Walking Tall

Should be sweet, but it tasted like shit.

He had it all. Burning cash. Friends at the bar. Hell, even the kid.

So he did what he does best. Ran. Straight into another fucking rehab.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name."

They told him if he was a really good boy and did it on his knees, maybe something out there would hear it.

You don't believe this.

As if things weren't already going his way, the fucking voice was back. Like a goddamn sour tooth - bite down wrong and it was howling. Even when it wasn't screaming, though, it was fucking there.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done."

Pick five things, they told him. One for each sense.

Sound... his teeth grinding like a saw.

Same sound he'd hear as his dad was winding back after Paddy's.

Touch... his toes, raw and calloused from the white sandals, opening and closing.

The mitt. Soft leather, just like Rob was against Kerry Kuroyama.

Sight... elbows rubbed raw on shitty bedsheets.

How many guys have jacked off on those sheets?

Taste... the goopy slop they pass off as breakfast.

And this place costs forty fucking g's?

Smell... bleach. So much fucking bleach.

Sanitized. Nothing but white.

Yeah, focused on anything but the prayer.

"And give us..."

Why are you on your knees, child? 

What was it Dr. Feinstein said about why you have to be on your knees?

Oh, yeah.

"A physical show of your surrender," she had said. Over and over.

She had the whitest teeth. White like every fucking thing else there. It was supposed to be calming, but it felt like a noose.

And Rob knows what that feels like.

"And give us..."

He'd made a million promises to a million women. He loved them all and would never leave or hurt any of them. Or steal all their mama's pills from the medicine cabinet and leave through a window in the night.

This time he meant it. It wasn't about fucking her, either. He would've, of course, but this was something real.

In her eyes, he swore he caught glimpses of the version of him she believed in. A better man.

"And give us this day..."

So he promised to give it all up. The whoring, the boozing, and the wrestling.

You aren't capable of believing in something greater than you... and you're right.

It was all part of the sickness. That filth under his fingernails he just couldn't scrub away. His ego.

"And give us this day..."

He was going to do better this time. Be better.

For Dr. Feinstein. For Finn.

You're not surrendering. You're hiding. Cowering.

For his goddamn self.

It was howling.

Get up and be what I made you to be.

"Fuck it. Amen."

It hit him right in the face. Felt like when his mom would make her world-famous chocolate chip cookies and he'd open the oven to sneak one.

Jails, institutions, or death. That's what the program promised him if he kept drinking. Didn't see much sunlight in any of the three.

No, it was all on the other side of the window pane. But isn't that kind of the point?

"It has been a pleasure, Mr. Williams," called Dr. Feinstein from behind him.

New parents talk about leaving the hospital scared shitless. Are they really going to let us take this thing home?

How was he going to make it out there? Out there without the warmth of that perfect, white smile?

Were they really going to just let him walk out?

"Am... am I going to be ok?"

"Probably not, Rob."

She was fucking right.

"But that's ok. Remember - it's ok to not be ok," she gave him one last smile.

What's different this time?

"Right. Thanks, Doc."

What was different this time?

Even when he'd walked out from his bid in Parchman, someone had been there to pick him up.

They forgot about you, Rob. I've never forgotten about you. 

Forty-some years and it all added up to this stupid plastic bag of shit.

Maybe they were right to keep all of it on the other side of the glass.

"Do you have someone coming to pick you up," Dr. Feinstein asked.

He'd walk around the block so she didn't worry.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks again, Doc. For everything."

"Take care of yourself, Rob," Dr. Feinstein let out a consolation sigh as the door slipped from her hand.

That magnetic click was loneliness. Final.

You're not on your own. 

He didn't even want the Marlboro Red he pulled out of the bag while powering his phone back up. Thirty days dreaming about that cigarette and it, too, tasted like shit.

Each ding rubbed his overstimulated nerves. And they just kept fucking coming.

PRIME 

Notification: ReVival 75 - Rob Williams booked against Max Kael.

"The fuck I am."

DO NOT ANSWER

Long time, Rob. Too long.

Call me.

I miss you, buddy.

Be seeing you soon. "Fuck me."

Rob pulled the gas station shades from the bag and slipped them on because this day just kept getting brighter.

No pillow has known Rob's head for more than a week or two. Right now "home" is a dank studio above Euclid Avenue.

It isn't much. He can't be lonely with all the cockroaches, and the stink of mold hides his farts.

He holds his breath as he flips the switch. You never know if shit will be disconnected when returning from a mandated vacation.

The switch snaps and nothing happens. For something silent, it's loud as hell. Third worst sound in the world.

No dice. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch: a rattlesnake. Second worst sound.

"Did you miss me," a voice cuts through the dark.

There it is. The last fucking thing you want to hear: Todd Haywood.

"Let there be light," Todd calls out. The room explodes into light from Todd's juiced up henchmen Big and Little. They're pure energy - teeth grinding and muscles twitching.

"Like a hole in my fucking head, Todd," Rob says, holding a bandaged hand up, his eyes straining to find Todd through the wave of light.

Todd snaps his stunted fingers. A moment of relief from the light as Little and Big lifted Todd up the Big Lots chair they'd moved to the middle of the room.

He looks up at Rob with doll's eyes. Rob couldn't see any of God's image in there.

"The Lord don't love a liar, Robbie."

This man knows nothing of the Lord.

At least he isn't speaking in tongues.

"Well, I asked him for forgiveness just this morning, Todd.  He said we're square."

Todd's lips curl to reveal wire and rot.

"That's great, Robbie. But you ain't asked me for forgiveness, have ya?"

"No, he ain't Brother Todd," Little says, closing in on Rob.

"He don't even sound sorry, does he, Brother Big?" Todd is on his soapbox now.

"Nuh uh, Brother Todd. He sounds outright cocky."

Are you going to let these peons talk to you this way, my child? 

"You been talking to your mom about me again, Big?"

The flashlight blinds him before it drops Rob to his knees. White, hot pain.

"Goddamn heretic," Big scoffs at the blood flowing from Rob's forehead.

Are you going to surrender? To these false prophets? You did that once before, if I remember. Maybe Don Winters was right.

"Shit, Big - you kiss your brother with that mouth?"

"You swore that bottle off, but you ain't given up that smart mouth, Robbie. Go on, Brothers - help Rob find his humility."

Todd licks his cracked lips as the Brothers went to work on Rob. Big's gorilla arms snuff the fight out of Rob while Little showcases what a West Virginia Golden Gloves champ can do.

"Enough. Get me down, Brothers," Todd snaps again, satisfied.

Pavlov's dogs.

Big drops Rob to the floor like a bag of flaming shit. Arms outstretched like a mini-Jesus, Todd is lowered to Rob by the Brothers.

Todd gets all up in Rob's grill. Closer than he's comfortable being with any man he isn't fighting. A funk of Black & Mild and Old Spice drowns out the aroma of mold and farts. Somehow, Rob thinks to himself, it's worse.

"Get the donation bucket for Robbie, Brothers."

Big produces a copper donation tin. Empty. Except for the coiled up rattlesnake.

"What the fuck," Rob tried to move away but Little sat on his chest while Todd pushed his head down. The hardwood ground into the back of his head. He'd been meaning to get a rug.

"Tsk.. a child of Sodom. You should come to our church sometime, Robbie. I'm not sure you'd like it - we're Old Testament."

The rattlesnake dances around the edges of the tin.

Do not take this on your knees. 

"Where do you get those suits made, Todd? Baby Gap? I'm out. Done. No more fixing cause I ain't fighting anymore."

A bead of sweat trickles through Todd's pockmarked forehead.

Once. Twice. Five fucking times. Todd is Jordan charging the net with Rob's dome piece.

"A changed man. I think it's time you met Eve, Robbie."

The rattlesnake lands on Rob's chest without warning. He shrieks and writhes, but Little seems to get even heavier in response.

Don't do it, Robert. Do not give in. If you give him an inch, he will take your soul.

"OK! OK - what do I owe you?"

I'm not mad, just disappointed. 

"Well, let's see."

It turns out a size four shoe to the temple hurts as bad as any other size.

"With interest."

Especially when the kicker has surgical accuracy - two shots on goal.

"Gratuity."

Gratuity? Sure. Why not?

"And a bit of TITHING," one last kick to really drive the point home, "you're into me for about fifty large. I know you're good for it Mr. Legend."

I told you so.

Blood flies as Rob coughs out, "You've fucking cracked, Todd. Look around this shithole. You think I'm stashing fifty large in with the good china?"

Todd's obvious ocean of patience is gone. He's once again all in Rob's personal space, but this time he's snatched the snake by the head and is pressing it against Rob's bleeding face. Is it Todd or the snake hissing?

"I'll bury you myself right behind the Stony Point Church of Christ, boy. Won't anyone even come looking... and you know it."

Tell them what they want to hear. We will work this out. 

"I need some time, Todd. Give me until the Colossus."

"You better have something next week for me to wet my beak."

Todd tosses the snake back into the collection tin like a movie prop. He pushes himself up a whole two feet and runs his hands through his greasy locks before spitting right in Rob's face.

"We'll be back."

"Yeah, we'll be back," Little echoes.

"Shut the fuck up, Little," Rob manages to get out before one last kick lands in his temple for good measure.

How many kicks does it take to knock out a Legend? However many that was.

As Todd and the Brothers gather their shit and leave Rob fades off into cold black oblivion.

While Rob sleeps in the silence and the blood and the mold, he dreams.

He's a kid again. No one makes him feel like he's on their nerves. People get excited to see him.

Everyone listens. Each group welcomes him. He is never made to feel small and he never needs to fight or go to prison.

Wake up.

Of course it was a dream. That isn't his life. His life is farts and rattlesnakes and being up to his ass in debt.

It's dark out now and Rob would kill three strangers for just one drink.

Old Grandad. Budweiser. Boone's Farm. Fuck - rubbing alcohol would do the trick. But then again, it's never one drink. One's too many and a thousand is never enough.

He lays there for a while, thinking of any other way to fix this. What if he murders Todd? Or disappears to Mexico. Finn knows people down there.

Against every fiber of his being, he surrenders. There is one person Rob can bring his bag of shit too.

No. Don't do it. 

The nails sticking out of the floor scratch his belly as he slithers to his little bag of shit. All his shit.

Squinting through caked blood, Rob finds the last person in the world he wants to call.

Come on, Robert. Anyone but him. 

It trills for just a moment before the voice on the other end answers, "Rob?"

In all honesty, John is pretty much everything Rob has ever wanted to be. Loyal. Honest. Sure of who he was. That made it so much harder.

"John, I am completely fucked, man. I need you."

When will you have faith in me? 

"For the love of god, shut the fuck up."

"Uh, what," John asks.

"Nothing. Look, man - I need your help."

He needed so much more than that. Fifty thousand dollars to start. Or maybe a shower. Hard to unpack the hierarchy of needs.

"Thank God you're ok. Send me your location," John replies without thinking twice because that's what John is.

He would know the way out of this. He always knew the right thing to do.

"I don't know how to do that."

"Jesus Christ, Rob."

Here come the waterworks.

"I know, I'm such a fucking idiot. John I don't see a way out of this one.."

"Just text me the address. I'll be there as soon as I can. Whatever it is, bud, we'll figure it out together."

A short while later

John arrives to find a freshly showered and naked as his name-day Rob Williams sitting on a blood splattered lawn chair in his living room.

"Tell me you didn't kill someone," John instinctively shoves his hands in his pockets. He'd always done that. It drove Rob up the fucking wall.

"No, that's my blood."

Rob ashes his cigarette on the floor.

"Ok that's incrementally better. Why is it so dark in here?"

"They cut the power. Good news is the water still works. Count your blessings, right?"

They always did this little dance. Rob called at some ungodly hour in tears with a crisis. John drops everything and rushes over to find Rob has found a few pieces of his pride and put the wall back up.

John looks around for somewhere to sit, but unfortunately there's only the one lawn chair.

"Right. So what's going on? You sounded pretty jammed up. Are you drinking again?"

Of course he thinks you're drinking again. You've been sober for thirty days and the third thing he asks is if you're drinking again.

"No, John, I'm not. I just got out of rehab, actually," Rob replies matter-of-factly as his face glows red from a deep pull.

It hits like a cheap shot.

A five year old kid sitting cross-legged looking up at him from his toys and Rob had just fucked the kid's mom. He held his hands out to this human ass pimple still reeking like a brewery and his mom's cheap perfume.

Autobots vs. Decepticons. No gray area.

"Are you the good guy or the bad guy?"

There was no answer. Not then. Not now.

"That's awesome, man. You just sick and tired of being sick and tired," John asks, snapping Rob back.

He doesn't understand, Robert. Look at him demeaning your experience. 

The phone dings again.

PRIME BOOKING

Notice: Reminder Rob Williams vs. Max Kael at ReVival 75.

Pick a side, Robert.

Rob picks the right hand and brings it down with a wet crunch on John's nose. It's all red.

Hellfire and brimstone rain down on John Gordon.

And then it's over. Rob stands panting above the lifeless body of his best friend, confidante, and the last person who believed he was a good guy.

"What the fuck have I done?"

What you had to do, my child. 

Panic. The room is getting smaller. He fumbles in the dark for his phone, turning the flashlight on.

The bile can't be kept down and he adds his own filth to the disgusting scene.

"Get yourself together, child."

The Father. In the flesh, leg casually crossed as he lights a cigarette from the lawn chair.

"W-w-what have I done? Oh my god, I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked, man."

"Check his pulse."

Rob leans down to take John's pulse and gets incredibly queasy for a man who has made violence his business.

"He's alive," Rob calls out.

"Good. Now clean yourself up. Use bleach. Get dressed and call 911 from outside the building."

Of all the harebrained shit he could've cooked up, none of this was on Rob's bingo card.

"You want me to call the fucking cops?"

"Good. Bad. You called for salvation and I answered. Go clean up."

The bleach burns his open wounds. He throws on an old shirt and jeans and exits the building.

"911 - what's your emergency."

The Father sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear.

"Yeah, I'm at 324 Euclid and I need help. Somebody beat the shit out of my friend and me."

The police were no stranger to this building.

"Ok, walk me through this one more time," the officer doesn't even look up from his notepad.

Nice and slow, just like we rehearsed.

"I got out of rehab earlier today and was just kind of walking around. I called my friend John to give me a ride home around - I don't know, it had gotten dark out. John picked me up and we came here to my apartment. When we entered I tried to turn the lights on, but the fucking electric is cut off. Someone got the jump on us. I got whacked in the face and I was out. I came to and John was laying there all fucked up, man."

It was genius, really. A few holes in it - but this isn't the part of town that really saw much protecting or serving.

He goes through the motions, repeating the story three or four times. After a lifetime of wrestling promos, he's a professional. Doesn't miss a single line or detail.

After they remove John and all the tourists go home, so does Rob.

Safely inside the apartment, The Father gives Rob the next step of the plan: hold a press conference. Name a suspect.

"Oh no, that's fucked, man. I can't do that."

They share Rob's last cigarette. Puff puff pass.

"Have you ever heard of Sheriff Buford Pusser, Robert?"

"Sure, the Walking Tall douchebag."

"Mhm," The Father hands him the cigarette. "You've been given the Golden Goose - just like he was. Little worse circumstances, but Pusser killed his wife and then blamed it on the Dixie Mafia. Sure, it was a lie - but he did good things with it. That man is your Dixie Mafia. He is evil. Scum. Left unchecked, without a Sheriff Buford Pusser, that scum will spread and infect everything good it comes in contact with. This is your civic duty."

The man was making some sense.

"Ok. Fuck it."

Rob pulls out his phone and sent a quick text message.

PRIME MEDIA TEAM

Need a press conference ASAP.

...

Tomorrow 9 AM Kaseva Center. Attendees?

Law enforcement and press.

"We need cigarettes. You got any money?"

It always impresses Rob how the PRIME Media Team moves.

With all the law enforcement, media, and cameras packed into the small press room in the back of the Kaseva Center it's amazing how cold Rob's feet are.

"Are you sure about this," Rob asks while peering out from behind the curtain.

The Father smirks.

"Trust the process."

Good. Bad.

These are just labels we attach to things.

"Fuck it."

Standing in front of the room, Rob read from a small piece of paper.

"As many of you know, my good friend John Gordon and I were assaulted in my apartment last night. The police investigation is on-going, but I believe in my heart of hearts that I know who the heinous scum behind this attack is. Now, I know this has no bearing in the court of law and I don't give a shit about the court of public opinion... but Max Kael, I know you were behind this disgusting act you son of a bitch."

Gasps. Shutters.

Rob pulls a barbed wire bat from the podium, holding it high.

"Max Kael you've been a puss filled infection in PRIME for too long. How many have you hurt with no recourse? That ends today, Max. Your reign of terror ends at ReVival 75. No questions."

Backstage he can finally breathe again.

"Do you think they bought it?"

"Hook, line, and sinker. Now the work begins."