Leather, Shame, and Cockroaches

I. I’m Not Dead, I’m In Reno

“I heard you were dead.”

“Not dead, in Reno.” Cooley’s eyes never raise from the joint he’s rolling.

“Same fucking thing.” Rob admires the deft precision Cooley’s bony fingers move, although the joint is almost more cocaine than weed at this point. “Heard some shit about you joining up with Al-Qaeda.”

Cooley’s eyes peer up over the joint.

“It was allegedly ISIS and no one can prove that to be any more than slander.”

A smooth twist of nimble fingers and a slide of tongue across paper produces the finest-looking joint Rob Williams has ever seen. Cooley holds it up, offering to break bread.

“Nah, I’m on the wagon.”

Cooley shrugs and produces a small torch, setting the end of the joint ablaze. He takes a big hit and holds it in for an uncomfortable beat while Rob just nods his head up and down - clearly uncomfortable.

“Congrats,” Cooley says blowing his hit out. “I’ve been working on this since you reached out. You want me to kidnap a child, right??”

“What? No. What the fuck, man?” Rob Williams' face contorts in response to this madness.

SNORT

Rob moves uncomfortably on the black leather couch. There is no decor on the white walls of the plain office. The Low-pile, blue carpet is oddly familiar. The air stinks of Red Bull, baby powder, and sex. This setting is familiar, but Rob can’t place it.

“Ok big guy, let’s take a beat.” The blonde-haired man across from Rob rubs his nose, trying to disperse the remnants of cocaine sticking to his nostrils. “Break it down for me then.”

“You thought I was coming here for that and you fucking agreed to meet with me?”

“I’m a businessman with a business to run, Rob. You don’t get much work in the private dick world by judging your potential clients.”

“Whatever, man. I just want you to find him.”

Cooley stands up behind his dark mahogany desk, running a hand through his long, blonde mane. It’s not quite a mullet, but just like the man, there may not be a word to capture whatever the fuck it is. Mullet will have to do, Rob concedes to himself.

The white Winchester collar hangs loosely, and the top three buttons of the shirt are undone to allow just a peek at Cooley’s chest tattoo. The sky-blue shirt matches his eyes, and the mother-of-pearl buttons his pearly grin. Cocaine covers his nose as Cooley leans back in the black leather chair, eyes a mile wide and fingers running up and down the straps of his suspenders.

“Lemme get this straight. You came to me, the Hound of Holland, the Bane of Bismarck, Jackson Cooley just to find a child? Come on, Rob - I know you better than that. There’s some type of angle here. Are you late on child support and want me to hold the little guy hostage?”

“Nobody calls you that shit. No, I.. I signed my rights away. I've never even met the kid. Don't know his name.”

SNORT

“You don’t know that. I know, though, that you are rotten to your core, Rob. This makes no sense. Why do this now?” Cooley runs a finger through the pile of cocaine on the desk and rubs it on his gums.

“Alright, fuck it, I’m out of here. Whatever you were when I knew you, you ain’t that now.”

A playful smirk lights up Cooley’s face as Rob stands to leave.

“Sit down, Rob.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know I can’t help rattling your cage. You make it so easy and so fun. Besides, you came to me because you know I am the best at what I do.

“At what you do? What the hell is that, man? I haven’t seen you in a decade. People say you were fighting for that fascist outfit in Chicago and that you were on a hitlist for that loan shark in Vegas and, Jesus Christ, that you were in an ISIS propaganda video?

The anger in Rob’s voice is palpable. There is something more here than this interaction, a seed planted long ago since sprouted into a deeply rooted tree. This is but a branch.

“What can I say? I’m a rolling stone. Rob, I’ve been trying to teach you for years that there’s power in mystery. And you know I am the best at whatever I do. Which is why I’ve already got a lead on Finn. So once again, I ask, why?”

What did the lookout on the Titanic feel when he saw the iceberg? What color was the sunrise on December 7th, ‘41 in Pearl Harbor?

The blood in Rob’s veins runs ice cold. He’s always been a poor cardsman, there’s no bluffing this one. With a thud, he falls back down to the couch, unable to close his gaping mouth.

“F-f-finn?” Rob asks in a shaky voice. “His name is Finn?”

“Yes. Finn Thorne.”

Jaw still dropped, Rob nods his head like a simpleton. For some reason, he thought his son would have his last name. What a foolish and egotistical gesture. Will he always be his own folly?

"I'm dying, Cooley. I feel... I don't know, I need to do this."

Cooley holds up an envelope, “I’ve got an address. Looks like your former lover couldn’t withstand the heartache of going on without you. God bless. Young Finn spent time in a foster home in Lovelock, Nevada. It’s a start. Lovelock is about a two-hour drive from here. If we make haste, we can make dinner at the Cowpoke Cafe.”

"Well, let's fucking go."

II. Storms Coming

A fog of dust envelopes Cooley’s truck as they ramble down the gravel driveway.

The house at the end of the drive is a forgotten statue.

Chips of once cream-colored paint hang from the wooden plank siding, a patchwork of scales. There is no rhyme or reason and no pattern to be discerned from the decay. A rusted radio flyer lays overturned on the exposed and rotting wooden porch. Around each window is a morbid, inverse of an atomic shadow—bright, healthy spots of paint where shutters once hung.

A chill creeps through the air and the wind picks up.

“Gonna rain,” Rob calls out over the flame of his Zippo, flicking it incessantly to combat the blowing wind.

A sole shutter remaining bangs in a pitter-patter beat, echoing Rob’s increasing heart rate.

“This shithole. You shitting me?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Rob. You’re my favorite turd.”

“That’s not how it fucking goes, Cooley.”

Realizing he’s projecting, Rob inhales deeply. The wind tickles his face. He has to do this. If there is a god and that god is aware of Rob Williams, this is surely the last thread linking Rob to the mortal world. And he’ll be damned if he’s going to continue dangling above the flames below, forever searing. Fire and fury.

“After you, my Dear Alphonse,” Cooley smiles over his cigarette, holding his hands out with a slight bow.

Two derelict-looking boy sits on the front porch, one on a faded rocking chair and the other on the porch steps. A loud whine creaks from the smaller boy on the steps as he leans forward to spit at the feet of Rob and Cooley. The puddle in front of them is a deep brown and reeks of wintergreen. The other boy mindlessly picks at a banjo, oblivious to their presence. The tune is familiar, but Rob can’t put his finger on it.

“Storm’s coming,” the boy on the steps says before cleaning some tobacco dribble from his lips with his bare forearm.

What a fucking creature. Could this really be the place his son wound up?

Maybe he would have been better off with Rob.

“What’s that tune?” Rob asks the boy picking at the banjo. The boy doesn’t respond.

“He’s mute, mister,” the younger boy quips before adding another puddle down.

Rob looks down at the boy in front of him’s feet. The skin is thick and leathery and has likely never seen a shoe before. He forces a smile as he looks back up at the boy, trying to ignore the patches of dirt on his cheeks.

“What’s the name of that song, boy?” Rob asks.

“How the hell should I know, mister.”

Another pool of dip spit.

“Will the Circle Be Unbroken. Come on, let’s do what we’re here to do.”

III. Men of Words

If the outside of the home is broken earth, the inside is blight. There’s scarcely an inch not covered in either clutter, filth, or both. Stacks of ancient nudie mags decorate the various rooms in frantic piles. There are bright spots on the walls that at one time housed happy pictures of the transient family that lived in this home before things went wrong.

My fucking child grew up here.

Rob clears his throat to announce their presence and to try to clear the lump swelling in his throat.

“Who the fuck is that?” A voice croaks from a distant room.

Our heroes follow the sound to find a fat, old man sitting in his underwear at a ratty card table in the center of what you might call a kitchen. A young girl, maybe early twenties, stands next to the man, prepared to serve him the beer in her hand. Sweat drips from both the beer and the girl - in part due to the lack of air conditioning, and in part due to the fear that she wears just below her tightly closed lips.

Rob clocks the man’s meaty hand wrapped around the girl’s wrist.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Cooley says, pulling off his sunglasses and running a hand through his lion’s mane. “Hope we’re not intruding. We’re here on behalf of the Wildlife and Game Commission.”

The man raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Ok, and? What the fuck do you want?”

“Well, sir, I was hoping we might talk… privately.” Cooley nods towards the young girl.

A disapproving grunt escapes the man, but he laments. His hand releases the girl’s wrist and grabs the beer. She disappears without a sound, which Cooley reads as someone all too familiar with the catastrophic results of raising attention.

“Great, I appreciate your courtesy and understanding. Well, as I said, we’re with the Wildlife and Game Commission. Long story short, we have had a lot of reports recently of an illegal hunting ring in the area. All of our tips point to one Finn Thorne. This is the last known address of Thorne. We were hoping you might help point us in the right direction.”

“Oh yeah, and I’m the King of England. What scam are you two trying to pull here, huh? What's that cunt got himself into now?”

The man belts a hearty laugh, wet with the buildup in his lungs. Cooley can sense Rob’s anger rising and steps forward, eating the shit with a smile. Smoother than a baby’s ass, he doesn’t skip a beat.

“I assure you, sir, we are here on official business and only hope to talk to Thorne.”

“You’re full of shit, boy’o. Get the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the sheriff.”

Enough. The mystery bit may work for Cooley, but Rob breathes fire and everyone is afraid of dragons.

“Listen here, shithead - Thorne is my son. You’re lucky I don’t put your head through that fucking table for the state of this house alone. Now you’re going to tell us where Finn is or I’m going to break your fucking fingers one by one.”

The old man is unphased. “Ah, you’re the famous wrestler. You don’t look like much. Apple don’t fall far from the tree, I guess.”

Rob steps forward to attack the man, but Cooley quickly raises an arm to hold him back.

“Good dog,” the man smiles, revealing his broken and browning teeth. “Truth be told, boys, I don’t know where that little bastard is. He hasn’t been here in years. Boy was a problem. Had an attitude ya just couldn’t break, no matter how hard ya whipped ‘im.”

Blowing past Cooley, Rob grabs ahold of the man’s arm. Rob rears back and holds a fist up threatening to wail on the man.

“You piece of shit. I ought to crack your fucking head open.” Rob speaks through gritted teeth.

“Hey, ya know what? Fuck you. Fuck you and your high horse, ya cunt. Ya come here to, what, save your fucking skin at the expense of this kid you fucking didn't want? I took him in cause you wouldn't. Keep throwing stones, ya piece of shit. Now send that fucking whore back in here, I wasn’t done with 'er.”

Everyone knows a dragon breathes fire. Cooley smirks, knowing the terrible violence that Rob is about to lay on this man’s dome piece. Rob’s chest heaves up and down, little puffs of smoke rising from his lips and the end of his cigarette in a seesaw rhythm. Tears explode from Rob's eyes. He drops the man, stepping back and pulling the cigarette from his lips.

The cigarette sizzles as it sinks into the meaty flesh of Rob’s bicep. Alone and forsaken by god and man, the abomination spits his pain and hatred at the fat man through his gritted teeth.

Houston, we have a problem.

“Alright, whacko, get the fuck out of me house.” The old man gestures towards the door in disgust.

Jackson Cooley gracefully glides across the floor to Rob, gently removing the cigarette from Rob’s grip. He positions one hand on either shoulder of the hulking abomination. Serenely, Cooley presses his forehead to Rob’s, forcing Rob to look at him. Rob shakes, unable to produce any noise. Cooley moves a hand to grasp the back of Rob’s.

“It’s ok. Go outside.”

Rob tries in vain to respond. The well is dry. Finally, he concedes. With his head hung low, he turns and leaves the room.

Satisfied that Rob is no longer in earshot, Cooley turns to the old man.

“You know, I’m a product of the American foster system myself,” Cooley states, propping one boot up on the chair next to the old man and putting his hands on his hips.

“Is that right?”

“Sure.”

Slowly, Cooley snakes the belt free of the loops on his jeans. The owner and the belt are both well-worn, their cracked skin a marker of all the miles and smiles witnessed. At one time, they were pristine. Now all of the shine has faded to a dull matte luster. However, they dutifully serve their intended purpose: holding shit together.

But things can have two purposes.

“The thing about leather is that it won’t necessarily break the skin. Not the same as wood or metal, at least.”

The old man sitting in this unholy filthy kitchen, exploiting children for his financial gain, has no venomous quip to retort.

Although Cooley can’t remember this imbecile's name, he knows this man. This man is so many Cooley has met in his life: a man of words. Men of words are often left without any when they meet a man of action and Jackson Cooley is just that.

“With enough force, it will cause lacerations, but generally just surface layer. This means less blood. The bruising will be hell, but there’s much less physical evidence.” Cooley continues, sucking his teeth and running a finger along the cracks in the belt.

The leather creaks as Cooley wraps it around his clenched fist, pulling the unwrapped length out taut. A hillbilly bullwhip. Cooley finally looks at The Man of Words now. He sees all of the Men of Words he met when he was smaller and weaker. They are all, like this man, gelatinous globs of primordial ooze who only feel strong when their adversary is smaller and less powerful.

Cooley is not smaller, nor less powerful.

“Now, don’t take this to mean that you aren’t going to bleed.”

IV. Truth and Justice

Rob sits on the steps. The kids, familiar with violence, are nowhere to be found.

THWACK, THWACK, THWACK, THWACK

With each pop Rob twitches.

Silence.

In the distance, the sky has turned black. A streak of lightning spreads like the roots of a great tree.

One, two, three, four… Rob counts the time before the booming thunder.

Four miles out.

THWACK, THWACK, THWACK

More lighting. Rain begins falling in big, gumball size drops. It’s cool on Rob’s skin - a stark contrast to the unusually warm November day.

One, two, thr-BOOOM… the storm is getting closer.

The unmistakable clack of cowboy boots on hardwood. Cooley sits down next to Rob, his belt still wrapped around his hand. Little drips of blood fall off the end and are absorbed by the open wounds of the rotting porch steps. Cooley puts an arm around Rob, pulling him tight.

Rob tries to remember the last time someone hugged him. He can’t.

He opens his mouth to try and explain what happened - to make some sense of this alien reaction Cooley just witnessed.

“I failed him, Cooley. I should’ve been there to protect him, from that fucking guy. From this awful world.”

“Rob, monsters are real. I met plenty of that man and even worse. The reality is that none of them ever hurt me as badly as knowing that I was there because my dad didn’t want me. I know this stings, but your choice put him here. You have a choice now, too. The world is full of men who walk away when it gets too hard, Rob. When forced to look at the wreckage of their decisions. You don’t strike me as a quitter and your guilt won’t help this boy. It’s not too late to give him the peace I never got.”

“What if he hates me?”

“Oh, he hates you.” Cooley laughs, rustling Rob’s hair. “That’s a given. This isn’t about you, though. Come on, we've worn out our welcome. I'll call a friend at CPS to come handle this place.”

“Are we going to get in trouble?”

“No, this is Loveland. They still believe in justice.”

V. A Chance for Peace

The person you’ve reached is unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep.

BEEP

“Rob, it's Cooley. Listen, I got a fresh lead on Finn. Do you have a passport? We're going to Me-hi-co. Call me back."

VI. That Still, Small Voice 

If the enemy be rich, they are rapacious; if he be poor, they lust for dominion.

Do you hate yourself, Bobby?

I know you do because I do, too. A storm-worn tree knows the wind.

Forever playing the fool in the Court of the Crownless King and the King of Cool must be tiring. You dress like a cheerleader for them, for their amusement. Falling asleep in the goddamn ring. Oh, the weight of that disgrace must be crippling.

Neither the east nor the west has been able to satisfy them.

As diametrically opposite as we may be, I understand you, Bobby Bean. The crosses we bear couldn’t be more different, but we are two sides of the same coin. How the fuck could that be, you ask?

We’re cockroaches, Bobby. We crawl back over and over, desperate for… something. What’s your something, Bobby? What does the voice in your head sound like?

Alone among men they covet with equal eagerness poverty and riches.

Mine has been wrath and fury for a long time. I kept showing up because fuck them, that’s why. I hurt way down inside and this has been the only novocaine to ever take the edge off. There’s never been any grandiosity to my vision. To be a wart on the dick of pro wrestling, the only goal has been to make you all hurt as fucking bad as I do.

That voice has changed recently. So much shame, Bobby. Sometimes it's like breathing through a wet rage. Now, though, I think I’ve found the source of that pain. I will find this kid, Bobby - this child I have abandoned.

To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lying name of empire.

It has to mean something and a man who falls asleep in the ring can’t possibly comprehend that. Common ground. But like John Lennon, I’m a fucking artist. You give me a tub’a’shit and I’ll squeeze something out of him. So lock in, Bobby Bean - cause I’m about to fucking squeeze some art out of you.

They make a desert and they call it peace.

I have found the source of my shame and I'm ready to be free of it. At ReVival, you will be the manifestation of the remaining vestiges of that burden. I will crush you because I have to in order to go find my son. But let's make it more than that. Let’s go really deep into the pain cave together and find yours, Bobby.

Let’s make something beautiful, Bobby.

See you in Vegas.