The Haunting of Regan Voorhees(689 Words)
Mar 28, 2021 22:42:26 GMT -5
The Golden Idolo, Johnny Bacchus, and 1 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Mar 28, 2021 22:42:26 GMT -5
A voice creeps over the static.
“When I was just a little girl…”
The golden calligraphy follows, with the voices of children in an eerie chorus.
The static fades, the calligraphy with it.
“I asked my mother, what will I be...
Regan Voorhees stands in her private gallery, beneath a beam of light in the darkened room. Her suit is ghostly white, matching her alabaster complexion perfectly. Golden trim breaks up the coloring.
“Will I be pretty?”
She holds up a pearl hand mirror, admiring her features before tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
“Check. Will I be rich?”
Her hand passes in front of the camera to reveal her a trio of rings, each decorated in gold and diamonds.
“Double-check. Will I be… a champion?”
Her rosewood lips twist in an unladylike, nigh animalistic snarl. Then the expression vanishes, her poise returning.
“Que sera, se-fucking-ra. Whatever will be, will be. My mother told me quite a few things, chatty drunk that she was, but my match at Timebomb against Spayde Martinez, she was dreadfully uninformed on. Such a pity, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t delight in the perils of competition. And Spayde, facing you is wonderfully perilous.”
She takes a walk, heels click-clacking off-screen as the camera follows. The walk ends in front of a crimson curtain.
“The night of my debut, seeing you in person was like a revelation. You recall the Rumble, I’m sure. A second-place finish to an opponent you utterly dominated. And even after that brief impediment, when you claimed the Cruiserweight Championship you were denied, you did so in gruesome fashion. I adore your brand of brutal efficiency. That chokehold of yours? Simply magnificent, it belongs in the Louvre. Bravo.”
A polite golf clap follows, with Regan’s arms fully extended. When they retract, one hand grips a velvet rope next to the curtain and tugs. It slides open, revealing her latest commission.
The picture is a play on Bill Stoneham’s “The Hands Resist Him.” A painted rendition of Spayde Martinez stands before the door, ghostly pig hooves pressed against the glass from the other side, converging onto the title around her waist. The doll beside her wears a dress and hairstyle matching Regan’s own, coveting the belt with hollow eyes.
“I call it ‘The Hooves Resist Her.’ I do hope you like it. Since my first night here, I’ve been positively frothing to face you. To know how my Red Camellia fares against a true submissions expert. Or how long I can withstand any one of your thousand torturous holds. Regardless of the outcome, I emerge from our match a better competitor. But am I a good enough competitor to take your title? Thrilling question, isn’t it?”
A smile plays on her lips.
“My own recent failures haunt me. A victory over Lissie Hope, only to fall before Der Metzger. A ‘shitting of the bed,’ to put it crudely. A grand victory and an equally grand disappointment. I make no excuses, Spayde. I follow your ruthless example, reapply myself, and take what I deserve. Perhaps your title, perhaps your wrath. Oh, the anticipation is more than I can bear!"
A shiver overtakes Regan, and a haughty titter escapes her throat.
“I have to wonder, when the oxygen abandons your brain and you feel the pull of those spectral hooves dragging you to oblivion, what your final thought will be. I do hope it’s something in the vein of, ‘Regan Voorhees, what an ARTISTE!’ An affirmation of mutual admiration. One day we’ll laugh about this, over mimosas or over the broken and bloodied bodies of our mutual enemies. Two of a kind, you and I. A card joke, how delightful!”
Another snooty snicker follows, shattering Regan’s pristine poise for all of a nanosecond.
"Looking forward to our rendezvous, Spayde. Expect a thank you note after."
The ghostly choir returns to sing Regan out. A pig face flashes in the static for a moment, before disappearing.
Brought to You By Voorhees Farms