through being cool

April 20, 2024

Dear Journal,

It’s me, Rob.

I don’t love this idea and I don’t think it will fucking help. Just writing this makes me feel like such a pretentious fucking douchebag. I’m no Carrie and this ain't Sex and the City. Plus I've always reserved the whole idea of writing in first person as either meant for the masters of the pen or total fucking penises. All that I, I, me, me. Who the fuck cares about what you think? You're not the center of the universe, you miserable little shit. You're made up of the same bullshit as the rest of us.

Anyways.

Spring is just around the corner. There’s still a brisk note to the morning air, but the rising temperatures and returning green life are full of promise that better things are just around the corner. You can feel it. Everyone is cautiously optimistic. The sun, awakening from hibernation, lovingly singes the skin of ill-prepared parents as little kids’ birthday parties move outside on the warmer days. A gentle reminder of the days to come. The shades stay open until 7 or 8 pm.

And I want to blow my fucking brains out.

When I was beating the shit out of Lem I felt alive. Thought maybe I was over it all, the loss of the belt, my War Games team being defeated so unceremoniously, the hangover of being in that group, and then just… alone, again. I rode high into War Games and I crashed so fucking hard. There was a glimmer on the horizon when I was renovating ol’ Lem’s face, but man, it was fleeting.

Within days I'm wearing my feelings again like a favorite shirt. Wear it and wear it until it's in fucking shreds. Sure, there's a ton of other shit in the dresser. Sometimes I even buy new shit and put it in there. But without fail, I wind up putting the one that's most comfortable back on before long.

I think I'm ready to hang it up. I can't imagine walking back into that locker room with all of this. The loss and the goddamn rejection and just who the fuck I am in general.

Everyone hates me and I don’t even know what I’ve done and I fucking hate them, too. Even if I knew what it was, I probably wouldn’t do anything to change it because I’m no fucking good.

It’s fucking awful. Every day is agony. I’m stuck in fucking purgatory, forever oscillating between feeling so alone and outcast that I just want to live at sea, or furiously angry that I’ve let these people mistreat me the way I have. I’m unappreciated. Just a fucking tool for people to use.

If I’m not the problem, there is no solution. But fuck me, I don’t know what I could do differently. I try to be loving and kind and people take advantage. So I throw up the defenses. All of a sudden I’m ruining things by sulking and being disconnected. Or I try to say something in protest to protect myself and I’ve responded with too much force. Look at Lem. I’ve told him and everyone that was there I didn’t mean to fuck him up that bad, but goddamn, the boy is gonna be eating blended chicken through a straw for months.

If I knew it wouldn’t be on some other poor fucks conscience to clean all these sick thoughts off the lining of my tub, I’d just pull the trigger.

There’s other ways to do it. Belly full of rat poison. Jump off a building. I could hang myself. I am a pretty fucking big boy, though. And where the fuck do you even get rope nowadays? Like proper rope. Not this fancy, rock-climbing nylon shit. Plus, in all honesty, I’m afraid of that period between letting go and letting go. What if I change my mind, but it’s too fucking late? Buyer's remorse kicks in just as the chair slips from my feet. Think of the sounds. Feet swinging around, grunting, and shit. That’s no way to go even for a goddamn failure like me. Plus I hear you shit yourself. That’s not real cool.

Maybe that's not true. Maybe I just can't imagine going on and don't know how to change.

I remember sitting in an AA meeting talking about how I’d been too cowardly to do myself in. Boston Mike, a sawn-off little Irish prick, shared right after me. Talked about waking up in the VA with his arms all bandaged, that courage was the furthest thing from his fucking mind. Always somebody on my goddamn case. Suck my dick, Boston Mike. I digress, though. Mike's shot hit the intended target and every time my head goes to this place, I think about him. About waking up in some cold and antiseptic place alone and cold. Stitched up and put back together one more time. One more failure.

So what the fuck do I do? Too sensitive to live, too goddamn stubborn to change.

I’ve always wanted to be cool. All the tattoos, the fighting, the whores- it was all about being cool. Like James Dean or Clint Eastwood. Classic cool. I want to be fucking timeless, you know?

What the fuck is cool anyway?

Cancer Jiles is cool, right? I mean he’s got a bunch of nicknames. He wears those sick shades and makes kissy faces. Had a hell of a run in the Almasy. It's a shame I'm going to have to push his shit in at ReVival 4... whatever the fuck it is.

And all I can hear this entire fucking time, wallowing in my shitty self-pity-filled diaper, is the Father's voice.

"More will be revealed."

"Meet Little Sister." the Father calls out to me with an outstretched hand.

Holy shit. She's a vision. An oasis in the desert.

Her body curves in that sharp, fast way an old Stingray 'Vette does. Sleek and dangerous. She bites her bottom lip like she fucking knows it leaves me feeling like I just ran an Oklahoma drill against the meanest linebacker in Gwinnett County: gut punched. I don't know what in the fuck ASMR is, but if I had to guess, it's something like the sound of her high heel scratching the pavement below as she leans in to offer me one of those milky white hands. I've always been a sucker for a dark-haired, pale-skinned woman. Well, I've always been a sucker for dark-haired women at least. Okay, I'm a sucker for women.

"Charmed," I reply as I take hold of her offering and shake with a nod.

My heart is a screaming four-barrel carburetor, my body the tranny and it's slamming from third to fourth gear. I've been more affected by a woman, but I sure as shit can't remember when. I'm fucking putty in her hands. You gotta remember here that outside of Time Mommy handing me some goddamn popcorn, I ain't felt the touch of a woman since Charlotte walked her sweet ass out on me. Sue me.

"I'm sure." She chuckles in an Southern twang. This is mission control, prepare for the soul to evacuate the body in 5...4...3... BOY let me fucking tell you. She is a goddamn Georgia peach on a summer day: all curves, sweet accent, and just the right amount of sass. To top it all off, she smells something between freshly baked cookies and warm printer paper. Now, y'all might not fucking get it, but buddy I couldn't pick a better combo if you put a gun to my head.

Speaking of which, where did all that bullshit go? Out the fucking window, that's where. The furthest thing from my mind as this fucking dream flutters her big brown eyes at me was my little problems. Identity you say? Self worth? Never heard of 'em. All I can think about now was how I'd strangle fifteen Lem's just to take this girl out for a fucking ice cream. It's the perfect time of year for it, you know. Well shit, maybe Spring ain't all that fucking bad after all.

Look, man, you gotta understand that I've been up to the peak and down in the valley, right? I've shot meth with Willie Nelson's cousin in the bathroom of the tour bus barreling through Salt Lake City and beat the ever-loving shit out of an assortment of assholes all over the world. There's been more than one SS sportsmobile wrapped around a fucking oak tree. None of that shit even compares to the cocktail of chemicals that exploded inside my fucking head the second our hands meet.

All that shit I did was to mimic what this five-foot-nothing goddess created with a simple handshake.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask, trying to play it cool. You know, Jimmy fucking Dean. Cancer Jiles. Kissy faces and slicked-up white hair.

The Father interjects smoothly, sliding in to break the handshake that has already lived past its shelf life. With a smile he puts an arm around both me and Little Sister, pulling us in close.

"Well, I figured this place could use the company of a woman. And frankly, I'm tired of you moping around. Little Sister here brings a certain... effervescence that's just lacking." The Father says to neither of us in particular. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted."

Of course, her fucking name ain't Little Sister.

"Little Sister, huh?" I cooly shoot at her, with sniper precision. I'm not letting on that I am a complete fucking mess inside and just a mere half hour ago I was telling my fucking diary how I want to refinish the tub with the contents of my head. Yeah, she's digging my shit.

That cocky fucking smile says more than her words ever could. Says she can read me like a book. Ted fucking Williams she is and I'm old Rip Sewell, a one-trick pony thinking I'm real god damn sly with my eephus. Little does Rip know Ted has the pitch clocked before he even throws it. Imagine my surprise.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet." She whips back with a calm, smooth self-confidence.

Fucking cool.

Mercifully, Boots reads the room and sweeps in to spare me. She has me rocking on my heels. It's a rarity I'm tongue-tied, but "Little Sister" has me feeling like I'm throwing wild punches through swollen eyes in the final rounds of a fight. And goddamn, I want more of it. Take all my money. Burn down my house. I'll follow you through the gates of hell, babe.

"And who's this?" She says as she bends down to ruffle Boots' scruffy ears, letting that black skirt hike up just a Southern ass hair past appropriate.

"That's man's best friend, Boots." I casually reply, keeping it Cancer Jiles. I'm trying to be a gentleman here, but shit she ain't making it easy on me.

She cocks her head up at me with a look of playful disappointment.

"That's really the best you can do? You should've just called him Dog. At this point I believe your name might just be Man."

I can't tell if she is a fucking sadist or just trying to take some of the wind from my sails. Systemically breaking down all the machismo Cancer Jiles bullshit. I don't care either way. Her attention is that first sunny day of spring. Burn my fucking skin, I'm fucking here for it and I'm going to enjoy it the entire time. Consequences be damned.

"Well, I've never been one for names. Shit, I didn't even give myself "The Legend" as a nickname. Some fucking indy promoter slapped it on me when the gray started winning the battle up here." I tap my head, trying to soften my response. Maybe she'll lower the pitch from 100 miles per hour to 90 to let me catch my fucking breath.

An accomplished smile crosses her face, as she stands. She displays an effortless strength holding her tiny skirt in place. Samson would be impressed with this feat. She brushes at her skirt and then her hands together.

"See, tough guy, it's not that hard." She beams.

"What's not?"

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? My spidey senses are tingling here. Usually, this is the point I cut and run, but here I am crawling across broken glass just to get another word from this raven-haired angel.

"Trying so damn hard, silly." She chuckles at me.

Oh no. Alarm bells are ringing and a distress signal is blaring in my fucking head. Danger, Rob Williams. She's seen through the fucking veil. I consider, only briefly, knocking her over and running at top speed. Make a break for a warmer climate, go all fucking Margaritaville.

"Relax, I'm not here to judge you. Quite the opposite in fact. We all have our things." She replies intuitively, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

I swear I can hear "Maneater" dancing in the wind in the distance as we make our way to my RV.

We talk for hours. I show her all my scars and tell her only slightly exaggerated stories about how I got each one. Call her Shania, cause that shit didn't impress her much. We share philosophies on nature versus nurture and how that plays into our own baggage. Every time she shares some horrible shit about her past it's just her applying rosin to the bow before playing me like a fiddle. We still don't know each other's names.

At some point we move to the couch. We're like two planets passing by one another in space and it has completely fucked up my gravitational orbit. I find myself mindlessly moving closer to her and if I didn't fucking know any better, her to me. Suddenly I understand all those fucking idiot bugs flying into the zapper in the summer time. My body yearns to touch hers. It's a visceral feeling I just can't control.

"So they hurt the big, mean man's ego?"

This seems like a good of time as any to go in for the kill. She parries with grace, leaving what's left of my self-worth on the floor of this trailer. Maybe I should blow my brains out.

"Nuh uh, you have to ask permission if you want this." She playfully slides one of those perfectly french manicured nails across my chest.

What the fuck is this?

"Can I kiss you?" It comes out small and meak. Something I'm not used to. I begin moving towards her again but she applies just enough pressure on my chest to stop me in my tracks.

"Only if you call me Little Sister."

Ground Control to Major Rob: What the fuck? I've done some weird shit, but this is pushing into territory I've avidly avoided. But there's just something about drowning in those big brown eyes that has me willing to sell what's left of my moral compass.

"Uh, can I kiss you, Little Sister?"

She smiles playfully at me.

"Not yet. If at all. First you need to tell me what has you oh SO sad."

The things I do for whatever the fuck this is.

"I don't know, I feel like I've just been a fucking vehicle for everybody to get what they want. I'm ready to quit. Take all this money, buy a ship and fuck off somewhere."

She laughs, leaning in like she's going to kiss me, but turning her head to whisper on my neck, "What does that even mean?"

"I ain't had my run. It's been about what someone else wanted. Even this recent shit, I felt more like a jilted lover." I lean in but she moves back again.

"And there's something wrong with that?"

I find myself instinctively moving back and making the same face I'd make if she just farted.

"Are you serious? It's embarrassing." I still have the stinkface, but begin to feel how hollow these words even as they exit my mouth.

She nods approvingly and bites at her fucking lip again. Christ, I'm confused.

"Oh boo hoo, you poor man. First of all, there's nothing wrong with being a (air quotes) "jilted lover". What could there be more honorable than bearing yourself completely? You have such a gift for choosing the absolute most toxic way to view things. How's that working out for you?" Her perfect, white smile reveals her perfect, white teeth, which she's using to chew me up. "Look, mate, let's use your own analogy of a jilted lover here. So you made yourself vulnerable and it didn't work out. Is that so horrible?"

She runs a hand through my hair and my heart is racing behind the bluebird tattoo burnt into the flesh above it. I'm too tough for this. Stay in there. I'm not going to let anybody see you.

"Yes. It is fucking horrible. You take what you fucking want in this world. This is dog-eat-dog, especially in my business. I fight for a living. All these other motherfuckers are going to fucking poke and prod about it. You think Cancer Jiles won't use this as ammo against me? He's going to flaunt that I lost the title." My resolve toughens again. Fucking cold steel, cold and cool like Cancer Jiles.

I ain't even realized it, but I've put my hand up to cover the bluebird tattoo. He wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him.

"So what?" She asks.

"So what? So fucking what? All you have in this business is your last win. I'm going to get fucking torn apart. This losing streak has given me the yips. And I know everyone I face after this is going to fucking eat my lunch with it. I'm too fucking old and I'm a fluke and I didn't deserve the title. Went for a swim in the deep end and I fucking drowned. I can't take all that."

Stay down. Do you want to mess me up? Do you want to mess up the works?

"Is this what they are saying or what you are saying?" With this deft blow, she separates the "I" from the "myself". I'm Bruce Banner being removed from the Hulk by the Ancient One. "None of them give you anything or take anything away from you. They can't kill you, and even if they could, they can't fucking eat you. So what if they make fun of you? So what if they beat you? That doesn't change anything."

"You said you feel alive when you're in a fight." She continues. "Are you really going to let your ego get in the way of you feeling alive?"

With expert precision she drags one of those nails across my face, just enough to be uncomfortable.

"Pain is the essence of life and you won't find any pleasure without it."

Goddamnit. Fuck me running. It ain't PRIME, it ain't losing the title, or the business. It's me. Once again, I'm the fucking problem.

Somehow something changes right here. I feel different. Sort of like when you have been driving with a fucked up alignment and you finally get your shit back from the shop, that first drive you're just so blown away at how you don't have to hold the wheel at a forty-five degree angle.

"Well shit, Little Sister."

Little Sister leans in and rests her head on my chest.

It's nice enough to make a man weep. But I don't weep. Do you?

From: legendary@gmail.com To: media@PRIME-wrestling.com Subject: through being cool - for immediate release

Jiles, I don't know shit about you and I don't fucking plan to learn. Your storied history is really fucking cool, I’m sure.

You're not new to this game and neither am I. We're supposed to talk some shit on one another leading up to the match. Build tension to create some real fucking antici...pation. That's what the people are paying for, right? The theatrics, the drama of two warriors going to battle. I don't want to do that anymore, Jiles. In fact, I don't give a shit what you have to say. It ain't going to matter. There ain't been a man on death row's last words have changed his fate and you ain't going to be any different.

I'm done trying to be cool, Jiles. Keep it. I'm going to put all that shit aside and you can have me, all of me, come ReVival 47. Friday I'll lay bare my chest to you. All I ask is you do your absolute fucking worst. Hurt me as bad as you can. Know that I aim to do the same to you. These few moments of simple violence are all that makes this shit life worth it.

Please know that this ain't personal.

I need this.

xoxo Rob