Post by Regan Voorhees on Nov 6, 2022 14:31:59 GMT -5
What a difference a year made.
Last year, the day after my Turmoil finals loss to Downfall, I was back in Birmingham icing every part of my body. Wishing I, myself, was on ice. That means dead, you see, bit of a fatalistic joke for someone who doesn’t take failure well. And Turmoil was my absolute, most undeniable, grandest failure. But hey, at least I only had to fail in front of the entire fucking world.
In 2021 I had the greatest rookie year in Action Wrestling history. But it wasn’t perfect, was it?
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. It fell just short. Downfall denied me the Wrestler of the Year crown that I was absolutely salivating over. The fans saw fit to rectify the mistake, at least. They voted me Wrestler of the Year. Number one in their hearts as it were, didn’t see that one coming. Not good enough, though. I wanted it all.
So, if I can be a little more upfront with you than usual… Ya girl was not happy. Though unlike most daughters of preposterous privilege who feel wronged, I’m not the type to throw tantrums or post one-star Yelp reviews. I brood(then maybe I drink(okay I definitely drink)) and then I plot. Downfall was an easy object to focus the entirety of my spite, because he was the one who defeated me. After that, beating Downfall became a mini-obsession of mine. Something that I had to prove I could do. It was easier than blaming myself. Although I certainly did that too.
Half-measures. I wasn’t prepared to go all the way. I defeated myself long before Downfall pinned my shoulders to the mat. Victory had defeated me, I said to myself in a Bane voice. I never thought I would get to the finals. Beating Lissie Hope, anyone can do that. But then I beat Corey Black. Then Teo Blaze and I battled in the all-CruiserClash semi-finals and I beat him, too. At that point, my Turmoil run was gravy. I proved myself as an S-tier talent. I was pleased as punch over having made it that far, crawling over Action Wrestling staples and stalwarts to be one of the two most elite wrestlers in the company. Slaughterella put on her blood-spattered gown and pulled up to the ball in a carriage made of human skulls. From there she proceeded to pile up bodies until Fairy God-Downfall bippity-boppity-boo’d her back into a regular girl(who was still extremely rich and well-dressed.) It’s enough to make you want to break your glass slipper on the bar and start indiscriminately stabbing.
But I’m dwelling. Which is unhealthy. Although I’ve stared at the 2022 Turmoil bracket and Doctor Strange’d every possible timeline, every potential match. Downfall and I are on opposite ends of the brackets for the second year in a row, and if I meet him in the finals again then I am going to blow up an arena. Jill and I could even meet in round two. Wouldn’t that be awkward?
I pinned the brackets to a whiteboard, just so I could stare at them. Even added pictures of every competitor. A high-quality, glossy 8x10 for me, while everyone else gets shots of them mid-expression, the less flattering the better. Red string and a red sharpie sat to one side. X-out the eliminated with a sharpie and use the string to show who advances. My very own Turmoil 2022 vision board. Looks like I’m hunting a serial killer.
I took the sharpie and circled my first target.
“Spencer Adams,” I said to myself. Let my ears hear the name, let my brain absorb it. Best not to get too far ahead of myself. Mark Twain once said that if you eat a live frog first thing in the morning, then nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day. If you eat one-half of King Shit in round one, then nothing worse will happen to you for the rest of the tournament.
“Time to grab a spoon.”
Hi, Spencer. You look well. Congratulations on the number-five seed. Fate and AW booking has seen fit to cast you as my very own Golgothan shit-demon for round one(a reference to Kevin Smith’s Dogma, don’t watch it). And what a pile you are, one that I need to put quite the effort into digging through. Really more reminiscent of the triceratops shit scene in Jurassic Park(definitely watch it, you probably already have though, everyone has).
King Shit served Affluenza with our only straight two-on-two loss and went on to capture the tag titles, a feat Jill and I just could not quite accomplish, despite multiple opportunities. Perhaps we’re good as a team, just not as an actual tag team. Our cycles haven’t even synched up(although my womb is literally a frozen wasteland where no man’s seed may grow). Perhaps she’s stealing my breath while I sleep, you know how chicks are. You now have another title for your gigantic pile of tiles. All those wonderful accolades, reaching so high that it's a veritable golden Tower of Babel, an affront to gods and man and pigs and shit, threatening to topple onto you as it inches ever closer to heaven itself. Crushing you beneath your own success. A gilded end to the wearer of the fecal crown.
I know you’re taking me lightly, Spencer. In your position, I would be tempted to do the same. Turmoil success demands looking ahead, and I’m sure visions of facing Dionysus or Jill are already racing through your mind. If I were sensitive, I would be insulted. But I’m practical, and your misjudgment is my opportunity to put an icepick through the back of your skull.
You want another check on your list of accomplishments. You didn’t spend a year waiting, obsessing; excitement and dread combined into a chemical cocktail that went tearing through your brain. You don’t understand how badly I want this. Little Regan was a good girl all year, and now all she wants from Santa is the Turmoil throne sitting atop a pile of bodies. Maybe my own little tower will topple over too, send me plummeting from heaven to hell. If it does, I’ll plummet with a smile on my face.
When my nail polish chips, I have two options. Redo it from scratch, make sure each and every cuticle is absolutely fucking perfect, because if it isn’t I want to gouge my own eyes out. Or I can dig my teeth into the imperfection, gnaw on it like a feral dog gnawing on a human femur. Chew through the nail until there’s nothing left but raw, bloody meat. Failure is something I can deal with, o’ Prince of Poo. But a failure so slight, when it’s part of something that is so agonizingly close to being perfect… That’s the sort of thing that drives a person insane.
But I’m perfectly rational, Spencer. Rumors of my mental instability have been greatly exaggerated. I’m just a bit… fixated. We all have our benchmark events. Turmoil belongs to me, and this is the year I firmly establish my November tradition of killing and stuffing AW legends on my way to the finals. But if I’m going to do that, I can’t look past anyone. I have to focus on eating the mountain of shit in front of me. How do I do that?
One bite at a time.
The smell of shit never bothered me. One big advantage to spending my formative years on a farm and preferring animals to people. Doing my cardio amid a cool, Alabama autumn helped keep my brain focused. One round at a time, I kept telling myself. Spencer Adams would be a big enough hurdle. One I was previously unable to overcome. And there was no guarantee that Jill would beat Dionysus.
But if she did.
I might very well regret confiding in her. Exposing my emotional vulnerabilities, limited though they may be. Despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, I was undeniably human. Connection with other members of my species was something I needed as much as anyone else. And that connection was a glaring weakness. If Affluenza did indeed implode in round two, Jill would go in with a decisive advantage. Provided I beat Spencer Adams in the first place. I looked at my whiteboard, the possible futures unfolding before me, all the other competitors I might meet who could all very well have my number. My stomach knotted as I studied what would be the most challenging competition of my career. Even round one was a monumental task.
I found myself in the position of underdog. How oddly exciting. I wondered what it would take for the slobbering legions of AW mouth-breathers to cheer for me. Perhaps a victory over a former champion-of-everything would do it. Maybe I was even the more likable half of Affluenza, the begrudging face between myself and Jill. My brain tingled at the thought. I wanted to know for sure.
But first, I still had a very large pile of shit to eat. Staring at it for too long simply wouldn’t be practical. I stepped outside into an especially chill Alabama morning, ready for a run. Beating Spencer Adams would demand that my cardio was on point. A cool breeze flowed throughout the farm, carrying the ever-so-distinct smell of manure.
I welcomed it.
The term ‘sophomore slump’ has been rubbed in my face every single week of every single month for this godforsaken year. My failures, however epic or slight they might be, posted up as proof that I was never as good as anyone thought. A fluke, one-year-wonder, a flash-in-the-fucking-pan. My successes were dismissed, minimized, and shrugged off. Regan ‘the Afterthought’ Voorhees. How ever so goddamn flattering.
You’re as guilty as anybody, Spencer. But seeing as how it would be impossible to punch and Abattoir and Red Camellia everyone who ever had a shitty thing to say about me, I suppose you will have to stand in for all of them. That’s the price of being the king.
Henceforth, I crown thee in toilet paper, o’ great ruler of shit, and flush thee from my queendom. Then spritz the room with Febreze. What have you done to me, Spencer? The posh and prim Regan Voorhees, relegated to toilet humor. My once icy wit reduced to little more than a flaming bag of poo.
The shitty thing(Oh God, now I can’t stop myself) is that it took this tournament to remind me of just who the fuck I am. It took a twelve-seed and a match against a former-everything champion to stir the heart and mind of Regan Goddamn Elenor Fucking Voorhees. I welcome whatever shit you throw at me, because I’m going to feed every bit of it back to you, just like I’m Redacted Actor and you’re kill number one in Seven. When I kick you and your swollen stomach splits open, let the flies feast. I’m going to turn you into compost.
Expect a basket of vegan cheeses and cat turds when this is over. A thank you for snapping me out of any sense of complacency, of reminding me that Turmoil belongs to me. Sit back down and watch as Downfall and I repeat last year’s final and time collapses in on itself. The sewer rats will drink a Drano toast to you, their fallen liege. And I will be the 2022 Wrestler of the Year, after crawling through all manner of unpleasantness to get there.
This won’t be enjoyable for either one of us, Spencer. I’m going to hurt you, you’re going to hurt me, and we’ll each leave New Orleans with the other’s stink on us.
A mountain of shit to eat, and me with nothing more than a spoon. Time to take the first bite.
Last year, the day after my Turmoil finals loss to Downfall, I was back in Birmingham icing every part of my body. Wishing I, myself, was on ice. That means dead, you see, bit of a fatalistic joke for someone who doesn’t take failure well. And Turmoil was my absolute, most undeniable, grandest failure. But hey, at least I only had to fail in front of the entire fucking world.
In 2021 I had the greatest rookie year in Action Wrestling history. But it wasn’t perfect, was it?
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. It fell just short. Downfall denied me the Wrestler of the Year crown that I was absolutely salivating over. The fans saw fit to rectify the mistake, at least. They voted me Wrestler of the Year. Number one in their hearts as it were, didn’t see that one coming. Not good enough, though. I wanted it all.
So, if I can be a little more upfront with you than usual… Ya girl was not happy. Though unlike most daughters of preposterous privilege who feel wronged, I’m not the type to throw tantrums or post one-star Yelp reviews. I brood(then maybe I drink(okay I definitely drink)) and then I plot. Downfall was an easy object to focus the entirety of my spite, because he was the one who defeated me. After that, beating Downfall became a mini-obsession of mine. Something that I had to prove I could do. It was easier than blaming myself. Although I certainly did that too.
Half-measures. I wasn’t prepared to go all the way. I defeated myself long before Downfall pinned my shoulders to the mat. Victory had defeated me, I said to myself in a Bane voice. I never thought I would get to the finals. Beating Lissie Hope, anyone can do that. But then I beat Corey Black. Then Teo Blaze and I battled in the all-CruiserClash semi-finals and I beat him, too. At that point, my Turmoil run was gravy. I proved myself as an S-tier talent. I was pleased as punch over having made it that far, crawling over Action Wrestling staples and stalwarts to be one of the two most elite wrestlers in the company. Slaughterella put on her blood-spattered gown and pulled up to the ball in a carriage made of human skulls. From there she proceeded to pile up bodies until Fairy God-Downfall bippity-boppity-boo’d her back into a regular girl(who was still extremely rich and well-dressed.) It’s enough to make you want to break your glass slipper on the bar and start indiscriminately stabbing.
But I’m dwelling. Which is unhealthy. Although I’ve stared at the 2022 Turmoil bracket and Doctor Strange’d every possible timeline, every potential match. Downfall and I are on opposite ends of the brackets for the second year in a row, and if I meet him in the finals again then I am going to blow up an arena. Jill and I could even meet in round two. Wouldn’t that be awkward?
I pinned the brackets to a whiteboard, just so I could stare at them. Even added pictures of every competitor. A high-quality, glossy 8x10 for me, while everyone else gets shots of them mid-expression, the less flattering the better. Red string and a red sharpie sat to one side. X-out the eliminated with a sharpie and use the string to show who advances. My very own Turmoil 2022 vision board. Looks like I’m hunting a serial killer.
I took the sharpie and circled my first target.
“Spencer Adams,” I said to myself. Let my ears hear the name, let my brain absorb it. Best not to get too far ahead of myself. Mark Twain once said that if you eat a live frog first thing in the morning, then nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day. If you eat one-half of King Shit in round one, then nothing worse will happen to you for the rest of the tournament.
“Time to grab a spoon.”
(V −(●●)−V)
Hi, Spencer. You look well. Congratulations on the number-five seed. Fate and AW booking has seen fit to cast you as my very own Golgothan shit-demon for round one(a reference to Kevin Smith’s Dogma, don’t watch it). And what a pile you are, one that I need to put quite the effort into digging through. Really more reminiscent of the triceratops shit scene in Jurassic Park(definitely watch it, you probably already have though, everyone has).
King Shit served Affluenza with our only straight two-on-two loss and went on to capture the tag titles, a feat Jill and I just could not quite accomplish, despite multiple opportunities. Perhaps we’re good as a team, just not as an actual tag team. Our cycles haven’t even synched up(although my womb is literally a frozen wasteland where no man’s seed may grow). Perhaps she’s stealing my breath while I sleep, you know how chicks are. You now have another title for your gigantic pile of tiles. All those wonderful accolades, reaching so high that it's a veritable golden Tower of Babel, an affront to gods and man and pigs and shit, threatening to topple onto you as it inches ever closer to heaven itself. Crushing you beneath your own success. A gilded end to the wearer of the fecal crown.
I know you’re taking me lightly, Spencer. In your position, I would be tempted to do the same. Turmoil success demands looking ahead, and I’m sure visions of facing Dionysus or Jill are already racing through your mind. If I were sensitive, I would be insulted. But I’m practical, and your misjudgment is my opportunity to put an icepick through the back of your skull.
You want another check on your list of accomplishments. You didn’t spend a year waiting, obsessing; excitement and dread combined into a chemical cocktail that went tearing through your brain. You don’t understand how badly I want this. Little Regan was a good girl all year, and now all she wants from Santa is the Turmoil throne sitting atop a pile of bodies. Maybe my own little tower will topple over too, send me plummeting from heaven to hell. If it does, I’ll plummet with a smile on my face.
When my nail polish chips, I have two options. Redo it from scratch, make sure each and every cuticle is absolutely fucking perfect, because if it isn’t I want to gouge my own eyes out. Or I can dig my teeth into the imperfection, gnaw on it like a feral dog gnawing on a human femur. Chew through the nail until there’s nothing left but raw, bloody meat. Failure is something I can deal with, o’ Prince of Poo. But a failure so slight, when it’s part of something that is so agonizingly close to being perfect… That’s the sort of thing that drives a person insane.
But I’m perfectly rational, Spencer. Rumors of my mental instability have been greatly exaggerated. I’m just a bit… fixated. We all have our benchmark events. Turmoil belongs to me, and this is the year I firmly establish my November tradition of killing and stuffing AW legends on my way to the finals. But if I’m going to do that, I can’t look past anyone. I have to focus on eating the mountain of shit in front of me. How do I do that?
One bite at a time.
(V −(●●)−V)
The smell of shit never bothered me. One big advantage to spending my formative years on a farm and preferring animals to people. Doing my cardio amid a cool, Alabama autumn helped keep my brain focused. One round at a time, I kept telling myself. Spencer Adams would be a big enough hurdle. One I was previously unable to overcome. And there was no guarantee that Jill would beat Dionysus.
But if she did.
I might very well regret confiding in her. Exposing my emotional vulnerabilities, limited though they may be. Despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, I was undeniably human. Connection with other members of my species was something I needed as much as anyone else. And that connection was a glaring weakness. If Affluenza did indeed implode in round two, Jill would go in with a decisive advantage. Provided I beat Spencer Adams in the first place. I looked at my whiteboard, the possible futures unfolding before me, all the other competitors I might meet who could all very well have my number. My stomach knotted as I studied what would be the most challenging competition of my career. Even round one was a monumental task.
I found myself in the position of underdog. How oddly exciting. I wondered what it would take for the slobbering legions of AW mouth-breathers to cheer for me. Perhaps a victory over a former champion-of-everything would do it. Maybe I was even the more likable half of Affluenza, the begrudging face between myself and Jill. My brain tingled at the thought. I wanted to know for sure.
But first, I still had a very large pile of shit to eat. Staring at it for too long simply wouldn’t be practical. I stepped outside into an especially chill Alabama morning, ready for a run. Beating Spencer Adams would demand that my cardio was on point. A cool breeze flowed throughout the farm, carrying the ever-so-distinct smell of manure.
I welcomed it.
(V −(●●)−V)
The term ‘sophomore slump’ has been rubbed in my face every single week of every single month for this godforsaken year. My failures, however epic or slight they might be, posted up as proof that I was never as good as anyone thought. A fluke, one-year-wonder, a flash-in-the-fucking-pan. My successes were dismissed, minimized, and shrugged off. Regan ‘the Afterthought’ Voorhees. How ever so goddamn flattering.
You’re as guilty as anybody, Spencer. But seeing as how it would be impossible to punch and Abattoir and Red Camellia everyone who ever had a shitty thing to say about me, I suppose you will have to stand in for all of them. That’s the price of being the king.
Henceforth, I crown thee in toilet paper, o’ great ruler of shit, and flush thee from my queendom. Then spritz the room with Febreze. What have you done to me, Spencer? The posh and prim Regan Voorhees, relegated to toilet humor. My once icy wit reduced to little more than a flaming bag of poo.
The shitty thing(Oh God, now I can’t stop myself) is that it took this tournament to remind me of just who the fuck I am. It took a twelve-seed and a match against a former-everything champion to stir the heart and mind of Regan Goddamn Elenor Fucking Voorhees. I welcome whatever shit you throw at me, because I’m going to feed every bit of it back to you, just like I’m Redacted Actor and you’re kill number one in Seven. When I kick you and your swollen stomach splits open, let the flies feast. I’m going to turn you into compost.
Expect a basket of vegan cheeses and cat turds when this is over. A thank you for snapping me out of any sense of complacency, of reminding me that Turmoil belongs to me. Sit back down and watch as Downfall and I repeat last year’s final and time collapses in on itself. The sewer rats will drink a Drano toast to you, their fallen liege. And I will be the 2022 Wrestler of the Year, after crawling through all manner of unpleasantness to get there.
This won’t be enjoyable for either one of us, Spencer. I’m going to hurt you, you’re going to hurt me, and we’ll each leave New Orleans with the other’s stink on us.
A mountain of shit to eat, and me with nothing more than a spoon. Time to take the first bite.
