest. No one else would trust me, Jill. And I have to admit, if you were to betray that, I would be… hurt. And the thought of that hurt makes me feel less inclined to do the same to you.”
Jill took another look around the room and tried not to think about the hooks reeling carcasses through by the dozen. Her eyes met Regan’s. “Noted,” Jill said. “But if I stay in here for one more second I’m gonna vomit.” She turned to leave. The sound of Regan’s voice made her stop at the door.
“We’re better people than they think we are,” Regan said. “Both of us.”
“Nobody likes being second best, Alice. That’s the one thing you were right about, but I’m comfortable shouldering the blame for any of my professional shortcomings. Perhaps adapting to the main roster was more difficult than I anticipated. Perhaps I simply am not as good as I was a year ago. Perhaps I never even was. Perhaps my success was all blind, simple, stupid luck.”
“But that’s unlikely. What’s a lady to do when she hits a professional snag? A ritual that always makes me feel better is to paint my nails, line up my knuckles, and wrap a string of barbed wire around my fist. Then maybe punch someone until they're unrecognizable.”
“For your sake, Alice, I hope you bring more than glorified high school gossip. I hope your stellar debut year so far isn’t the fluke that you think mine was. I hope you’re capable of hurting me. Quite a bit, even.”
“Because it won’t be enough. I don’t want bitchiness. I want brutality. Your best shots, your bloodlust, the cruelest miseries you can muster. If you want so badly to be inside my head, then do try to open it up, old sport.”
"I promise you won't like what's inside."
“Jill,” Regan asked, surprised to see her tag team partner mysteriously show up at Voorhees Farms, particularly in Regan’s own private office. Jill appeared to be in the middle of a classic break-and-enter, and while Regan wouldn’t normally discourage criminal behavior under the right circumstances, she drew the line when it negatively affected her. “What are you doing?”
The reality star considered her explanation for a moment, mentally searching for a plausible reason to dig through private documents in her partner’s place of business. Perhaps uncharacteristically, Jill Park opted for honesty. “Paranoia-fueled breaking and entering.”
Regan considered right back. Given the past month, Jill had every reason to expect betrayal. Or given the past year. Or given Regan’s entire history from the time she was old enough to comprehend the concept of betrayal. The self-proclaimed Duchess of Pork also chose to behave uncharacteristically, rummaging through a periwinkle-tinted minifridge in search of a liquor foul enough to have been abandoned there. “I get it,” Regan said to Jill’s explanation, before pulling out a bottle of passion fruit rum. “This looks awful. Drinks?”
(V −(●●)−V)
Jill Park and Regan Voorhees spent quite a bit of the evening venting and drinking. Past the lights creeping from Regan's window, Alabama darkness sprawled beyond them outside, punctuated by lamps left on for safety reasons. The release of slight intoxication was enough for each of them to release some emotional baggage as well.
“So I pushed her down the stairs,” Jill admitted, feelings and tongue loosened by alcohol. “What was her name? Rikki… Riley… Remington? No, that’s not it. Roxie? Roxie sounds right. She was trying to take over my show, what was I supposed to do?”
“Understandable,” Regan said, wincing as she took a gulp of passion fruit rum. “I actually did the same thing in middle school. Felicity Fitzgerald and I were inseparable for the better part of a month. She was especially braggadocious about besting me in a tennis match, but in an attempt to be a good friend, I let it go.”
“Aw, widdle Wegan made fwiend,” Jill said, her tone mocking. Regan glared back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, take a joke. How many times have you said, ‘you seem ill, Jill,’ to me?”
Regan stopped glaring and considered Jill’s point. “Only because I thought it was clever. It’s clever, isn’t?”
Jill rocked her hand in a so-so gesture. “Not after the first ten fucking times. By the way, I would not have let the tennis thing go.”
“Well, widdle Wegan weally wanted to keep her widdle fwiend,” Regan said, her face turning pink. “But then Felicity fed a hamster to a snake in the science lab, so naturally I had to retaliate.”
Mid-sip, Jill spit some of the rum back into her own glass. “That is seriously fucked up,” she said, trying to re-drink it. “The snake part, not the retaliating part.”
“She only shattered her knee when I shoved her down the steps, though,” Regan confessed. “My form was terrible, I pushed too low on her back and didn’t plant my feet properly.”
“Yeah, you definitely gotta plant your feet when you’re shoving someone down some stairs,” Jill admitted. “But that’s awesome, you were a little coldblooded animal vigilante dispensing your own brand of justice.”
Regan couldn’t stop herself from smirking. “Mom wasn’t happy that I got detention for a month. But after she shattered her knee, Felicity never beat me at tennis again.”
“Nice!” Jill said, and they clanked glasses. “Do you think little Regan would’ve watched my show?”
Draining her glass, Regan gave the question serious consideration. “Probably not, no.”
(V −(●●)−V)
“Curious thing about being a queen. It makes people so much more eager to chop your head off. The head and the crown both go tumbling delightfully. Take the bloody crown and coronate the least ugly child in the front row. Total crowd-pleaser. And a Regan-pleaser. It seems as though people have forgotten just how bloodthirsty I can be. What better reminder than to slice your throat open and drip what comes out into my victory mimosa? Might even be worth breaking vegan edge.”
“I can appreciate your successes, Alice. Even respect them. Wasn’t so long ago that I was the rookie sensation, a future of prestige and promise before me. But tragically, when you have the greatest rookie year imaginable, there’s nowhere to go but down. Then suddenly every bug-eyed carrion eater starts pecking at you as if you’re already dead, all of them absolutely dying to be this year’s girl. Rest assured, though I might have the complexion of a well-made-up corpse, I am still very much alive and kicking, punching, biting, and gouging. And you have the entirety of my focus, my ire, my most malicious of intentions.”
“I understand the game, Alice. You got a crown for beating three AW mainstays in one night, the sort of victory you can hang a young career on. But impressive though that may be, it’s nothing compared to a one-on-one. The thing you really want is to be this year’s Regan Voorhees, the undeniable newcomer with limitless potential. All you have to do is beat me and your ticket is punched. 2023 could very well be the year of Alice Gemini. Regan who, the people ask? Oh, right, the pig girl. May she oink in peace.”
“I’m fucking insulted, Alice. Not the sort of insult where someone calls me a soulless cunt, an ice-wombed banshee, a dead-eyed psychopath unworthy of love or human connection of any sort. No, those are all perfectly acceptable and, to varying degrees, accurate. The insult is that you seem to think I’ve forgotten how to fucking fight. That a handful of missteps mean my will to win has been shattered and that you can piece my mind back together into whatever shape you desire. That just because my partner’s been successful, all of a sudden I can’t even get into my ring gear anymore. I’m well aware of Jill’s accolades, Alice. How could I not be? And since your brilliant strategy over the last month seems to be pointing them out to me, I have to wonder…”
“What else ya got? Jill’s won championships this year and I haven’t. And the well-worn wrestling trope is that tag teams inevitably implode due to one member’s jealousy of the other. I dabble in genre savvy. I’m aware. But did you ever consider that maybe, even if we’re the two worst people in the world, we’re the exception? What if we’re even, holy shit I can’t even believe that I’m going to say this HAPPY for each other's successes? Probably not, surely one of us is going to cannibalize the other one. But for the sake of argument, let’s pretend. If that’s the case, then what the fuck are you going to do?”
“So Alice, do tell me how you’re going to beat me. Step on my throat, break my fingers, pluck my eyes from their sockets? How exactly are you doing to stop me from popping your shoulder out the socket with a Red Camellia? Do you have a plan to prevent me from Abattoir-ing you into the mat until your head has the consistency of a rotten pumpkin? Is there a plan in your brain for actually beating me in a match? Or, when the referee is asking if you want to give up, are you just going to say ‘License to Jill, now streaming on Paramount Plus?’”
“If you think my shit isn’t together, perhaps you’re correct. Who doesn’t have an off day, an off week, or even an off year? But few things can be more motivating than the desire to punch someone until you can’t feel your fingers anymore. Championships are delightful, but they aren’t quite as sweet as feeling someone go limp as you choke the life from them. Congratulations, Alice. Before your banner year draws to a close, fate has seen fit to serve you one hundred percent pure, uncut Regan Voorhees. Either you live to fight another day, maybe even make it to 2023 after all...”
“Or you’re the first Action Wrestling star to receive a rookie of the year award posthumously.”
(V −(●●)−V)
Leon was still tied to the rickety chair in the utility shed when Jill and Regan found him. “Goddammit, Jill,” Regan said, rushing over to untie the employee with uncharacteristic sympathy for a fellow human. “This is at least two hours of paperwork.”
“Sorry,” Jill said, giving Leon a wave that was enough to make him flinch. “If it helps, I can get him a free year of Paramount Plus.”
“I’m good, Miss Park,” Leon said, as he stood up from the chair, keeping as much distance from the reality star as the shed would allow. “I’m not gonna tell anybody.”
Jill offered a thumbs-up and began fumbling for her phone. “Great, you’re a solid guy, Leon. Tell you what, to make up for the whole taking-you-hostage thing, is there somewhere on the company website I can give you a five-star review or something?”
“You’ll still need to sign a waiver, Leon,” Regan said, pointing toward her office. Leon obeyed and let the door of the shed slam behind him.
Affluenza was alone again, still clutching their glasses of awful rum. “So…” Jill exhaled as she spoke, hoping the breath would release some of the tension already pent up in the shed where Leon spent the last three hours. When she sniffed the air and smelled a hint of urine, she did her best not to sniff again. “Not cool of me to take one of your employees hostage, my bad.”
Regan sniffed too and immediately regretted it. “I’m actually impressed. I didn’t think you had the capacity for stealth. But you managed to infiltrate, dodge security, take a hostage, and break into my office. Not bad, Jill.”
The reality star beamed, both from the compliment and the alcohol. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll actually do the tour sometime.”
“How about now?”
(V −(●●)−V)
It was the middle of the night and outside of livestock, security, and a handful of essential works(including Leon), Voorhees Farms was practically deserted. Like any good tour guide, Regan knew to start and end with the gift shop. But Jill Park came dressed appropriately. Regan felt obligated to compliment her partner’s ‘Friend of Atticus’ shirt. “Thanks for repping the brand. Putting the pig’s face on merch was the single smartest business move I ever made.”
Jill nodded. “Yeah, people love that fucking pig. I keep getting asked about him doing a cameo on License to Jill.”
Regan’s eyes narrowed, leveling an unspoken accusation. “That might be… unfeasible.”
“Holy fuck, Regan,” Jill said, her voice betraying no small amount of genuine offense. “One, I wouldn’t hurt Atticus. Two, there’s a huge difference between a one-off guest spot and a supporting cast member trying to replace me.”
“I see the distinction,” Regan said, loading an Atticus-shaped fanny pack with pens, stickers and a keychain. She tossed it to Jill, who was too polite to say she would rather be shot into the sun than wear a fanny pack. “If it’s not your style, give it to one of your minions.”
There was a certain topic Jill wanted to broach, but she wasn’t quite sure how to accuse Regan of housing a cult dedicated to her pig. “Speaking of minions… I went to your farmhouse… Lots of… enthusiastic Atticus fans… Cool pig masks.”
“Oh, you mean the statue?” Regan asked. After a short walk, the two of them were in the farmhouse, staring up at the graven image of Atticus. To Jill’s relief, the worshippers had long since departed. But between the statue, the propaganda posters, and the general wrongness of what she saw earlier, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “I have to keep a certain degree of plausible deniability, of course. Noncommittal statements about how Atticus has a very passionate fanbase, yadda-yadda. Although if this gets recognized as an actual religion, there’s tax exemption to think about. Wanna be a saint?”
The thought of being formally recognized as a figure of worship for a specific faith never crossed Jill’s mind, but it was appealing. “Saint Jill?” she said, letting the name hang in the farmhouse air for a moment. “I could get into that.”
“You know everyone expects one of us to betray the other, right?” Regan said, her tone shifting. They both kept their eyes on the pig.
“I’m aware,” Jill said. The simplicity of her response was an answer all its own.
Regan couldn’t stop herself from smirking. “The thought of us not imploding, not giving into betrayal when everyone expects it… I find that quite amusing. You’ve done well for yourself this year and my own accomplishments don’t compare. Professionally, that stings a little. But friendship is supposed to be a source of strength for normal people. You even apologized to me for your own less admirable behavior. I suppose I should do the same. So I apologize, Jill. And I’m…” Regan bit into her bottom lip, groaning and forcing the words out, not an easy task for someone who very much preferred dispensing insults over compliments. “I’m proud of you, Jill. I think you’ll make an excellent world champion.”
“Thank you,” Jill said. “I appreciate that. And you’re not about to say you would make a better one?”
Scoffing, Regan shook her head. “No, I’m only thinking it. Would you like to try an experiment?”
Jill took a step back, putting her fists up for a moment, ready to fight her way out of any situation involving mad science. “You’re not gonna sew me to a pig, are you?”
“No,” Regan said, though she considered the idea for a moment, then dismissed its problematic nature. “Extend your arms.”
When Jill’s eyes finished rolling, she looked back to see Regan was serious. “Fine,” Jill said, sticking her arms out.
“Hug me,” Regan demanded, extending her own arms and advancing on Jill. She seized her partner in an embrace that was something akin to an alien doing its best impression of a hug. “There aren’t many YouTube tutorials on the correct way to hug someone.”
“This is so fucking weird,” Jill said, returning the hug as if she herself was the hostage.
They both held the embrace for a few more seconds. “Agreed,” Regan finally decided and they released each other. “I have a better idea. Let me show you something that isn’t on the tour.”
(V −(●●)−V)
It was not Regan’s first time on a killing floor. She suspected that her brain actually blocked out the particular memory of her first time. The floor was little more than stainless steel grating, designed to catch gore and bone, while letting the rest of the bodily fluids drip below to pool and be flushed away. A procession of hooks ran through the room, attached to a conveyor system on the ceiling, carrying livestock in to be killed and gutted. The room stank from years of death.
The smell alone was enough to repulse Jill, but she managed to restrain her expression to a pained grimace.
Regan’s reaction was less icy than usual. Her eyes watered, but she seemed more angry than sad. “Millions of bodies have come through here. An endless procession of pain that afforded me my lifestyle. I hate this place, but from time to time I feel the need to remind myself that every advantage given to me was born from death and misery. Take a look, Jill. This is me at my most vulnerable. I’m showing you my jugular.”
“Okay,” Jill said, still repulsed by the room. “But why?”
“Because for all of my cold, calculating ruthlessness, I’m still a person,” Regan said. “A person choosing to trust you. I can certainly understand if you want to betray that, given the last year. But instead of plotting against you, I am choosing to show you me at my weakest. No one else would trust me, Jill. And I have to admit, if you were to betray that, I would be… hurt. And the thought of that hurt makes me feel less inclined to do the same to you.”
Jill took another look around the room and tried not to think about the hooks reeling carcasses through by the dozen. Her eyes met Regan’s. “Noted,” Jill said. “But if I stay in here for one more second I’m gonna vomit.” She turned to leave. The sound of Regan’s voice made her stop at the door.
“We’re better people than they think we are,” Regan said. “Both of us.”
(V −(●●)−V)
“Nobody likes being second best, Alice. That’s the one thing you were right about, but I’m comfortable shouldering the blame for any of my professional shortcomings. Perhaps adapting to the main roster was more difficult than I anticipated. Perhaps I simply am not as good as I was a year ago. Perhaps I never even was. Perhaps my success was all blind, simple, stupid luck.”
“But that’s unlikely. What’s a lady to do when she hits a professional snag? A ritual that always makes me feel better is to paint my nails, line up my knuckles, and wrap a string of barbed wire around my fist. Then maybe punch someone until they're unrecognizable.”
“For your sake, Alice, I hope you bring more than glorified high school gossip. I hope your stellar debut year so far isn’t the fluke that you think mine was. I hope you’re capable of hurting me. Quite a bit, even.”
“Because it won’t be enough. I don’t want bitchiness. I want brutality. Your best shots, your bloodlust, the cruelest miseries you can muster. If you want so badly to be inside my head, then do try to open it up, old sport.”
"I promise you won't like what's inside."
