These Violent Farewells

I. The Last Supper?

For the past month and some change, Anna Daniels’ life has fallen into a routine.

Wake up at five in the morning. Warm-up and a light sparring session with the husband. One shared shower and potential brief amounts of kinkyness because a full serving would take days and while that would be fantastic, they have work to do. Get dressed. Breakfast, also light. Then the entire family–dog and all--slip into Jacky's van and make the drive to Glass Jaw. Doors open at eight o'clock on the dot. Training, classes, and occasional counseling until around twelve-thirty when there is a break for lunch. One-thirty releases the hound to terrorize the group into getting back to work. More classes and etcetera. Doors close at seven. The evening is spent catching up on the world, decompressing, and ultimately, talking about tomorrow as they eat dinner and pass out on the bed…whenever they're tired.

(Wrestling nights are totally different beasts which require a trip in the timey-wimey box to be two (sometimes three!) places at once and being awake all night long before flopping into bed just long enough to hear the alarm go off.)

Rob Williams’ life, on the other hand, has been absolute chaos. Every night a canvas is painted with a different cocktail of drugs, liquor, women, and bodily fluids. He wakes up in Portland, in Houston - a kindly flight attendant trying to collect the countless empty minibar bottles piled up in the seat beside him. The plane is long vacated by those who shared the flight. If he wakes early enough and the pain is great enough, he plays an apothecary, not-so-carefully calculating the right volumes of vodka and klonopin required to shut out the sun entirely. This has led, on occasion, to a much-undesired result of sleeping through to the following morning.

His piss is weird colors, probably from the regiment of performance-enhancing drugs keeping him in the ring. Sometimes there’s blood in it or in the rotten phlegm he expels in the mornings. He takes down all the mirrors in the hotels and motels. Rob can’t remember the last time he saw his own reflection. He cannot bear it.

There is no routine.

Anna is the life preserver. The last and only tether between Rob’s former life, some version of normalcy, and the void. What an awful and selfish human he is - holding Anna hostage like this. She not only supports him and bears witness to his literal death but also carries the weight of keeping this man from blowing his brains out.

How long could they go on like this?

Rob muses over all of this with his pint of warm vodka at the diner. Once again Anna has forced him to go outside, to eat. To be human.

Outside is dark, stormy - a pale contrast to the blinding light inside this 1950s-styled joint.

“Been a minute since we've seen the rain.” Anna muses in her own way.

And it is true. Everything remains tipsy turvy in Oz, pouring rain here is the dry cool end edge of winter there. Considering she had done nothing but teach, train, and wrestle, the outside doesn't get as much love as it should. Watching the water barrel down in the form of droplets and collapse into itself against pavement and ground alike, someone in her raised a glass in its honor before sucking on the straw. Orange juice as a pale reflection of the sun that would've been out if it wasn't for the storm.

The vessel glances over at Rob and knows that the comment fell on deaf ears. This is happening a lot lately and it isn't a shock. Between all the assorted chemicals in his system, the tumor eating away at his brain, and the ticking clock that hovers over everything he does, it makes sense that he is thinking more. About life, about the past, about regrets…all that wasted thought the humans do even without death waiting at the door. So she does the only thing she can think of.

She creeps her hand towards Rob's head and pulls out a bit of his hair.

“What the fuck?!”

The Muse stifles a laugh as another part of her focuses in on the couple strands between her fingers. They contemplate whether or not this would be enough DNA to put through the Loom…before brushing it away. It would be a horrible thing to do without his consent and the last time she gave a corpse a new lease on life, it didn't end well anyway.

“We would say we're sorry, but you're a bit too buried in thought. What's up?”

Oh nothing, just dying.

Maybe it is the smell of hash browns, the warm vodka, or the lighting, but tonight Rob would swear he sees a thousand miles of sea in her eyes. She is so good to him. Too good, in fact.

“Come here, I got a secret,” he slurs, leaning forward and motioning Anna towards him.

Anna leans in and Rob sloppily plants a kiss on her lips.

In another time he may have just blamed the absolute explosion resulting from this wild swing on Anna. He would say it was her who didn’t understand the world. Boys and girls can’t just be friends. How naive of you, Anna, he might say. But it's too late in the show to  call her naive. She's far from it. No, she trusts him.

Well, she did.

It takes them a moment to process what exactly happened. It was like something short-circuited in the meeting of lips. Ten or fifteen years ago, she would have welcomed the impromptu kiss. It wasn't like Anna couldn't see the charm in him, even with him being as fucked up as he was. After all, that charm was what made her curious in the first place. But this moment happened a decade too late.

“Are you…FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

The revelation of me as opposed to us wouldn't come to Rob until later if he even remembered the question. Instinct said to break the plate over his head, but the Multitudes started to flit in between wanting to beat the dog out of him and not wanting to kill the man before his time. But she couldn't resist slapping him in the back of the skull like she was trying to brute force a reboot to the whole scenario. To the whole damned thing. And once she swung, she couldn't stop swinging, trying to find the balance.

To her, it was a blur of full force and half-hearted strikes peppered only by the crazed utterances of “fucking idiot”. It only stopped when the tub of lard manager managed to open his mouth.

“You need to leave!”

She looks at him. Then she looks at Rob.

“Yeah. We need to go.”

Without fanfare, Anna Daniels slips away from the booth and storms away into matching weather.

And so, once again, Rob Williams sat all alone with a plate of cold, bargain-cut striploin and a coffee mug full of warm vodka.

A few drops of blood began to decorate the white Corsican tabletop below him.

“Mister, your nose is bleeding,” the manager called to Rob. “I think it may be broken.”

“Astute observation, man.” Rob shows a bloody smile to the manager, choking back tears.

II. Home

“...and that's what happened.”

The Muse spits out the words along with her toothpaste, observing the reflection in the mirror. From the image, she can see the entirety of the 5’11”, 255 lbs form of her husband listening attentively to the story, and she shifts when it shifts. He started off being concerned upon seeing her stomp through the wrestling school, the brief moment of realization, and now, he stands there. To the normal observer, he isn't doing much. But to a spouse's trained eye, the signs are there. The animalistic shift in his eyes could only mean two things. His right hand turning into a fist narrows that down to one. She knows the words he's about to say.

“I'm going to kill him.”

“Jacky…”

“I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM, ANNIE!”

She also knows that when he's like this, there's rarely any convincing him otherwise. Jacky Rex Daniels has matured somewhat since they've met each other. But deep down in his soul, he's still the same dude. A good man with his flaws. Loud. Envious. Jealous. Protective. Emotional. Relentless. And now, his usually positive manic state is hyperfocused on blasting Rob with that slowly crumbling Iron Fist.

“Jack, he's not worth wasting a punch on.”

“I DON'T CARE! Nobody should do that to you!”

The two options in front of her are simple. Is this going to be a Brien Storm situation or a Donnie Prowler situation? The former, she managed to talk him down from suplexing the guy into the Earth's core. The latter resulted in him landing a sucker punch whose video is still being watched in the Glass Jaw locker rooms. Since she doesn't have the mental or emotional bandwidth to do the former, Option C it is.

She strolls up to him and gets close, not leaving a single inch between their bodies, and gently forces the husband to look her in the eyes.

“Make a deal with ya. Let's just get through the day, do what we gotta do, close up for the night. Then if you still feel like you have to hit him, we’ll take you to the numbskull and you can fistfuck his face. Okay?”

Every word is crystal clear. Some part of her notices that the fist had unclinched and his arms are holding her now. The darkness has lifted somewhat. Part of maturity is admitting when it isn’t the right time. Jacky huffs.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

The response isn't verbal, but physical. A kiss of redemption and reclamation. It's fine in a close proximity to a Farthington version of fine, a temporary stay of execution. That is all she hoped for. Just as quickly as he tensed up, he tries to calm down. His next sentences come at lightning speed.

“Yeahnawyeah! I'mfine! Gonnagoforarun.”

Anna can only nod. “Good idea. We'll catch up with you all in a minute.”

For a brief moment, there are smiles and unspoken volumes of love. Then he dashes out into the corridor. She pauses as the floor begins to shake via a stampede of humans, dogs, and one bullman.

Then she exhales.

What was supposed to happen this evening/morning was what usually happened when Fuck Your Tag Team came together. They would shoot the shit over some food, touch on the whole death thing, focus on their opponents, and come out of the situation with guns blazing. Why ruin that? What was the fucking point of ruining a good thing?

She gently bumps her head against the brick wall repeatedly and in an attempt to not fixate on the situation, the Multitudes aims all of that into Kenny Freeman. It would be easy enough to focus on Max Kael's annoying little ass. But focusing on the obvious is what got the team behind the 8-ball early on in the first place. They cannot afford to do that again.

Who says there's still a team after this?

One could say there was barely a team at all. It may have been Rob's idea, but it was Anna carrying the weight of keeping them in the game. But the Kael-Freeman Red Army Gangbang isn't exactly a team either. Kenny is just there. Both in the team and in his own stable, a body to use but not to overshadow. His job is to be there, take the lumps, and “address his enemies” while the stars of the show get all the attention. The shameful thing is even in the everlasting ambrosia fields of PRIME, Kenny could actually be something more if he wanted to be. Linking up with Schwartz and now the egos of Stanislav and Kael drag him down to the bottom.

Which begs the question. Isn't Rob doing the same to her?

…don’t they all?

Anna Daniels has always been the type of person to see sparks of something in people. What that something is, she could never tell you and it's usually people you wouldn't give a second glance to. They usually fall into two categories. The overlooked, like Jacky and Kenny. The broken, like Rob. And each time she sees a spark too bright to ignore, she is compelled by her soul to help them.

Usually, it's at her expense and rarely is there a success story. Her now-husband is living the dream as best he can and one of her exes became a world champion and had a whole damn loving family before kicking off the mortal coil. Yet most of the time, she fails because in the end, they don't want to even try to see what's truly in them. No matter how she attempts to show them, they just want to be miserable and suck. Kenny Freeman doesn't want to try and that's why he’ll always be a loser no matter who he hitches his little red wagon to.

She is drawn to the sparks in other people because it's really hard to see the spark in one’s self and it is agonizing seeing them squander it. It's insane to see Rob Williams throw away what he has left because he doesn't think he even deserves it. Deserved or not, you have it. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Anna stops banging her head against the wall and sighs. She’s been through this enough times to know you can't force realization upon anybody, no matter how much you want to. But what good is helping and giving a damn about people if those assholes don't want it? At least being here in this building, it could be acknowledged without people blocking their ears and screaming I’M NOT LISTENING! like toddlers.

She checks the clock. Knowing Jacky, he’s probably on his eight-hundredth lap of downtown Sydney and running the students ragged.

“Fuck it.”

She takes a deep breath and bursts out of the bathroom in a blitz.

III. Here Be Dragons

If Rob had continued seeing the therapist Charlotte got him ages ago, he likely would see he fucked things up with Anna on purpose. Another self imposed crisis. Obviously, Anna is in love with her husband and he knows that. Despite Rob dragging her all over the world, she still talks about Jacky constantly. And there is truly zero attraction between them. She has been the only one, the only fucking one, who wants absolutely nothing from him. All she does is give and care.

If you pretend something didn’t happen, it didn’t. Rob turns his thoughts to the upcoming match. Images of Mac Kael’s disgusting smile trigger a flood of rage, his skin is hot and flushed red, a physical response to the overwhelming hatred he suddenly feels for Max Kael.

Unlimited lives and this proper jackoff spends them trying to ruin others’. The vitriol with which Max responds to Anna and RIA. This fucking asshole could be trying to do something good. Max Kael could rewrite his stars - abandon the bullshit Red Army and his obsession with Cecil. Unlimited opportunities to enjoy a fresh glass of wine barefoot in a Tuscan field as the sunsets or go the whole wide world to find the one girl in the world for him. Instead, he settles on hurting people. What a cunt.

What might Rob do if he suddenly had unlimited lives? A shiver runs along his spine as he admits to himself that he would likely do the same thing. Are they so different? Rob never set out to hurt Anna, yet he has. Maybe even more so than Max.

“Why the fuck did I do that?” Rob cries out into the night from beneath a poorly lit bus stop, the remainder of his warm bottle of General Beauregard between his legs.

The night doesn't reply, but she knows. The silence is deafening. The wind has picked up and the temperature is dropping. From his days painting houses after he dropped out of high school, Rob knows this means a storm is coming. He has felt more alone than this, he just can't remember when. And this is exactly what Rob wants Deep down inside, he knows why he tried to kiss Anna. It's the same reason he pushed John Gordon away or why he crucified Don Winters. It's even why he beat the shit out of Lem.

Rob knows if any of them get close enough, they will see what's behind the curtain: a scared piece of shit.

If you never let anyone see you, really see the most vulnerable and naked parts of you, no one can ever hurt you. This is a double-sided coin because no one can ever love you. You suffer all of your worst moments alone. All of the shadows in the night are monsters when you are left to figure this world out alone. And so it is with Rob because he is too scared that if he were to show them who he is - who he REALLY is - they might reject him.

Anna has been getting too close. She is seeing the bluebird in his heart. What if she doesn’t like its song?

Lightning flashes and Rob shudders. These are the unchartered edges of his mind that he dared never sail, lest the stories of monsters and the end of the world turn out to be true. His heart races. The world is spinning beneath him. This is it.

Dogs go out into the woods alone to die.

“You’re not dying, Robert. Stop being dramatic.”

The Father is impeccable, not a crease out of place. Neither man looks directly at the other. Rob immediately springs from the bear trap of his mind. Gone is the glimmer of self-awareness, replaced by an appalled nausea at how casual the Father sits, one leg crossed over the opposite knee.

"Well, not just yet, at least."

“Where the fuck have you been?” Rob looks forward to the night.

“Preparing your house.”

A grand canyon of silence follows. Rob is grateful for the booming thunder that fills the crevice.

“Ok, well, why the fuck are you back? I don’t need you. I don’t fucking need anyone.”

“Au contraire, mon fils. Is that not the theme of this pity party? Hasn’t it been the theme of your whole life? Poor, poor pitiful Rob. The little prince has once again scorched the Earth instead of feeling anything. You asked yourself if you and Max Kael are not so different?”

The Father stops to take a pull from his cigarette.

“You’re not. You’re both machines of hatred and destruction fueled on your own fear and the blood of innocents. But you CAN be different. Max Kael will never have the courage, fortitude, or faith to apologize. Your time may be short, but you have the opportunity to make things right. With love in your heart, he cannot stop you. None of them can.”

“I… I can’t.”

“Oh? Why is that, son?”

Rob finally turns to look at the Father. Their eyes meet and both men’s faces are illuminated with a crack of lightning.

“You know why,” Rob replies bluntly.

The Father nods solemnly. He knows exactly what Rob is referring to.

“Ah, yes, that. The incident.” The Father breathes in deeply through his nose. He carefully chooses his next words. “I knew we would get here eventually. Well, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. And THAT one might just be the main course, so let's start with Hors d'oeuvres. Make it right with Anna Daniels. To eat this elephant, Robert, you must…”

“Yeah, I know,” Rob replies, pouring the remnants of the vodka out. In unison, both men say it. “Burn the ships.”

IV. A New Day

Rob Williams awakens to the Four Horsemen of Alcoholism: terror, bewilderment, frustration, and despair. The sheets are fit to be wrung out from the gallons of sweat. His head is a kaleidoscope of thoughts. Beneath his skin, his blood boils. Everything within him screams for relief from this wretched hellscape. He looks at his phone on the bedside, almost out of battery life just like him. There are no notifications, which means Anna Daniels has not replied to his texts and calls.

“Five o’clock.” He says aloud, beginning to count on his fingers.

One might think he’s counting the time difference to Australia to see if it’s an appropriate time to call Anna. Maybe even counting the hours until the bar down the street starts serving. Or how long he has slept. It’s none of those things.

No Dear Reader, Rob Williams is counting the hours since his last drink, taking another bite of the elephant.

They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.