A Lady's Guide to Making a First Impression
Dec 19, 2020 3:33:31 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Lissie Hope, and 3 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Dec 19, 2020 3:33:31 GMT -5
A screen full of red camellias parts into a pastel blue title card. In elegant golden calligraphy, the card reads…
The camera pulls back to reveal the words on a placement card, spitting atop a spotless white tablecloth. A fine china teacup depicting Hera at her most wrathful, complete with a peacock handle, is placed delicately on a matching saucer. It lands with a soft clang as steam billows from the top, dissipating into the air. Pale hands with meticulously painted blood red fingernails release the cup, the extended pinky joining the rest of the fingers to form a tight fist around the handle of a red croquet mallet leaning against the mahogany table. The camera pulls back further, to reveal Regan Voorhees standing as if posing for a portrait. On the wall behind her are framed works of classical art, modified to make her their subject. Regan-Judith beheads Holofernes, Regan-Saturn devours her son, and a number of Regans flay Marsyas . Her immaculate suit matches the pastel blue of the title card, while her blond hair arcs back in a high ponytail. Her words come with painfully practiced diction through blood red lips, betraying only the slightest hint of a repressed Southern accent.
“Wrestling norms dictate that I pay some measure of respect to the skill of my competition. Thus, when I destroy them, I have set a precedent and proven how much more skillful I am. But I’m just appalled at the idea of caving anyone’s head in with my croquet mallet or dislocating their shoulder with a Red Camellia until we’ve all been properly introduced. Etiquette must be satisfied, and most importantly I’m sure you’re all wondering who, in the fuck, I am and why you should care.”
“My name is Regan Voorhees. That’s Regan, like the daughter from King Lear, don’t pretend you’re familiar. And Voorhees, like the hockey mask-wearing, serial-killing revenant. I’m sure that’s more your speed, you lowbrow clods. While the name is a coincidence, he and I do share certain… affinities. Though practical as it may be, wrestling companies tend to frown on lethality when it comes to winning matches. If they didn’t, then I would be overjoyed to napalm the ring from the rafters of Madison Square Garden and have all your charred corpses ground down for hog slop. But alas, Geneva fucking Convention.”
“Which leaves us at an impasse, Actioneers. Nothing would delight me more than defeating thirty-plus hopefuls in my debut match and ruining countless Christmases. Such an ultimate Scrooging, before your Cruiserweight Championship leaves with me and the two of us spend the holidays curled up next to the fire, enjoying cup after cup of tears. No one ever gets what they really want for Christmas.”
“And honestly, it can be so difficult to stand out among a slew of competitors. Here I am in the awkward, uncomfortable position of soliciting your attention. Am I truly that needy? Well, obviously. But since this will be my debut for Action Wrestling, and we all know what they say about action versus words, then I must task myself with ensuring that all of you, fans and wrestlers alike, remember me. A handshake and a curtsey won’t accomplish that. So I must resort to other means.”
She raises the croquet mallet, bringing the hammer down into her other hand with a smack.
“The Havoc Rumble is my opportunity to truly introduce myself; to give you all the quick and dirty, the abridged Regan Voorhees. Abattoirs, Red Camellias, mallet shots. A lovely evening, with yours truly being the belle of the ball. A chance to share who I am... With who you are.”
“Because I am the grinder. And you’re all just meat. Oink oink, bitches.”
Blood red lips part in a smile, as Regan positions her croquet mallet over one shoulder and gives the camera a dainty wave. The scene shifts to a picturesque barn, fields stretching behind it toward an equally perfect sunset, the golden calligraphy returning for one final note…
A Lady’s Guide to Making a First Impression(Best paired with Mozart’s Molto Allegro and a light bodied schiava)
The camera pulls back to reveal the words on a placement card, spitting atop a spotless white tablecloth. A fine china teacup depicting Hera at her most wrathful, complete with a peacock handle, is placed delicately on a matching saucer. It lands with a soft clang as steam billows from the top, dissipating into the air. Pale hands with meticulously painted blood red fingernails release the cup, the extended pinky joining the rest of the fingers to form a tight fist around the handle of a red croquet mallet leaning against the mahogany table. The camera pulls back further, to reveal Regan Voorhees standing as if posing for a portrait. On the wall behind her are framed works of classical art, modified to make her their subject. Regan-Judith beheads Holofernes, Regan-Saturn devours her son, and a number of Regans flay Marsyas . Her immaculate suit matches the pastel blue of the title card, while her blond hair arcs back in a high ponytail. Her words come with painfully practiced diction through blood red lips, betraying only the slightest hint of a repressed Southern accent.
“Wrestling norms dictate that I pay some measure of respect to the skill of my competition. Thus, when I destroy them, I have set a precedent and proven how much more skillful I am. But I’m just appalled at the idea of caving anyone’s head in with my croquet mallet or dislocating their shoulder with a Red Camellia until we’ve all been properly introduced. Etiquette must be satisfied, and most importantly I’m sure you’re all wondering who, in the fuck, I am and why you should care.”
“My name is Regan Voorhees. That’s Regan, like the daughter from King Lear, don’t pretend you’re familiar. And Voorhees, like the hockey mask-wearing, serial-killing revenant. I’m sure that’s more your speed, you lowbrow clods. While the name is a coincidence, he and I do share certain… affinities. Though practical as it may be, wrestling companies tend to frown on lethality when it comes to winning matches. If they didn’t, then I would be overjoyed to napalm the ring from the rafters of Madison Square Garden and have all your charred corpses ground down for hog slop. But alas, Geneva fucking Convention.”
“Which leaves us at an impasse, Actioneers. Nothing would delight me more than defeating thirty-plus hopefuls in my debut match and ruining countless Christmases. Such an ultimate Scrooging, before your Cruiserweight Championship leaves with me and the two of us spend the holidays curled up next to the fire, enjoying cup after cup of tears. No one ever gets what they really want for Christmas.”
“And honestly, it can be so difficult to stand out among a slew of competitors. Here I am in the awkward, uncomfortable position of soliciting your attention. Am I truly that needy? Well, obviously. But since this will be my debut for Action Wrestling, and we all know what they say about action versus words, then I must task myself with ensuring that all of you, fans and wrestlers alike, remember me. A handshake and a curtsey won’t accomplish that. So I must resort to other means.”
She raises the croquet mallet, bringing the hammer down into her other hand with a smack.
“The Havoc Rumble is my opportunity to truly introduce myself; to give you all the quick and dirty, the abridged Regan Voorhees. Abattoirs, Red Camellias, mallet shots. A lovely evening, with yours truly being the belle of the ball. A chance to share who I am... With who you are.”
“Because I am the grinder. And you’re all just meat. Oink oink, bitches.”
Blood red lips part in a smile, as Regan positions her croquet mallet over one shoulder and gives the camera a dainty wave. The scene shifts to a picturesque barn, fields stretching behind it toward an equally perfect sunset, the golden calligraphy returning for one final note…
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