Post by reganvoorhees on Oct 22, 2022 22:44:46 GMT -5
Regan scoffed at the question, the judges, the situation in general. Her lips twisted in a wicked smirk and she spoke into the microphone, gripping it like a wine glass, perfectly between her thumb and forefingers.
“Elizabeth Báthory,” she said. “You’re familiar. Everyone is, because she’s the best known female serial killer in history. Murder hipsters might go for Giulia Tofana, but our gal Liz is a handy go-to for people who know nothing about history yet want to pretend that they do. Notoriety is a part of it, of course. Can’t build to a big match without a big name, and Tofana was only a poisoner. Effective, but hardly dramatic as an in-ring gimmick. In classic heel fashion, Elizabeth wasn’t above using enlisting the aid of a hench-person, but based on accounts from the time, she seemed to relish getting her own hands dirty. A delightful mesh of the rich asshole archetype with a sprinkling of unhinged sadist. Relatable. Well, to some of us.”
Her often rigid posture softened and her tone grew more conversational. The Duchess of Pork made eye contact with the judges, going down the line almost robotically. Then she shifted into pitch mode, her corporate experience kicking in.
“The marquees write themselves. ‘The Duchess of Pork’, ‘Slaughterella’, ‘Feminist Icon’ Regan Voorhees facing the ‘Blood Countess’, ‘The Patron Saint of Female Killers,’ ‘Lady Dracula’ herself - Elizabeth Báthory. Crawling her way out of the grave for a special one-night-only engagement. Who is the true First Lady of Blood? Can Lurid Liz successfully defend her deadly crown? Or is Regan Voorhees destined to be her worthy successor?”
Her hand twisted to form a fist around the microphone, gripping like one might grip a murder weapon.
“Fight to the death, obviously. If Liz wins, she deserves a reprieve from death and a welcome return to the mortal coil. Given her temperament, I don’t like her chances of functioning in a post-woke society, but at the very least it’s a worthy prize to dangle before our fighting revenant. Naturally, my interest lies in defeating such an infamous historical figure, and if I were unsuccessful, can you imagine a more grandiose death? I would make it a point to get my affairs in order beforehand. Only practical after all, but the stakes would make things so much more thrilling for both the participants and the audience.”
Her hand painted a picture in the air - one of grisly violence and massive box office returns.
“Castle Csejte would serve as the venue, a wedding gift to Elizabeth from her husband and ultimately the prison she was confined to after her crimes were discovered. While no one knows for sure, she’s likely buried there. Only fitting that she would be reburied there. Our match - or fight, more accurately - would take place across the castle’s battlements. Drones can be used to film the most dramatic shots, with additional cameras on the ground and ramparts. A fully orchestrated soundtrack, with commentary over it, would add to the drama. Unfortunately, I doubt there would be room for spectators and there might be international laws against fans at deathmatches. For the rules, think a classic scaffold match with higher stakes. Dozens of razor sharp spikes - a lovely nod to Vlad the Impaler - arranged on each side of the battlements. The ultimate goal is to kill your opponent, so tossing them onto the spikes is a tempting option. But you do have to toss them fatally. If they manage to survive, there’s no softhearted ref to call for a stoppage. The non-impaled competitor will be obligated to get their butt down there and finish the job. Death match, darlings. Death’s a requirement.”
“But what is a match without a proper build? This isn’t a simple one-off, but an epic confrontation between two women, disconnected by centuries of time but undeniably sharing certain antisocial impulses. I’ve never actually committed a murder, but I was never stuck in a Hungarian castle during the sixteenth century with fuck-all to do except slaughter my servants, insulated from consequences for years thanks to a noble title. Not that I’m judging. To make the match more thematically consistent, period appropriate melee weapons would be involved."
Regan rubbed her fingers together in the time-honored, international hand signal for money.
“Opens up the pool for gambling options. Was Regan killed via mace? Was Elizabeth dispatched when a dagger stabbed through her eye and into her brain? So many possibilities for the degenerates to bet on in addition to the potential for impaling. Since I’m already rich and might die anyway, all the profits would be funneled back into Voorhees Farms, with a sizable portion redirected to my personal rescue farm for animals with problematic dispositions. The buys for the event would be astronomical, since its very existence confirms the existence of either time travel or the power to revive the dead. But that’s just one aspect of the especially mouth-watering financials.”
“Consider the merchandising opportunities. Armor would be allowed, though nothing in plate or chainmail. Leather, but with topnotch embroidering to sell the theatrical tone. It would be practical to allow freedom of movement, but also intricately designed, something for the costume nerds to splooge over. For the sake of branding, I would opt for pig sigils. A classic short sword, as my weapon of choice. Arguably cliche, but a woman wielding a sword makes for a striking visual. The pre-match photo shoots would be the stuff of feminist and neo-veganist iconography for the next century. Limited run action figures of both participants would be a sensation with both fans and collectors. Shirts supporting Team Regan or Team Elizabeth would be an obvious go-to leading up to the event, with an in memoriam shirt after commemorating the loser and a First Lady of Blood equivalent celebrating the victor. Which, let’s face it, would be…”
Regan jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at her sternum.
“Me. Even with extensive training, Elizabeth doesn’t have my combat experience. Though to her credit, she’s murdered before and won’t hesitate to do it again, particularly with full exoneration and a second chance of life at stake. Another x-factor for the odds pool, to be sure, but I remain confident in my abilities. And seeing as how this is essentially an exhibition, afterwards I get to proclaim myself as the woman who finally visited true justice on history’s first female serial killer. Not quite claiming her mantle for my own, but certainly becoming an asterisk any time someone googles the name of Elizabeth Báthory. Regan Voorhees, the woman who bathed in the blood of the woman who bathed in the blood of so many others. Regan Voorhees - historical figure.”
She dragged a thumbnail across one corner of her mouth, eyes alight with malicious delight.
“The hype would have to be perfect. Viral marketing and social media absolutely vital in the build, with months of training leading into the match. Videos of Elizabeth adjusting to the modern world, trying not to be driven insane. Well, more insane. Preparation videos of our exercise and training regimens, as we practice with swords for the day when we get… quite literally medieval on each other’s asses. And when the day finally comes… I replace our girl Liz as a much more positive icon of female empowerment through bloodlust. Symbolism writ large, but what would a fight to the death be without excess and bombast? My ideal finish is slicing Liz’s head from her shoulders in one quick strike. Her head goes tumbling and her neck spurts for a moment like some bloody fountain. That way I’m appropriately blood-soaked for the bout’s closing image - me holding up the head of Elizabeth Báthory, like Perseus with the head of Medusa. Put that on a shirt, a poster. Paint it and hang it in the fucking Louvre.”
Regan stopped herself, making eye contact with the judges once again. Her smirk returned.
“Surely, you’re all wondering - but Regan… what if you… lost?”
Her answer started with a shrug.
“I can think of worse ways to go out. Impaled alongside a Hungarian castle, stabbed through the heart with a sword, skull and brains obliterated with a mace. Certainly unpleasant, but definitely memorable. Really, what more could a lady ask for in a gruesome death? Elizabeth has even had the chance to die already. Why should she get to do it twice? Not that I have a death wish, but it’s like Peter Pan said.
Her smirk turned to a smile that her eyes did not reflect.
“To die would be a great adventure.”
“Elizabeth Báthory,” she said. “You’re familiar. Everyone is, because she’s the best known female serial killer in history. Murder hipsters might go for Giulia Tofana, but our gal Liz is a handy go-to for people who know nothing about history yet want to pretend that they do. Notoriety is a part of it, of course. Can’t build to a big match without a big name, and Tofana was only a poisoner. Effective, but hardly dramatic as an in-ring gimmick. In classic heel fashion, Elizabeth wasn’t above using enlisting the aid of a hench-person, but based on accounts from the time, she seemed to relish getting her own hands dirty. A delightful mesh of the rich asshole archetype with a sprinkling of unhinged sadist. Relatable. Well, to some of us.”
Her often rigid posture softened and her tone grew more conversational. The Duchess of Pork made eye contact with the judges, going down the line almost robotically. Then she shifted into pitch mode, her corporate experience kicking in.
“The marquees write themselves. ‘The Duchess of Pork’, ‘Slaughterella’, ‘Feminist Icon’ Regan Voorhees facing the ‘Blood Countess’, ‘The Patron Saint of Female Killers,’ ‘Lady Dracula’ herself - Elizabeth Báthory. Crawling her way out of the grave for a special one-night-only engagement. Who is the true First Lady of Blood? Can Lurid Liz successfully defend her deadly crown? Or is Regan Voorhees destined to be her worthy successor?”
Her hand twisted to form a fist around the microphone, gripping like one might grip a murder weapon.
“Fight to the death, obviously. If Liz wins, she deserves a reprieve from death and a welcome return to the mortal coil. Given her temperament, I don’t like her chances of functioning in a post-woke society, but at the very least it’s a worthy prize to dangle before our fighting revenant. Naturally, my interest lies in defeating such an infamous historical figure, and if I were unsuccessful, can you imagine a more grandiose death? I would make it a point to get my affairs in order beforehand. Only practical after all, but the stakes would make things so much more thrilling for both the participants and the audience.”
Her hand painted a picture in the air - one of grisly violence and massive box office returns.
“Castle Csejte would serve as the venue, a wedding gift to Elizabeth from her husband and ultimately the prison she was confined to after her crimes were discovered. While no one knows for sure, she’s likely buried there. Only fitting that she would be reburied there. Our match - or fight, more accurately - would take place across the castle’s battlements. Drones can be used to film the most dramatic shots, with additional cameras on the ground and ramparts. A fully orchestrated soundtrack, with commentary over it, would add to the drama. Unfortunately, I doubt there would be room for spectators and there might be international laws against fans at deathmatches. For the rules, think a classic scaffold match with higher stakes. Dozens of razor sharp spikes - a lovely nod to Vlad the Impaler - arranged on each side of the battlements. The ultimate goal is to kill your opponent, so tossing them onto the spikes is a tempting option. But you do have to toss them fatally. If they manage to survive, there’s no softhearted ref to call for a stoppage. The non-impaled competitor will be obligated to get their butt down there and finish the job. Death match, darlings. Death’s a requirement.”
“But what is a match without a proper build? This isn’t a simple one-off, but an epic confrontation between two women, disconnected by centuries of time but undeniably sharing certain antisocial impulses. I’ve never actually committed a murder, but I was never stuck in a Hungarian castle during the sixteenth century with fuck-all to do except slaughter my servants, insulated from consequences for years thanks to a noble title. Not that I’m judging. To make the match more thematically consistent, period appropriate melee weapons would be involved."
Regan rubbed her fingers together in the time-honored, international hand signal for money.
“Opens up the pool for gambling options. Was Regan killed via mace? Was Elizabeth dispatched when a dagger stabbed through her eye and into her brain? So many possibilities for the degenerates to bet on in addition to the potential for impaling. Since I’m already rich and might die anyway, all the profits would be funneled back into Voorhees Farms, with a sizable portion redirected to my personal rescue farm for animals with problematic dispositions. The buys for the event would be astronomical, since its very existence confirms the existence of either time travel or the power to revive the dead. But that’s just one aspect of the especially mouth-watering financials.”
“Consider the merchandising opportunities. Armor would be allowed, though nothing in plate or chainmail. Leather, but with topnotch embroidering to sell the theatrical tone. It would be practical to allow freedom of movement, but also intricately designed, something for the costume nerds to splooge over. For the sake of branding, I would opt for pig sigils. A classic short sword, as my weapon of choice. Arguably cliche, but a woman wielding a sword makes for a striking visual. The pre-match photo shoots would be the stuff of feminist and neo-veganist iconography for the next century. Limited run action figures of both participants would be a sensation with both fans and collectors. Shirts supporting Team Regan or Team Elizabeth would be an obvious go-to leading up to the event, with an in memoriam shirt after commemorating the loser and a First Lady of Blood equivalent celebrating the victor. Which, let’s face it, would be…”
Regan jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at her sternum.
“Me. Even with extensive training, Elizabeth doesn’t have my combat experience. Though to her credit, she’s murdered before and won’t hesitate to do it again, particularly with full exoneration and a second chance of life at stake. Another x-factor for the odds pool, to be sure, but I remain confident in my abilities. And seeing as how this is essentially an exhibition, afterwards I get to proclaim myself as the woman who finally visited true justice on history’s first female serial killer. Not quite claiming her mantle for my own, but certainly becoming an asterisk any time someone googles the name of Elizabeth Báthory. Regan Voorhees, the woman who bathed in the blood of the woman who bathed in the blood of so many others. Regan Voorhees - historical figure.”
She dragged a thumbnail across one corner of her mouth, eyes alight with malicious delight.
“The hype would have to be perfect. Viral marketing and social media absolutely vital in the build, with months of training leading into the match. Videos of Elizabeth adjusting to the modern world, trying not to be driven insane. Well, more insane. Preparation videos of our exercise and training regimens, as we practice with swords for the day when we get… quite literally medieval on each other’s asses. And when the day finally comes… I replace our girl Liz as a much more positive icon of female empowerment through bloodlust. Symbolism writ large, but what would a fight to the death be without excess and bombast? My ideal finish is slicing Liz’s head from her shoulders in one quick strike. Her head goes tumbling and her neck spurts for a moment like some bloody fountain. That way I’m appropriately blood-soaked for the bout’s closing image - me holding up the head of Elizabeth Báthory, like Perseus with the head of Medusa. Put that on a shirt, a poster. Paint it and hang it in the fucking Louvre.”
Regan stopped herself, making eye contact with the judges once again. Her smirk returned.
“Surely, you’re all wondering - but Regan… what if you… lost?”
Her answer started with a shrug.
“I can think of worse ways to go out. Impaled alongside a Hungarian castle, stabbed through the heart with a sword, skull and brains obliterated with a mace. Certainly unpleasant, but definitely memorable. Really, what more could a lady ask for in a gruesome death? Elizabeth has even had the chance to die already. Why should she get to do it twice? Not that I have a death wish, but it’s like Peter Pan said.
Her smirk turned to a smile that her eyes did not reflect.
“To die would be a great adventure.”