The Snowman

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade. And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, ‘I am leaving, I am leaving’. But the fighter still remains

-Simon and Garfunkel

Cooley

The West Virginia air is thick with Spring. And by that I mean the smell of manure.

There’s nothing worse to ruin a beautiful drive on an uncharacteristically warm early Spring day. You’re rolling down the road with the windows down and Seger talking about thunder in the distance and all of the sudden you’re hit with the noxious odor of shit. Woe, the betrayal.

If I'm being honest, I’ve always had an affinity for it.

Fertilizer.

And so it is today - a bit of cocaine flaming in my bloodstream and the car full of that funk. I use my one working nostril (I prefer to use the right one for business) to draw in as much of that sickly sweet goodness as I can.

You're not supposed to like this smell, but alone in this car and in this world, I am free from the shackles of judgment.

Yes, I love that smell. It reminds me nothing is permanent.

As I watch the sun setting over the summit of the Allegheny, I think of war. Well, the closest thing to it which I am familiar, being war movies. The ones about the Great Wars to be specific. Civil War, too, I guess, but I digress.

They all start with people hootering and hollering. A bunch of young boys excited to go give the bag guys the what for. Sure, Hollywood is all tinsel, but there has to be some truth to it, right?

Think about Bull Run. Spectators brought picnic baskets and sat on the hills. They thought they’d watch the Union rout the Rebs with haste and without prejudice. Instead they watched cannonballs rip through their men - blood and guts and violence.

Years later all of them wanted to go back home to their families.

Maybe I’ve been the Union. Or the spectators. Maybe I’m the cannonball, I don’t know.

What I do know is I expected this run to be much easier. Easier than it has been, at least. So far it’s just been one whipping after another. Steve Harrison at least went on to do something with himself, so there’s that. But losing to a two-bit washed up hack like Gamble was… sour.

Much like that wonderful aroma wafting through my car, I’m sure there are some who can stomach the taste of this kind of medicine - the constant losing I mean. Maybe there’s even a few who, despite never wanting anyone else to know, even like it.

But I’m not one of those.

Asher Creed has had a hair better luck than me in PRIME.

“Asher Creed.”

I say it aloud. Let it sit there in the air. What kind of name is Asher Creed? A name of prominence. Of comfort. The name of privilege.

Asher Creed Never missed a meal or had to drink at a rotten tooth. I know he's never even had to consider blowing another man as a way out of a debt.

Yeah, it has the stink of tragadeigh, An abortion overconfidence from the well-to-do in this country’s death rattle.

Ray Parker, an old friend of mine and Texas Ranger, pulled his file. Owed me a favor or two.

It read exactly like I expected a kid with the name Asher to read.

Duke. Multiple sport athlete. All American kid who probably loves sucking on chili dogs outside the Tastee Freeze.

What are you doing down in the muck with us dregs, Asher?

Judging by your little vlog and interviews, this is some forlorn crusade to save the good people of PRIME from the evil and tyranny of big bad guys. How apropos.

But, he is well trained and has the confidence of youth - and that makes him dangerous enough.

It’s getting dark now. I try my best to fight off the impending yawn as the last little bit of the Colombian booger sugar dissipates in my system. Mathias is way more off the beaten path than I remember it being. Everything seems harder these days.

As I cross over a hill I see an oasis in the distance.

The all too familiar glow of those triple x’s promising watered down rail liquor and the unspoken sadness of broken dreams. I could stretch my legs and I’ve always been a sucker for neon lights.

PARADISE CITY

Am I ever going to be alright?

Rhiannon

SSSSSNNNNOOOORRRRTTT

Goddamn.

You could fit a weeks’ groceries in them bags under my eyes. And I’m talking a rich man’s groceries, too - not the shit I buy. Worrying about your portfolio type shit.

Lighting a cigarette, I wipe the white off my nose - nobody wants to see reality when they come to the strip club. That ain’t what they payin’ you for.

The makeup hides a whole lot, but it's taking more and more these days. Slow and methodical, I put it on the way momma taught me.

And anyway, I ain’t hooked. Just need a little something to get me on stage and stop the shaking so I can put my face on. So I can become the fantasy these miners and truck drivers sweat and toil in their little lives to come experience every Friday.

One more line so I can shed my hopes and dreams to become Dahlia Noir.

Rhiannon wanted to cut hair. She wanted to get out of West Virginia. But daddy disappeared with Fat John’s bag and momma got sick and Dahlia Noir was born. The rest, as they say, is fucking history.

The curtain parts behind me and my shadow peeks his head in. The harshness in his tone reminds me I’m his. He owns me.

“Dahlia, hurry the fuck up.”

With a steady hand I finish the perfect line of red lipstick and smack my lips together. There ain’t no crying in the champagne room.

Feeling bulletproof from that Columbian sawdust, I shoot back with, “cool your fucking jets, I’m getting ready.”

I have an eighth of a second to consider if that was a mistake. He’s on me like stink on shit. The whiskey and heat from his breath on my neck remind me of my daddy. If I weren't working, Fat John would make me pay with a fat lip. You don’t drive your car into the dealership. Instead he pokes a fist against the small of my back.

“You remember, bitch, I own you. Until you pay me back every red cent plus interest, you’re mine.”

“You would never let me forget,” I want to say. I want to tell him he’s a small-time piece of shit who was too dumb to read the play when daddy snaked him.

But despite it being shit, I somewhat value this life, so I nod.

Once he’s gone I can breathe again. I pull out that little plastic bag and dump another line out. Time to put my wings on.

“One more for the road, as my daddy used to say,” I tell myself as I chop it out into a perfect line.

SSSSSNNNNOOOORRRRTTT

They ain’t ready for me anyways.

I look at myself in the mirror as they call my name over the PA.

“You’re a fucking shooting star.”

Thanks Daddy, wherever you are.

Cooley

This is God’s country. The American Dream is alive and well at Paradise City, where a man can enjoy a decent breakfast-for-dinner buffet to the epic melodies of a primo Joe Elliot for no more than a fifteen dollar cover charge. Oh. and there's titties.

With the finishing touches to my sausage Jenga, I find myself thinking of my mother.

Now, you might think, it’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me”, the swinging titties, or the c-section scars that have me thinking of my mother. Maybe even the wholly new kind of funk at Paradise City.

No, it’s breakfast for dinner.

My mom was crazy. Not the funny ha-ha type of crazy, either. She was more of the wrong end of a shotgun variety, but we'll save that for another time.

When I was a little Cooley, who didn't know what ugly was behind the veil, some of her more manic times were fun. Whimsical even. You know, before I realized how sad it was her imagining she was magnetic and there were animals in the engine of her car was funny. Back then, all of it was theatre and my imagination was big - back then the times in between foster homes when we would steal off in the middle of the night on an adventure were freeing and exciting.

Us against the world. Little did I know.

Anyways, the first night mom broke me out of foster care, she'd always make breakfast for dinner at whatever fleabag motel we holed up in. Pancakes, sausage, eggs, bacon, hash browns - the works. We would gorge ourselves on the best breakfast you could imagine and she'd tell me fanatical stories about where she had been: secret missions for the government, a mission trip to convert heathens in a distant land. Hell, she was a merchant marine at one point.

As I got older and the shine wore off, I saw the truth. She had a frequent flyer card at the psych ward.

Growing up sucks.

"You're meant for great things, Jackson," she would tell me as she played with my hair in bed after that meal. I always felt so safe.

Are you sure about that, mom?

I don't feel great.

“Why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses inside,” the bartender asks, snapping me out of my musings.

“If you were a snake, you’d of bit me. You got anything strong enough to fix my pecker and start my weed whacker?”

A callous and tired smirk crosses this elder vixen’s face. In her day, this bartender broke some hearts. Her wick hasn’t completely burnt out - the eyebrow raise behind the lock of blonde hair hanging over her right eye still gives my heart a few more beats per minute.

“You a cop?” she leans in and asks, enticing me with a bustline that’s seen more loads than a New York City trash truck.

“Nah, I'm a mess.”

“Aw. hunny, you just sit on down and let Mrs. Trixie wipe your tears away with her big ol’ titties.”

There’s something about a shared laugh makes you feel less alone.

From behind the counter Mrs. Trixie pulls a bottle of the good stuff - the kind that’ll kill you. With surgical precision, she pours me a heavy three finger glass of the original Mountain Dew.

That familiar napalm in my belly makes me think of Asher Creed.

Asher Creed is the moonshine you buy in the liquor store - what with its catchy nicknames and colors. It’s never been within a thousand yards of anything like this. To the unfamiliar, the Moon Chasers and Ole Smokeys and Asher Creeds of the world might appear to be the real thing.

But this stuff? This stuff is Jackson Cooley.

There’s no marketing team behind it.

Why can't I shake this kid?

“Many thanks, young lady.”

“HA! Young? I got grandkids your age, slim.”

“Aww, you’re a Philly Forty in my book, Mrs. Trixie.”

Mrs. Trixie and I share a few drinks and a few more laughs as I dig into the beautiful smorgasboard on my plate.

Dahlia Noir

You know the funny part of all this shit?

I hate eighties music. With a goddamn passion. The three things I love about this job are that feeling when I'm dancing, hearing the final chords to the last whiny ass power ballad, and the look on all their faces when my closer comes on.

When I'm dancing nobody is talking. Ain't nobody touching me or telling me what the fuck to do and all any of them can do is stare in awe. I'm in charge.

Time for my closer.

Don't cry snowman. Who'll catch your tears if you can't catch me, baby?

The look on their faces... I live for that fucking look.

This one's for me, motherfuckers. 

Don't cry snowman, don't leave me this way. A puddle of water can't hold me close, baby.

Dahlia Noir is a named storm - a hundred year rain. The kind of shit you will all be telling your kids you were lucky enough to witness.

None of them even exist. I am alone in this world, a fucking island.

A shooting star burning through the night sky of their shitty little lives as they all stare in wonder.

Can't hold me close, baby.

Cooley

I want you to know that I'm never leavin', Cause I'm Mrs. Snow, Till death we'll be freezing.  

Do you believe in divine intervention?

I don’t.

But if I did, I would swear I found God at a strip club in West Virginia. 

I want you to know that I'm never leaving, Yeah I'm Mrs. Snow, to death we'll be freezing. 

Mrs. Trixie doesn't bat an eye as I answer the siren's call of the pale, raven haired beauty sashaying across the stage. She's seen it a thousand times.

It all melts away - the whole world- and it's just her on stage. Her supple curves scream out danger, sharp turns ahead. She moves cool and effortlessly like the first air of Autumn.

The only thing more beautiful than her body is her eyes, but they have a remarkable sadness to them. A loneliness. I know that sadness. I know that loneliness because I, too, am alone.

She's moves like sand hit by lightning, stretching up to return back to the sky from which she came.

Cause you are my home, My home for all seasons. 

Nick was right. This being in control thing isn't for me.

I sit front and center and our eyes lock. She’s telling me all of her secrets without saying a word. Those baby brown eyes look through all of my ego and id, way down deep into the pain I cannot seem to drown or smoke or snort or sex away.

Like the snowman, I will melt just to be close to this woman... and I don't care.

From my inner coat pocket I lay a wad of hundreds at her feet and wander back to the bar to find Mrs. Trixie.

"Who the hell is that," I ask while still staring at the girl, unable to take my eyes off her.

"Dahla Noir."

Dahlia Noir, I love you.

I'll burn the world down just to take this girl out for ice cream.

So come on let's go

Rhiannon

I step backstage with butterflies in my stomach, high off the the energy from being on stage - and maybe the little moment with that handsome cowboy. No time to enjoy any of it because the piper sits waiting for payment in the back.

"I told you to drop that fucking song," he says.

When I was younger, I'd flinch when he raised his hand. After the first few hundred times, you get used to it. Now I just close my eyes and brace for impact.

But this time it doesn't come.

When I open my eyes, I see that cool motherfucker from the front row standing between me and Fat John, beaming those pearly whites at me. He stood out like a sore thumb in this place. Even if we hadn't locked eyes, I would've clocked his fine ass.

"Who the fuck are you," Fat John yells at him.

And here he is standing between me and the regularly scheduled beating.

"I'm a big fan of that song," the guy says to Fat John before turning to me. "What's your name, babe?"

"Dahlia...," I begin.

"No. Your real name."

"Rhiannon."

"I love that song, too," he replies.

This tall drink of water with his goofy blonde mullet takes my hand in his and softly kisses the back of it. Ain't nobody ever done that before. Everything turns off for a second - all the noise and the bills and the johns - and it's only us in this world. I can't seem to be free of those icy blue eyes.

"I'm Cooley. Pleased to meet you."

You need a crane to pick Fat John's jaw up off the floor.

"Look, she ain't working. So could you kindly fuck off?"

Cooley rubs at the bristly five-o-clock shadow on his chin. He slides across the room and puts his arm around Fat John, pulling him in tight.

"Let's have a chat, friend."

I have no fucking clue what Cooley said to Fat John, but in no time they were thick as thieves and Fat John comes walking back with a big old smile on his face. He said his goodbyes and even apologizes for the way he treated me. And then Fat John just... leaves.

For the first time I can remember, that four-hundred pound monkey is off my back.

Cooley takes my hands and looks at me with those eyes, blue and deep as glaciers.

"I haven't been feeling too good, Rhiannon, but you made me feel a whole lot better tonight. You want to go for a ride with me?"

My snowman and me.

Cooley

Sometimes I forget what it was like to be hungry. Forget about life without security and freedom.

Forty thousand dollars.

For forty thousand dollars Fat John held this angel hostage.

I hope Fat John enjoys every second of freedom and security he gets with it. Genuinely. You may ask why and that's valid. Well, while Rhiannon was gathering her things I had Nick call a couple of boys from the holler. I got friends in low places. Real low... like crawlspace low. Yep, they'll be introducing Fat John to the baling wire before sundown.

It isn't about the money. It's the principle.

We welcome the sunrise to "Shadowplay" as Rhiannon cut lines out on an old CD case someone left in the rental.

Manhunt isn't my problem. Tony Gamble isn’t to blame for the way I feel. At the base level we’re all scared little clumps of cells vibrating at different frequencies. This whole idea of the id, the ego, identity - that’s the problem. I mean, Jesus Henry Christ, I threw O'Neill off an escalator.

I have been lost, but lo, I am found.

The back to back smattering of losses originally went down like a two finger pour of Malort. But alas, that is the way of the sellsword.

You’re only good as your last trick, pony.

All of that was the fertilizer.

I am reborn in her love. She peeled me from my old skin like a snake while whispering sweet nothings in my ear from her glitter stained lips. Yes, I have been in the darkness lately, but I will rise like the Phoenix at ReVival 66.

As the first rays of the warm sunrise touch my cheeks, I think of you, Asher Creed. It's not your fault that you've been given a silver spoon. I'm sure you've had your own problems. Maybe your dad didn't tell you he loved you enough, who knows? You've got raw, natural talent. Can't debat that. You hit a wall with Time Mommy - I've met her, she's a phenom.

You're this close to greatness. And you seem like a good man.

But while you were learning holds on a padded mat, people like Fat John were putting out cigarettes on me in the foster system. You had Sunday dinners with a loving family and I prayed for the next breakfast-for-dinner with mom.

I have forgotten myself. Life hasn't always been free and secure for me, Asher. All of that pain and hunger, made me what I am.

I'm Jackson Cooley. Something made in a still in a holler. Rough, unpolished, but damn good at getting the job done.

At ReVival 66, I'm going to teach you about living hand to mouth. And when it's all over, I want you to remember: you didn't lose to a better man. You lost to a hungrier one.

The morning dew accentuates the smell of fertilizer on the fields as we hit the bottom of a holler with Paradise City and Fat John and all of it in the rearview mirror. For a moment, I give way to the tender feelings of vulnerability and safety Rhiannon makes me feel and I breathe in deep. I forget myself. Her giggling from the passenger seat quickly snaps me back to reality.

"Sorry," I say shamefully as I begin rolling up the windows.

She softly puts a warm hand on my ice cold hand.

"Don't, I've always loved that smell," she says with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, weaving her fingers in mine.

I'm going to be alright.

In fact, mom, I'm going to be great.