Post by Regan Voorhees on Jan 10, 2021 19:48:28 GMT -5
Open on a table adorned with a bouquet of red camellias in a blue and white vase. The vase depicts Athena, post-weaving contest, cursing Arachne into a spider. The transformation is only partially underway, as Arachne is left in a Cronenbergian hybrid form between human and arachnid, the stuff of mythological nightmares and yet another Greek cautionary tale of disproportionate divine vengeance.
The camera pulls back, revealing the entirety of the table and the lavish stone patio it sits upon. A white marble statue comes into the frame, immaculately chiseled the likeness of Regan Voorhees. It stands mighty and be-togaed, a garland of victory camellias in her hair. Stone serpents wrap around her raised croquet mallet, transforming it into a bastardized caduceus.
The real Regan Voorhees, dressed in powder blue equestrian regalia, observes the piece, her nose twitching in dissatisfaction.
“The eyes. Too far apart.”
She shoves the statue over and it topples from the frame, landing offscreen with a deafening clatter. A black title card appears, with golden calligraphy etching into it.
“Failure can be quite… distasteful. A lesson I learned all too well at the Cruiser Rumble only a few short weeks ago. But how do we react to our failures? Do we crack and crumble beneath them? Or do we rise back up with a full heart and bury our enemies in their own blood? Personally, nothing fortifies my resolve like the inability to meet my own expectations. The shame of defeat can be ever so inspiring.”
“I wonder if you feel the same way, Nidrah. I was fortunate enough to leave my failure in 2020, but you had the opportunity to start this new year off with a title win that didn’t materialize. If I were you, I’d be dying for the most immediate redemption I could find. And here it stands, right before your eyes.”
Regan swings her croquet mallet, catching the hammer in her right hand.
“But sorry, that doesn’t work for me. I can’t afford to have my ascent stalled by the likes of you. You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Action Wrestling’s Cruiserweight Division is absolutely brimming with bodies, and if I don’t slaughter my way through them then I’ll never get within sniffing distance of the Cruiserweight Championship. So… You’ll have to die. In the wrestling sense, of course. An Abattoir, a pin, a bell.”
“But don’t be disheartened. Your loss will be a contribution to something greater, and in the end, that’s all those who aren’t destined to succeed can hope for. Don’t think of yourself as a body, crushed between giant bricks to make a pyramid. Think of yourself as Nidrah, one half of the Pineapple Promenade, almost good enough to climb to the top of the tag team division. Almost good enough to beat Regan Voorhees, but ultimately, sadly, tragically lacking. There’s no shame in being beaten by the best. Hold your head up high, grab some popcorn, and take a seat in the front row. My treat. Soon enough I’ll claim what’s mine, and believe me, you’ll want to be there to see it. Just think, Nidrah. One day you’ll be able to tell people that Regan Voorhees beat you on her way to the top. How exciting for you.”
Crouching, Regan takes the intact head from her statue, holding it up for further examination.
“Alas, poor Nidrah. I didn’t know her all that well, but really, who gives a shit? Even if you’re a woman of infinite jest and most excellent fancy, in the end, you’re just meat. And my babies are getting so hungry. Oink oink, dear.”
She leans forward, planting a kiss on the forehead of the statue, before casually tossing it over one shoulder. The scene fades to sunset, the perfect backdrop for an adorable micro pig with a blue ribbon around his neck.
The camera pulls back, revealing the entirety of the table and the lavish stone patio it sits upon. A white marble statue comes into the frame, immaculately chiseled the likeness of Regan Voorhees. It stands mighty and be-togaed, a garland of victory camellias in her hair. Stone serpents wrap around her raised croquet mallet, transforming it into a bastardized caduceus.
The real Regan Voorhees, dressed in powder blue equestrian regalia, observes the piece, her nose twitching in dissatisfaction.
“The eyes. Too far apart.”
She shoves the statue over and it topples from the frame, landing offscreen with a deafening clatter. A black title card appears, with golden calligraphy etching into it.
The Stinkiest of Perfumes(Best Paired With Perry Como’s “Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom)” and a Brut mimosa)
“Failure can be quite… distasteful. A lesson I learned all too well at the Cruiser Rumble only a few short weeks ago. But how do we react to our failures? Do we crack and crumble beneath them? Or do we rise back up with a full heart and bury our enemies in their own blood? Personally, nothing fortifies my resolve like the inability to meet my own expectations. The shame of defeat can be ever so inspiring.”
“I wonder if you feel the same way, Nidrah. I was fortunate enough to leave my failure in 2020, but you had the opportunity to start this new year off with a title win that didn’t materialize. If I were you, I’d be dying for the most immediate redemption I could find. And here it stands, right before your eyes.”
Regan swings her croquet mallet, catching the hammer in her right hand.
“But sorry, that doesn’t work for me. I can’t afford to have my ascent stalled by the likes of you. You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Action Wrestling’s Cruiserweight Division is absolutely brimming with bodies, and if I don’t slaughter my way through them then I’ll never get within sniffing distance of the Cruiserweight Championship. So… You’ll have to die. In the wrestling sense, of course. An Abattoir, a pin, a bell.”
“But don’t be disheartened. Your loss will be a contribution to something greater, and in the end, that’s all those who aren’t destined to succeed can hope for. Don’t think of yourself as a body, crushed between giant bricks to make a pyramid. Think of yourself as Nidrah, one half of the Pineapple Promenade, almost good enough to climb to the top of the tag team division. Almost good enough to beat Regan Voorhees, but ultimately, sadly, tragically lacking. There’s no shame in being beaten by the best. Hold your head up high, grab some popcorn, and take a seat in the front row. My treat. Soon enough I’ll claim what’s mine, and believe me, you’ll want to be there to see it. Just think, Nidrah. One day you’ll be able to tell people that Regan Voorhees beat you on her way to the top. How exciting for you.”
Crouching, Regan takes the intact head from her statue, holding it up for further examination.
“Alas, poor Nidrah. I didn’t know her all that well, but really, who gives a shit? Even if you’re a woman of infinite jest and most excellent fancy, in the end, you’re just meat. And my babies are getting so hungry. Oink oink, dear.”
She leans forward, planting a kiss on the forehead of the statue, before casually tossing it over one shoulder. The scene fades to sunset, the perfect backdrop for an adorable micro pig with a blue ribbon around his neck.
Brought to you by Voorhees Farms