Post by reganvoorhees on Nov 21, 2022 3:10:38 GMT -5
I was so excited on the day of my first wrestling match. It felt like the prom fucked Christmas.
This was before all the pomp and circumstance of my professional career. No theme music, no elaborate entrance, and not even custom ring gear. Just little eleven-year-old Regan, wearing a school tee under her singlet, as she stepped out onto the mat to grapple with one of the handful of boys in her weight class. It was the closest feeling I ever had to a tummy full of butterflies. Fuck becoming homecoming queen or holding hands with your crush. Itty-Bitty Reegie wanted to fight.
The coaches were tragically lax in my training. Setting me up to fail, as I should’ve known. But it was one of the few times I let optimism and naivete get the better of me. I thought my addition to the wrestling team could be one of those community-defining girl power moments that set everyone in Birmingham, in Alabama, in America, in the world on a more progressive path.
How absolutely fucking dumb of me, to have expected better out of people. I was little more than a show pony in the entire endeavor, trotted out to make it look like the powers that be were doing their part, appeasing the rich girl with the antisocial tendencies. Giving her a chance to compete like any other student. There was even a smattering of other aspiring girl wrestlers in the bleachers. Most of them were cheering for me(thankfully they didn’t know me very well, or they probably wouldn’t have) and for what I represented. My superior flexibility did little to counter my opponent’s superior muscle mass and training. I held my own well enough for all of about thirty seconds. The defeat was utterly soul-crushing. Fortunately, I’ve never been much of a crier, even in the most emotionally dire situations. I have, however, bitten through my left third molar on four separate occasions. This was one of the said occasions.
I would only have three more matches, winning my second on points, before facing opponent number one again in match three. This was the final match of my amateur wrestling career. When I went for a single-leg takedown he yanked my hair, at which point I snapped his pinky like a toothpick and then fired a series of elbow shots at his knee until his leg bent in the wrong direction. The crowd was horrified, but as I walked out of the gym I made sure to pass by my cheering section. Most of them recoiled like I was a rampaging bear, but one was frozen in place, her mind still processing the gruesome sight. Oddly enough, her hand was in the air. I slapped it a high-five, as any good wrestler would. Then I hit the showers. When I left the building, there were no fans left. Just my continuously disappointed mom and my equally disappointed-but-better-at-sugarcoating-it dad. “I bit through my tooth again,” I told them. The first time it was a baby tooth. This time, they would have to pay for it.
“We’ll get you a gold one, kiddo,” my dad said. He was only half-joking. His go-to response was to joke and attempt to coddle me. I rarely needed coddling, even as a child.
Mom was less obliging. “We already have to pay for that shitty kid’s knee AND his finger.”
“I only meant to break his finger,” I said, as apologetically as I could. I’m rarely sorry for my behavior, so apologies are something I never quite learned to do well. “But, Mom, his knee was RIGHT there.” It was as close as I came to pouting. After the snap of his pinky and the resulting scream, a girl can’t help but wonder what exquisite noises an even larger bone might make when pushed to the point of breaking. At the time, I sorely lacked in proper wrestling training. But with a family in the slaughterhouse industry, anatomical information naturally came up.
Mom didn’t seem to agree with my explanation. “And his family wants a fucking apology,” she said. Even outside the gymnasium, in the twisting catacombs of my posh private school, she somehow acquired a glass of red wine.
“Do I have to mean it?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. Mom drank. “Of course not,” she said, and drank again.
“Sigh,” I said, without actually sighing. “This is a bleak day for female empowerment.” Eleven-year-old Regan would eventually grow up to become me, twenty-six-year-old Regan, Feminist Icon. But back then, the goal seemed so, so far away. I was the victim, after all. Spitting defiantly in the face of tradition and punished for it. My hair was pulled and the pinky was retribution. The knee was to emphasize the retribution. Progress stood stymied and society itself plotted against me, while the ones I was expected to look up to did nothing. They left the corrupt, broken system stand unpunished.
People are so goddamn disappointing. On some level, my kid-brain already knew. But the events of the day confirmed the truth. People and the world don’t change on their own, they don’t allow for constructive criticism and gentle nudging in the right direction. The knee bends one way, and if you want it to bend the other, start throwing elbows until you hear a crack. If you ask for permission, you’ll never get it. You can always apologize later. Nobody says you have to mean it
“Does any person really deserve anything better than grim fucking death?” I sipped a pink lemonade from the head of an immaculate Thanksgiving table. Pink silk cascaded from the ceiling to the floor all around me(think the Last Jedi throne room scene, only with more thematic consistency throughout). I went with a white pantsuit to contrast with the black china holding the tofurkey and squash soup, the bourbon yams and the baked onions, the kale salad and broccoli steaks. Atticus sat to my left, hooves on the table as he happily munched on his own broccoli steak, snorting all the while. His pilgrim hat only stayed on his head for about five seconds before toppling to the table.
Beyond him were skeletons, artfully seated in the remaining chairs. There were eight on my right, seven on my left, each one wearing the designer t-shirt of one of the WSOW top sixteen. I was always a sucker for striking visuals, and I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate for celebrating a holiday about American excess than pink silk and skeletons. If my stylistic sensibility had a name, it would be Bone Pastel. Empty black plates were set in front of them. I am nothing, if not an excellent host.
“Candycoat the history books, the worst things imaginable are so far removed from the now that it’s easy to pretend they never actually happened. And when more horrible things happen, day in and day out, until they’re little more than ambient atrocities playing in the background while we all watch TikToks of cats with weird meows – just stuff a slice of pumpkin pie down your gullet and wallow in your own exceptionalism until you black out. The eight-billionth living person was just born on this planet and we’re all still rocketing toward doomsday. Who wouldn’t be thankful?”
Atticus looked up from his broccoli steak and snorted in agreement. His right ear twitched, so I gave it a scratch. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him that nobody liked his shirt.
“Considering I’m the global figurehead of neo-veganism and the only wrestler actively dedicated to minimizing my negative impact on the environment and ending the human consumption of meat, I’m the obvious choice to receive the electric-powered, dimension-hopping future car. Unless it’s prone to exploding, in which case do us all a favor and toss the keys to Veh-hodka Beh-lack and watch her turn into Vhodka Blackened.”
I laughed, haughtily and without humor, as I snatched the head off the skeleton nearest me, its shirt making a proclamation about eating all the rest.
“Alas, poor Vhodka.”
I studied the skull for a moment, then looked to the skeleton next to her.
“And poor Allen, he who hath also fallen from grace over a fucking t-shirt. Hopefully he’ll have the good humor to write, ‘I Never Thought He Was That Funny,’ on his tombstone. Laugh? Oh, you’ll just die. But here I am, wishing death upon my peers when I should be showing gratitude. I certainly appreciate a good vehicle more than you might think. Pollution’s bad, but they’re just so practical. Funny story, I once convinced a simp of mine to run one of my opponents over with a car. That might not sound funny, but if you heard the crack her head made against the windshield…”
Again, I laughed. Tittered even. Atticus looked up from his broccoli, and I saw he did not find the humor in attempted vehicular manslaughter that I did. I rolled my eyes and he returned to his chomping.
“You’re no fun. Spoilers, but she survived, I still had to wrestle her, and we did that oh-so-annoying win-trading thing that happens in epic rivalries where one party tries to kill the other. I’m not saying my life would’ve been easier had her hit-and-run been fatal…”
Atticus looked up at me again, his eyes squinted in an attempt to shame me. I sighed and relented.
“If her hit-and-run had been career-ending…”
Yet another glare was beamed at me, black eyes teeming with accusation as he peaked over his snout, still chewing.
“Whatever… It was well over a year ago, I’m an entirely different competitor now, and I can’t very well get away with running someone over if I’m using a specially made, one-of-a-kind vehicle offered to a particular person who wins a particular contest. Not much room for plausible deniability. So, to address the elephant in the room - when I win the Axtgriff, I swear I won’t run anyone over with it. Happy?
This time it was me staring the pig down. Atticus seemed satisfied with my resolution and went back to his eating. I vented my irritation by impaling a bourbon yam with my fork and heaving it into my plate. Then I moved one onto his. I couldn’t stay mad at him.
“So no. Delightful as it might be to fit the Axtgriff with treads and use it to pave over the rest of the Saucy Sixteen, I shall refrain.”
My hand squeezed the skull that I nearly forgot I was holding, and I tossed it up and down like a softball. Then I threw it over my shoulder.
“Would’ve loved to watch that crack under a tire, but oh well. Take a look at the table, folks. Me, Atticus, and fifteen guests. Fifteen skeletons that I want to bury, all sitting here while I eat my yams and my tofurkey - which is tofucking good by the way. A grim reminder to never avert my eyes from the reality that these people are my competition and that I can either be slaughtered… Or I can have Thanksgiving dinner with their goddamn bones. Would you care to pass the squash soup, Raion?”
The Raion-shirted skeleton was utterly unhelpful. Instead of obliging, his neck cracked and splintered, sending his head tumbling from his shoulders and into the squash soup that I was suddenly no longer craving. I looked to Atticus, my only true confidant
“I don’t want to be rude, but honestly, what sort of guest does that?”
I shook my head in disgust and refilled my pink lemonade. When I sipped, I wished I had been more generous with the vodka. The good kind of vodka.
“But I actually am thankful. Not just for Atticus, not just for my career success, not just for the fruits born of my activism. Shock and surprise, I am thankful for people. Not just any people, such as my peers, coworkers, fans. And not anyone in particular. This isn’t a display of gratitude to Mom and Dad, for all the years they put up with my shit. I spent just as many putting up with theirs. We’re even, assholes. No, my gratitude extends to my species as a whole. I don’t believe in God, but if mythology floats your boat, God and earth’s single greatest mistake across the history of all histories is what I’m grateful for. I, Regan Elenor Voorhees, am thankful for humanity.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I snorted to myself. A side effect of the booze and the absurdity.
“I know what everyone thinks. One look at me and I’m dismissed as another rich, entitled twat. Surfing into a career she doesn’t deserve on a tidal wave of generational wealth. Utterly undeserving of any opportunities, woefully ignorant of just how dangerous and demanding this life of professional conflict is. Caligula was ‘brave’ enough to step into the Roman Colosseum, too. Since he had absolute power, he demanded everyone pretend he was the Son of Jupiter, just so there was no confusion among the gladiators as to who exactly was going over that night. It’s a lot easier to play backstage politician when you’re the Emperor of Rome. But since I don’t have the luxury of a Praetorian Guard ready to stick gladiuses in the guts of all my naysayers… I had to be a winner.”
I sat back, feet on the table. My heels were already off, but my black-and-pink pig socks were worth showing off.
“The pages of history swell with the sons and daughters of impossible privilege having opportunities gift-wrapped and laid before them. Opportunities that other people spend their lives fighting and clawing and killing themselves for, before dying alone in a gutter, because sweetie, it takes more than a dream to keep you warm. If Mom and Dad can pay the heating bill while you finish your wrestling training, all the better. The biz is full of crooks and carnies and psychopaths who had no other options. Their entire existence is a fight from the moment they get their eviction notice(the first of many) from mommy’s womb. Might as well fight for a living. But then there are those of us who had options. The ones who decided that they wanted, more than anything else, to be here. A cushy corporate gig in a hip city, drinks with gal pals and regular railings from the worthy and not-so-worthy. Or… getting punched in the face by broken, violent, dysfunctional cuckoos. Several times a week, if you work multiple promotions. A perfectly sane thing for an adult to choose to do with their life. I could say I’m thankful for wrestling… And technically, it’s true. Wrestling lets me be me, which is not something you can put a price tag on.”
Sliding back, I took my feet off the tab and gave Atticus another ear scratch. He knew better than to interrupt Mom when she was promoing.
“But people are the reason I’m here. Because every time I give the human race an opportunity to prove that it’s more admirable than it is awful, it fails spectacularly. Ever since I was given a token spot on the wrestling team as a joke and learned there’s no logic in playing fair when the rest of the world refuses to extend you the same courtesy. Nobody had a problem crushing a girl’s hopes of bettering the world around her. They had a problem when she stopped playing fair back and started dispensing sweet, syrupy retribution upon the people who had it coming. Just a heads up, kiddos. Wanting to make the world a better place is commendable, but everyone will resent you for it. And if you succeed… If you manage to improve this hellscape of a planet, even incrementally… They will absolutely fucking hate you. But…”
Shrugging, I took a bite of my bourbon yam.
“Totally worth it. They’ll call you a sociopath, a cartoon villain, a soulless automaton, a pig-fucker… But it’s all because they know you’re better. Not just as a competitor, but as a person. And that’s the one thing that they absolutely cannot stand. That’s humanity for you. The worst species in existence, flawed from concept to execution, yet utterly and absolutely convinced that they are the preeminent beings of the universe. Just knowing that, even though you’re one of them, how can you not look at them and feel better about yourself?”
Draining the remainder of my pink lemonade, I shrugged again. The vodka seemed to settle at the bottom, enough to scorch my throat on the way down.
“I know I do. After my three-match middle school wrestling career ended, I was absolutely seething. With no outlet for my frustration, I chose to focus on the banal. I painted my nails an especially pleasant shade of amethyst. The polish was immaculate, to this day probably my best manicurial work. Once they were dry, I punched the wall in my bedroom until my knuckles bled and my eyes watered. Despite my ravaged knuckles, my nails were still perfect, but I adored the idea of taking something so flawless and smashing it to bits. My rage lifted, and I went to school the next Monday wearing black lace gloves to hide the damage. A week later, everyone was wearing them. It taught me that even by doing something as mundane as punching a wall, I have the power to dictate the course of human destiny. Other people exist to remind me that my will is undeniable. So, to humanity, from the bottom of my icy heart - thanks. Your awfulness is my ambrosia.”
My ambrosia was also the rest of my bourbon yam. I took another bite and surveyed the be-shirted skeletons surrounding me.
“Consider your enemies. They exist to make you stronger and to serve as a reminder that, whatever human failings you may have, you are capable of rising above. To all the girls who see me as an aspirational figure… I see you and I adore you. I have the utmost faith that you will unleash hell and destroy all who oppose you. As for me… As for the Axtgriff… Do I deserve it more than anyone else?”
“Of course. I’m a very important person, with very important shit to do. So get the fuck out of my way.”
This was before all the pomp and circumstance of my professional career. No theme music, no elaborate entrance, and not even custom ring gear. Just little eleven-year-old Regan, wearing a school tee under her singlet, as she stepped out onto the mat to grapple with one of the handful of boys in her weight class. It was the closest feeling I ever had to a tummy full of butterflies. Fuck becoming homecoming queen or holding hands with your crush. Itty-Bitty Reegie wanted to fight.
The coaches were tragically lax in my training. Setting me up to fail, as I should’ve known. But it was one of the few times I let optimism and naivete get the better of me. I thought my addition to the wrestling team could be one of those community-defining girl power moments that set everyone in Birmingham, in Alabama, in America, in the world on a more progressive path.
How absolutely fucking dumb of me, to have expected better out of people. I was little more than a show pony in the entire endeavor, trotted out to make it look like the powers that be were doing their part, appeasing the rich girl with the antisocial tendencies. Giving her a chance to compete like any other student. There was even a smattering of other aspiring girl wrestlers in the bleachers. Most of them were cheering for me(thankfully they didn’t know me very well, or they probably wouldn’t have) and for what I represented. My superior flexibility did little to counter my opponent’s superior muscle mass and training. I held my own well enough for all of about thirty seconds. The defeat was utterly soul-crushing. Fortunately, I’ve never been much of a crier, even in the most emotionally dire situations. I have, however, bitten through my left third molar on four separate occasions. This was one of the said occasions.
I would only have three more matches, winning my second on points, before facing opponent number one again in match three. This was the final match of my amateur wrestling career. When I went for a single-leg takedown he yanked my hair, at which point I snapped his pinky like a toothpick and then fired a series of elbow shots at his knee until his leg bent in the wrong direction. The crowd was horrified, but as I walked out of the gym I made sure to pass by my cheering section. Most of them recoiled like I was a rampaging bear, but one was frozen in place, her mind still processing the gruesome sight. Oddly enough, her hand was in the air. I slapped it a high-five, as any good wrestler would. Then I hit the showers. When I left the building, there were no fans left. Just my continuously disappointed mom and my equally disappointed-but-better-at-sugarcoating-it dad. “I bit through my tooth again,” I told them. The first time it was a baby tooth. This time, they would have to pay for it.
“We’ll get you a gold one, kiddo,” my dad said. He was only half-joking. His go-to response was to joke and attempt to coddle me. I rarely needed coddling, even as a child.
Mom was less obliging. “We already have to pay for that shitty kid’s knee AND his finger.”
“I only meant to break his finger,” I said, as apologetically as I could. I’m rarely sorry for my behavior, so apologies are something I never quite learned to do well. “But, Mom, his knee was RIGHT there.” It was as close as I came to pouting. After the snap of his pinky and the resulting scream, a girl can’t help but wonder what exquisite noises an even larger bone might make when pushed to the point of breaking. At the time, I sorely lacked in proper wrestling training. But with a family in the slaughterhouse industry, anatomical information naturally came up.
Mom didn’t seem to agree with my explanation. “And his family wants a fucking apology,” she said. Even outside the gymnasium, in the twisting catacombs of my posh private school, she somehow acquired a glass of red wine.
“Do I have to mean it?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. Mom drank. “Of course not,” she said, and drank again.
“Sigh,” I said, without actually sighing. “This is a bleak day for female empowerment.” Eleven-year-old Regan would eventually grow up to become me, twenty-six-year-old Regan, Feminist Icon. But back then, the goal seemed so, so far away. I was the victim, after all. Spitting defiantly in the face of tradition and punished for it. My hair was pulled and the pinky was retribution. The knee was to emphasize the retribution. Progress stood stymied and society itself plotted against me, while the ones I was expected to look up to did nothing. They left the corrupt, broken system stand unpunished.
People are so goddamn disappointing. On some level, my kid-brain already knew. But the events of the day confirmed the truth. People and the world don’t change on their own, they don’t allow for constructive criticism and gentle nudging in the right direction. The knee bends one way, and if you want it to bend the other, start throwing elbows until you hear a crack. If you ask for permission, you’ll never get it. You can always apologize later. Nobody says you have to mean it
(▼✪(oo)✪▼)
“Does any person really deserve anything better than grim fucking death?” I sipped a pink lemonade from the head of an immaculate Thanksgiving table. Pink silk cascaded from the ceiling to the floor all around me(think the Last Jedi throne room scene, only with more thematic consistency throughout). I went with a white pantsuit to contrast with the black china holding the tofurkey and squash soup, the bourbon yams and the baked onions, the kale salad and broccoli steaks. Atticus sat to my left, hooves on the table as he happily munched on his own broccoli steak, snorting all the while. His pilgrim hat only stayed on his head for about five seconds before toppling to the table.
Beyond him were skeletons, artfully seated in the remaining chairs. There were eight on my right, seven on my left, each one wearing the designer t-shirt of one of the WSOW top sixteen. I was always a sucker for striking visuals, and I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate for celebrating a holiday about American excess than pink silk and skeletons. If my stylistic sensibility had a name, it would be Bone Pastel. Empty black plates were set in front of them. I am nothing, if not an excellent host.
“Candycoat the history books, the worst things imaginable are so far removed from the now that it’s easy to pretend they never actually happened. And when more horrible things happen, day in and day out, until they’re little more than ambient atrocities playing in the background while we all watch TikToks of cats with weird meows – just stuff a slice of pumpkin pie down your gullet and wallow in your own exceptionalism until you black out. The eight-billionth living person was just born on this planet and we’re all still rocketing toward doomsday. Who wouldn’t be thankful?”
Atticus looked up from his broccoli steak and snorted in agreement. His right ear twitched, so I gave it a scratch. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him that nobody liked his shirt.
“Considering I’m the global figurehead of neo-veganism and the only wrestler actively dedicated to minimizing my negative impact on the environment and ending the human consumption of meat, I’m the obvious choice to receive the electric-powered, dimension-hopping future car. Unless it’s prone to exploding, in which case do us all a favor and toss the keys to Veh-hodka Beh-lack and watch her turn into Vhodka Blackened.”
I laughed, haughtily and without humor, as I snatched the head off the skeleton nearest me, its shirt making a proclamation about eating all the rest.
“Alas, poor Vhodka.”
I studied the skull for a moment, then looked to the skeleton next to her.
“And poor Allen, he who hath also fallen from grace over a fucking t-shirt. Hopefully he’ll have the good humor to write, ‘I Never Thought He Was That Funny,’ on his tombstone. Laugh? Oh, you’ll just die. But here I am, wishing death upon my peers when I should be showing gratitude. I certainly appreciate a good vehicle more than you might think. Pollution’s bad, but they’re just so practical. Funny story, I once convinced a simp of mine to run one of my opponents over with a car. That might not sound funny, but if you heard the crack her head made against the windshield…”
Again, I laughed. Tittered even. Atticus looked up from his broccoli, and I saw he did not find the humor in attempted vehicular manslaughter that I did. I rolled my eyes and he returned to his chomping.
“You’re no fun. Spoilers, but she survived, I still had to wrestle her, and we did that oh-so-annoying win-trading thing that happens in epic rivalries where one party tries to kill the other. I’m not saying my life would’ve been easier had her hit-and-run been fatal…”
Atticus looked up at me again, his eyes squinted in an attempt to shame me. I sighed and relented.
“If her hit-and-run had been career-ending…”
Yet another glare was beamed at me, black eyes teeming with accusation as he peaked over his snout, still chewing.
“Whatever… It was well over a year ago, I’m an entirely different competitor now, and I can’t very well get away with running someone over if I’m using a specially made, one-of-a-kind vehicle offered to a particular person who wins a particular contest. Not much room for plausible deniability. So, to address the elephant in the room - when I win the Axtgriff, I swear I won’t run anyone over with it. Happy?
This time it was me staring the pig down. Atticus seemed satisfied with my resolution and went back to his eating. I vented my irritation by impaling a bourbon yam with my fork and heaving it into my plate. Then I moved one onto his. I couldn’t stay mad at him.
“So no. Delightful as it might be to fit the Axtgriff with treads and use it to pave over the rest of the Saucy Sixteen, I shall refrain.”
My hand squeezed the skull that I nearly forgot I was holding, and I tossed it up and down like a softball. Then I threw it over my shoulder.
“Would’ve loved to watch that crack under a tire, but oh well. Take a look at the table, folks. Me, Atticus, and fifteen guests. Fifteen skeletons that I want to bury, all sitting here while I eat my yams and my tofurkey - which is tofucking good by the way. A grim reminder to never avert my eyes from the reality that these people are my competition and that I can either be slaughtered… Or I can have Thanksgiving dinner with their goddamn bones. Would you care to pass the squash soup, Raion?”
The Raion-shirted skeleton was utterly unhelpful. Instead of obliging, his neck cracked and splintered, sending his head tumbling from his shoulders and into the squash soup that I was suddenly no longer craving. I looked to Atticus, my only true confidant
“I don’t want to be rude, but honestly, what sort of guest does that?”
I shook my head in disgust and refilled my pink lemonade. When I sipped, I wished I had been more generous with the vodka. The good kind of vodka.
“But I actually am thankful. Not just for Atticus, not just for my career success, not just for the fruits born of my activism. Shock and surprise, I am thankful for people. Not just any people, such as my peers, coworkers, fans. And not anyone in particular. This isn’t a display of gratitude to Mom and Dad, for all the years they put up with my shit. I spent just as many putting up with theirs. We’re even, assholes. No, my gratitude extends to my species as a whole. I don’t believe in God, but if mythology floats your boat, God and earth’s single greatest mistake across the history of all histories is what I’m grateful for. I, Regan Elenor Voorhees, am thankful for humanity.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I snorted to myself. A side effect of the booze and the absurdity.
“I know what everyone thinks. One look at me and I’m dismissed as another rich, entitled twat. Surfing into a career she doesn’t deserve on a tidal wave of generational wealth. Utterly undeserving of any opportunities, woefully ignorant of just how dangerous and demanding this life of professional conflict is. Caligula was ‘brave’ enough to step into the Roman Colosseum, too. Since he had absolute power, he demanded everyone pretend he was the Son of Jupiter, just so there was no confusion among the gladiators as to who exactly was going over that night. It’s a lot easier to play backstage politician when you’re the Emperor of Rome. But since I don’t have the luxury of a Praetorian Guard ready to stick gladiuses in the guts of all my naysayers… I had to be a winner.”
I sat back, feet on the table. My heels were already off, but my black-and-pink pig socks were worth showing off.
“The pages of history swell with the sons and daughters of impossible privilege having opportunities gift-wrapped and laid before them. Opportunities that other people spend their lives fighting and clawing and killing themselves for, before dying alone in a gutter, because sweetie, it takes more than a dream to keep you warm. If Mom and Dad can pay the heating bill while you finish your wrestling training, all the better. The biz is full of crooks and carnies and psychopaths who had no other options. Their entire existence is a fight from the moment they get their eviction notice(the first of many) from mommy’s womb. Might as well fight for a living. But then there are those of us who had options. The ones who decided that they wanted, more than anything else, to be here. A cushy corporate gig in a hip city, drinks with gal pals and regular railings from the worthy and not-so-worthy. Or… getting punched in the face by broken, violent, dysfunctional cuckoos. Several times a week, if you work multiple promotions. A perfectly sane thing for an adult to choose to do with their life. I could say I’m thankful for wrestling… And technically, it’s true. Wrestling lets me be me, which is not something you can put a price tag on.”
Sliding back, I took my feet off the tab and gave Atticus another ear scratch. He knew better than to interrupt Mom when she was promoing.
“But people are the reason I’m here. Because every time I give the human race an opportunity to prove that it’s more admirable than it is awful, it fails spectacularly. Ever since I was given a token spot on the wrestling team as a joke and learned there’s no logic in playing fair when the rest of the world refuses to extend you the same courtesy. Nobody had a problem crushing a girl’s hopes of bettering the world around her. They had a problem when she stopped playing fair back and started dispensing sweet, syrupy retribution upon the people who had it coming. Just a heads up, kiddos. Wanting to make the world a better place is commendable, but everyone will resent you for it. And if you succeed… If you manage to improve this hellscape of a planet, even incrementally… They will absolutely fucking hate you. But…”
Shrugging, I took a bite of my bourbon yam.
“Totally worth it. They’ll call you a sociopath, a cartoon villain, a soulless automaton, a pig-fucker… But it’s all because they know you’re better. Not just as a competitor, but as a person. And that’s the one thing that they absolutely cannot stand. That’s humanity for you. The worst species in existence, flawed from concept to execution, yet utterly and absolutely convinced that they are the preeminent beings of the universe. Just knowing that, even though you’re one of them, how can you not look at them and feel better about yourself?”
Draining the remainder of my pink lemonade, I shrugged again. The vodka seemed to settle at the bottom, enough to scorch my throat on the way down.
“I know I do. After my three-match middle school wrestling career ended, I was absolutely seething. With no outlet for my frustration, I chose to focus on the banal. I painted my nails an especially pleasant shade of amethyst. The polish was immaculate, to this day probably my best manicurial work. Once they were dry, I punched the wall in my bedroom until my knuckles bled and my eyes watered. Despite my ravaged knuckles, my nails were still perfect, but I adored the idea of taking something so flawless and smashing it to bits. My rage lifted, and I went to school the next Monday wearing black lace gloves to hide the damage. A week later, everyone was wearing them. It taught me that even by doing something as mundane as punching a wall, I have the power to dictate the course of human destiny. Other people exist to remind me that my will is undeniable. So, to humanity, from the bottom of my icy heart - thanks. Your awfulness is my ambrosia.”
My ambrosia was also the rest of my bourbon yam. I took another bite and surveyed the be-shirted skeletons surrounding me.
“Consider your enemies. They exist to make you stronger and to serve as a reminder that, whatever human failings you may have, you are capable of rising above. To all the girls who see me as an aspirational figure… I see you and I adore you. I have the utmost faith that you will unleash hell and destroy all who oppose you. As for me… As for the Axtgriff… Do I deserve it more than anyone else?”
“Of course. I’m a very important person, with very important shit to do. So get the fuck out of my way.”