Post by Regan Voorhees on Jan 17, 2021 23:42:03 GMT -5
“Pull!”
A mechanical whirring is followed by the bang of a shotgun. Red camellias bordered the screen, fading to a black title card with golden calligraphy.
The card faded to a stone patio overlooking acres upon acres of Alabama property, a pristine green lawn stretching out of sight, framed on each side by a perfectly manicured treeline. Regan Voorhees studied the distance, dressed in mint green hunting attire, complete with a green-white plaid hat that would make Holden Caulfield vomit. She held a tactical shotgun in sleek black.
“I find the idea of shooting animals detestable. Pull!”
The Duchess commanded and a faceless attendant worked the lever on a clay pigeon thrower, firing a procession of three into the air. After three blasts, she dispatched the pigeons with cold precision, showering clay fragments onto the perfect green grass.
“One-hundred-thousand years of human ingenuity, yet people flush countless dollars down the toilet so that they can barely outwit a deer. Yet those of us afflicted with personal pride prefer more challenging prey. It’s why I found my way to this peculiar sport. To test the sum of my mental and physical capabilities against worthwhile members of my own species. One-on-one, things have gone swimmingly. But now a new challenge arises. Baby’s first triple threat. Pull!”
The attendant obeyed and Regan turned, aiming and firing off another trio of shots that again found their marks. Content with her work, she passed the shotgun off for reloading.
“After dispatching single opponents, two at once is the next logical step, and I must confess the prospect thrills. A contest determined not just by our skill as wrestlers, but by our ability to seize the perfect opening. Can’t imagine CJ Phoenix or the Void are just going to stand idly by and let me score a pinfall after I’ve laid one of them low with the Abattoir. This is an ambush predator’s game. Delightful.”
Her hands met in a quick double-clap, a break in her usual icy composure that was quickly subdued. A slight grin was all that remained.
“Void, I do so envy you. Who wouldn’t want to put on a mask, embrace anonymity and go rampaging? I can appreciate that you’re either mentally unstable or playing at mental instability. Wrestling is the go-to haven for so many maniacs who slipped through society’s cracks. To the point it’s become quite the viable career option for those who have no marketable skills outside of hurting people. The pragmatist in me thinks it’s bluff and bluster, but if I’m wrong, that could be a disastrous miscalculation. That would mean I’m stepping into the ring with a dangerous psychopath. Do I actually think I could defeat a person like that? I wonder.”
The Duchess stroked her chin.
“Normally I’d be more inclined to be courteous to a fellow Southerner, but I doubt CJ Phoenix shares my commitment to propriety, though I do appreciate his attempts to wax poetic. What would our sport be without a bit of theater? Though I must admit, I think you have the wrong idea about me. Makes the heart ache, really. I prefer to think of myself as less of a blunt instrument and more of a razor sharp scalpel. Cold steel, brilliantly sharp, able to slice you to ribbons with a touch. Slaughter is a nasty business that we too often save for animals. Who cares if you didn’t quite split that cow’s skull open on the first swing? It’s still going to be a hamburger. Keep swinging. But I’ll be humane to you, CJ. Enjoy the scalpel. You won’t even feel it.”
The attendant passed Regan the shotgun, fully loaded once again.
“A saying comes to mind, one I’ll save post-victory so as to not seem gauche. For now, I look forward to a lovely evening gentlemen. Swim, swim, little fishies. You're already in the barrel. Pull!”
Regan raised the shotgun again, a shot ringing out as the scene transitioned to serene lake at sunset. A dingy packed with piglets floated by, a single flag proclaiming their loyalty.
A mechanical whirring is followed by the bang of a shotgun. Red camellias bordered the screen, fading to a black title card with golden calligraphy.
The Barrel(Best paired with “Run Rabbit Run” by Flanagan and Allen and a Glenfiddich single malt)
The card faded to a stone patio overlooking acres upon acres of Alabama property, a pristine green lawn stretching out of sight, framed on each side by a perfectly manicured treeline. Regan Voorhees studied the distance, dressed in mint green hunting attire, complete with a green-white plaid hat that would make Holden Caulfield vomit. She held a tactical shotgun in sleek black.
“I find the idea of shooting animals detestable. Pull!”
The Duchess commanded and a faceless attendant worked the lever on a clay pigeon thrower, firing a procession of three into the air. After three blasts, she dispatched the pigeons with cold precision, showering clay fragments onto the perfect green grass.
“One-hundred-thousand years of human ingenuity, yet people flush countless dollars down the toilet so that they can barely outwit a deer. Yet those of us afflicted with personal pride prefer more challenging prey. It’s why I found my way to this peculiar sport. To test the sum of my mental and physical capabilities against worthwhile members of my own species. One-on-one, things have gone swimmingly. But now a new challenge arises. Baby’s first triple threat. Pull!”
The attendant obeyed and Regan turned, aiming and firing off another trio of shots that again found their marks. Content with her work, she passed the shotgun off for reloading.
“After dispatching single opponents, two at once is the next logical step, and I must confess the prospect thrills. A contest determined not just by our skill as wrestlers, but by our ability to seize the perfect opening. Can’t imagine CJ Phoenix or the Void are just going to stand idly by and let me score a pinfall after I’ve laid one of them low with the Abattoir. This is an ambush predator’s game. Delightful.”
Her hands met in a quick double-clap, a break in her usual icy composure that was quickly subdued. A slight grin was all that remained.
“Void, I do so envy you. Who wouldn’t want to put on a mask, embrace anonymity and go rampaging? I can appreciate that you’re either mentally unstable or playing at mental instability. Wrestling is the go-to haven for so many maniacs who slipped through society’s cracks. To the point it’s become quite the viable career option for those who have no marketable skills outside of hurting people. The pragmatist in me thinks it’s bluff and bluster, but if I’m wrong, that could be a disastrous miscalculation. That would mean I’m stepping into the ring with a dangerous psychopath. Do I actually think I could defeat a person like that? I wonder.”
The Duchess stroked her chin.
“Normally I’d be more inclined to be courteous to a fellow Southerner, but I doubt CJ Phoenix shares my commitment to propriety, though I do appreciate his attempts to wax poetic. What would our sport be without a bit of theater? Though I must admit, I think you have the wrong idea about me. Makes the heart ache, really. I prefer to think of myself as less of a blunt instrument and more of a razor sharp scalpel. Cold steel, brilliantly sharp, able to slice you to ribbons with a touch. Slaughter is a nasty business that we too often save for animals. Who cares if you didn’t quite split that cow’s skull open on the first swing? It’s still going to be a hamburger. Keep swinging. But I’ll be humane to you, CJ. Enjoy the scalpel. You won’t even feel it.”
The attendant passed Regan the shotgun, fully loaded once again.
“A saying comes to mind, one I’ll save post-victory so as to not seem gauche. For now, I look forward to a lovely evening gentlemen. Swim, swim, little fishies. You're already in the barrel. Pull!”
Regan raised the shotgun again, a shot ringing out as the scene transitioned to serene lake at sunset. A dingy packed with piglets floated by, a single flag proclaiming their loyalty.
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