You Know The Story About The Scorpion and The Frog?

recidivism (n.)

\ ri-ˈsi-də-ˌvi-zəm

1. the tendency to relapse into a former state; the reformed man becoming the old one again, and not knowing how he got back.

“Well I probably should be drug out to sea, where I can’t hurt no one and no one can hurt me.”

The rasp of Carry Ann Heartst and the high pitched whine of Michael Trent twist together like the roots of two viney vegetables placed in the same sad garden plot.

Empty liquor bottles litter the floor of Rob Williams’ Air BnB room.

“Lay Low” plays softly for the hundredth time. It’s been playing for days.

What do you do when you’re the only one left at the party and the only vibe is pity?

The days leading to and the events of ReVival 90 swirl around in Rob’s head like the cheap vodka is in his stomach.

We’re back to plastic bottles.

Head in hands, he’s on his knees next to the bed, but he ain’t praying.

“Are you there?” Charlotte asks softly from the phone a few inches from Rob’s face on the bed.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“What’s going on, babe? What’s going on in there?”

He doesn’t know. At least, he doesn’t know how to tell her. No one ever gave Rob Williams the vocabulary to describe recidivism. Even if they had, no one but Charlotte ever made him feel safe enough to.

This is why “Lay Low” is playing on repeat. The song has the words that the man doesn’t - but he knows that’s how he feels.

Everyone would be better off if Rob was drug out to sea - too far from human contact to do any more damage. And the reality of it all is he usually is hurt by something innocuous and that’s why he lashes out.

Hurt people hurt people.

But this time there was no hurt. He’s just spiraling.

It started with the “audition tape”. Somebody dosed him - he’s sure of that much. If he were a betting man? Daytona.

What used to be fun and unpredictable was becoming psychotic and dangerous.

Hell, maybe it started before that.

But Rob keeps going back to the well.

After the awful intro to his housemates, and the unfortunate laundry situation with Keyes, he picked up the bottle again because…

Well because fuck it, right?

And where does fuck it always lead? To this. Hands and knees - feeling completely unlovable and inhuman. A man apart from the human race.

Spiritual gas tank on empty.

“I should just go live in the woods.”

And then there’s what he did to Kerry. If he was able to be honest, Rob likes Kerry. Not at first of course, but through War Games they connected. He was proud of that.

So proud that he stomped on the man’s hands and sent him careening down a game show fake mountain.

Yes, these are the symptoms of a case of the fuck its.

“At least you know how to make a fire now.” Charlotte shoots her shot with the levity.

Rob will never tell her, but he cracks the smallest of smiles.

But she knows that.

“I just… I don’t know, babe. I’m tired. I just don’t think I wasn’t made for this world.”

Charlotte takes a deep breath - carefully weighing her words. Of course she’s felt that way before. Maybe not as intensely as Rob. Definitely not as intensely as Rob.

But she’s here on the phone with this broken man she always seems to be gluing back together while pregnant with his baby.

She’s definitely wondered what the fuck she’s doing.

And she’s a smart enough woman to know that this crack is one she can’t be the fix for.

She’s tired, too.

“Rob, babe, you know I love you more than anything, right?”

His head jolts to attention.

This is where she leaves. 

Everybody always leaves, Rob.

“Yeah?” He asks, suddenly that scared little boy again.

“Ok well I can’t fix this one, babe.” The exhaustion in her voice is clear - but there’s still a sigh of relief from Rob. “Look, I found someone who can help.”

Zero to sixty.

“Char, come on. I can’t do that. I can’t even leave this fucking house. And wrestlers don’t do that.”

“I know you can’t leave and that’s why he will meet you discreetly in a car. Nobody will know. But… babe I need this. We need this.”

She doesn’t mean Charlotte and Rob - she means Charlotte and Baby Williams.

“Do this for me. Please.”

There’s a desperation in her voice he’s never heard. They’ve tried to quit each other before. They called each other all kinds of horrible shit.

Neither of them has ever asked the other to stay and get better.

He grits his teeth, closing his eyes as tight as possible like maybe they’ll hold the tears back. They don’t.

Never in a million years will “The Legend” go cry about his fucking feelings to some suit. Talk about how he felt when his daddy left or the anger he felt when his momma flirted with other men. The loneliness of being an ignored only child raised by a selfish child.

But when he says he’ll do anything for her, he means it.

“Ok.” Rob Williams whispers.

Rob dresses like he’s going out for a run.

A run in the winter. Huge mistake as most of America is currently experiencing record breaking heat. Before he even leaves the crisp, seventy degree air of his transient room, he is regretting the hoodie.

Charlotte promised to give the therapist an address a few blocks away.

None of Rob’s teammates (read: enemies) can know that he’s going to vomit his feelings in some shrink’s car instead of Keyes’ laundry basket.

The more these fucks know about you, the more ammo they have to use against you. 

He sneaks out the door as the house is coming to life - the smell of pancakes in the air.

Coyote ugly. 

The neighborhood is quiet, but all Rob sees are potential snitches: the old man in the POWMIA hat watering his lawn, the elderly Asian woman trimming her bushes with scissors, and the young kid in the FLAMBERGE shirt tossing a yellow frisbee to his brown dog.

Any of these assholes could see him and tell some dirt sheet or that Savannah Scandal whore what’s going on.

Dirty needles, cheap cocaine, some girl's old man with a gun - none of it makes Rob’s heart race the way it is as he approaches the sleek black Audi.

Of course this asshole drives an Audi.

One last look around before opening the door.

The leather seats feel uncomfortable against the now sweaty layers of Rob’s disguise. All of this feels uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable.

“Nice car.” Rob hipfires as he settles in.

“Thank you.”

The man in the driver seat is exactly what Rob expected.

His hair isn’t just cut - it’s styled. There’s nothing out of place on his navy blue sportscoat. The thick framed, James Dean style glasses sit just right on his medium sized nose.

Everything about him screams educated.

Rob just knows this man lives by his Google calendar.

“Wasn’t a compliment.” Rob barks, dropping the air conditioner to its lowest setting.

“I know.”

Rob smirks at the reply, running a sleeved forearm across his nose. He slides the tapered wrist of the hoodie up to let his tattoos peek out.

The therapist is unmoved.

“So, you’re going to be a father.”

The statement stops Rob in his tracks. A question would’ve left some oxygen in the breathing room Rob has for Charlotte’s pregnancy.

This guy just sucked it all out.

“Uh… yeah.”

The therapist’s thin lips purse into a polite smile and he nods thoughtfully.

“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Dr. Shantz. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He speaks to Rob, but he’s overcome with nostalgia watching the preteen boy playing with the dog outside.

“I’m Ro-”

“You see that kid playing over there, Rob?”

Dr. Shantz points a long, bony finger toward the windshield.

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember what it was like to be that carefree? That boy doesn’t have a care in the world except how quick he can get the frisbee from the dog and send it flying again.”

What the fuck? Did Char find this guy on Craigslist?

“Yeah, I guess so?” Rob replies - more of a confused question than anything.

“I don’t think so, Rob.” Dr. Shantz turns to him, his green eyes almost glowing. “I don’t think you were ever that free.”

Rob doesn’t know how to respond.

So he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes his eyes off the dandy gentleman neatly disarming him from the driver seat, and watches the boy. Really watches.

The little boy’s smile is real. Genuine. Rob can’t remember the last time he felt the kind of joy that the kid is wearing every time his little Frenchie gets the zoomies and spins circles around him.

No.

Rob has never felt that free.

“Charlotte tells me you’re struggling. I didn’t ask for specifics, because I’d rather hear it directly from you. Tell me, Rob, what’s keeping you up at night?”

No one has ever asked him that.

Do you have a few hours, doc?

“Shit, man. Where do I even start?” Rob shakes his head.

Another polite smile from Dr. Shantz. This one is a bit warmer.

“At the beginning.”

Rob fumbles through his pockets looking for his cigarettes.

“We only got an hour, doc. I don’t know man, I just feel like it’s fuckin’ two steps forward and three states back with me, you know? I really been trying, man. Kicked all the vices, staying in, trying to do the next right thing. And like - it was working, you know?”

“What do you mean it has been working?”  Shantz asks, head tilted ever so slightly.

“Well I don’t know. I went from buying an illegal dingo off the black market to eat this guy’s koala to partnering with him to fight some other guys.”

Rob takes a breath, realizing how insane all of that sounds.

“You had to be there, it’s just the work I do. But like we were cool. We were alright. And that made me feel good.”

“And then?”

“Well, then I fucked it all up. I don’t know, man. I’ve been sober again for a bit and I think someone dosed me. Somebody I thought of as a friend. From there it was just a little bump to take the edge off and then I got thirsty. So before you know it I’m throwing up in my housemate, whom I just cheated out of a win mind you, I’m throwing up in this guy’s fucking laundry basket.”

The first deep breath Rob has taken since ReVival 90.

Maybe Char was right. This guy seems alright.

And getting this shit out feels pretty good.

Shantz lets Rob’s feelings, as general as they may be, have some room to breathe.

“Did you enjoy coloring outside the lines again?”

“W-what?”

“Rob, you're not a victim, you’re a volunteer.”

Rob’s eyes fade from Shantz’ eyes to the closest ear.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Six pounds of pressure.

The doctor screams as blood flies across the car, staining Rob’s smile red.

Rob holds the ear out, thinking about eating it because fuck it.

Then he blinks and looks the doctor in the eye again. The doctor… sitting there in his crisp, fresh suit, waiting for Rob to snap back to reality before continuing.

“Maybe the dosing happened to you, but you did everything else.”

Rob tilts his head like a dog that just heard a treat bag open in the other room.

“Tell me, Rob, is it hard being a kept man? Watching all of these people drink and snort and fuck the way you want to without feeling that pain you do?”

The pack of cigarettes. Rob remembers and pulls them out, tapping the soft pack on his veiny forearm before sliding one out.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

With a cigarette between his teeth and the flame already moving towards it, Rob smiles and lifts his eyebrows.

“You know, I just thought about ripping your ear off and eating it, Doc.” Rob breathes out a warning plume of smoke at Dr. Shantz.

Like a dragon guarding the treasure he has no use for.

“That one, Rob, I understand.” Dr. Shantz smiles at Rob. “I think you do, too. I don’t think, however, you understand why you stomped on Kerry Kuroyama’s hands.”

Rob bites his lip, rolls the window down, and tosses out his cigarette.

This unassuming knight just routed the storybook dragon.

“You know the story about the scorpion and the frog, doc?”

“I’ve seen Drive, too, Rob. Good movie.”

“It’s just my nature.”

“The difference between you and The Driver, Rob, is that he’s violent to protect people he loves. You want to be the hero of this story. So be it.”

Outside the car, the little boy’s mother shouts for him to come inside.

The cold air from the vent blows across his face and he closes his eyes, leaning in and turning side to side to savor the feeling.

“You know, one time I had a sleepover at my mom’s boss’ house. He had a kid my age he got over the summers. Jordan.  I don’t even know what the fuck we did, you know, but I remember we slept in the living room on the floor. And I remember laying there with him and his friends laughing and the feeling of the cool air from the ceiling fan. I guess I was carefree that night.”

“Time’s up, Rob.”

Rob nods, grabbing the door handle. He pauses, looking outside.

“I don’t know why the fuck I hurt Kerry. But I’m tired of being like this, Doc.”

No time for love, Doctor Jones. Rob slams the door behind him, his hands finding the inside of his pockets and his head hung low.

Rob’s insides are grasslands fertilized with napalm. He wants to laugh at this stupid therapy shit, but really he’s just trying to keep crying. Not because of the things he just admitted… no, from the hurt way down inside that won’t go away.

And how lonely it is to carry it.

Of course the front door to the Air BnB cries out like Hank Williams Sr. as Rob tries to ease it shut behind him.

“Jesus Henry Christ.”

He waits a moment, back to the door, actually relieved to be back in this hellhole.

Inside the kitchen there is a great clamoring. Other than that, though, the coast seems clear.

There’s an attempt to slip past the kitchen unnoticed. A failed attempt.

Henry Keyes, staring at his phone, calls out to Rob without ever lifting his head.

“Where have you been?”

Quick - think of a lie.

“Buying crack.”

Keyes shrugs, satisfied with the answer.

Rob pauses for a moment at the doorway to the kitchen to witness the utter chaos.

Scott Hunter stands ass naked under a kitchen apron with something resembling a hat made of tin foil on his head. There’s shit literally everywhere - not literal shit, but literally everywhere. Pancake batter splashed on the table and spices spilled on the floor - butter smeared across an empty plate.

“What the fuck, man? You’re seeing this, right?” Williams asks Keyes to confirm he’s not permatripping.

“Unfortunately.”

A plate of uncooked bacon sits in the middle of the table. Hunter picks it up and defiantly throws it at the empty seat next to Keyes.

“That’s for Kerry.”

Another slice of uncooked bacon gets tossed at the other empty chair.

“That one’s also for Kerry.”

Of course he throws a third piece back at the first chair.

“And that one is just for me.”

Keyes tries to remove the plate, but Hunter grabs it and holds it up in The Kraken’s face. “Hark, dost thou not wish to fling thine own meat in tribute?”

“I’m good.” Keyes replies calmly.

Rob stares in awe as Hunter sits down and grabs a fork, running it through a soupy bowl of uncooked raw eggs while staring at the empty chairs with contempt.

“Eat up,” Hunter calls to the room. “We’ve got a kingdom to defend!”

Is this what living with me is like?

Back in the sanctity of his room, Rob scrolls through his liked songs for the perfect tune to defrag from all the weight of the day.

Morning. Day.

Whatever it is.

You ever been in one of those times where time seems to fold in on itself and you can’t remember what it was like before this?

Yeah, Rob has. He is.

Penguin 🐧

met w/ the guy. im all better now, thx.

…

Sure

Still fucking with his phone, Rob realizes it might not be a bad idea to save Dr. Shantz’ number.

Not because he’ll ever see him again, but you know, just in case.

“Hmm.”

He thinks back to his conversation with Keyes.

“Perfect”

Squinting and using one finger, Rob types in “CRACK DEALER”.

“I need a cup of coffee.”

Yeah, something to feel more human.

The kitchen is still a mess, but quieter. Darker. More peaceful.

Rob grabs a cup of coffee. Right as he prepares to take that first sip, Scott Hunter appears again - ass naked in his apron and tinfoil hat. He pulls a piece of cellophane out and points it at Rob.

If there is some message here, Rob isn’t getting it.

He looks at Scott, at the cellophane, and back at Scott.

Before he can even say “What the fuck is your major malfunction?” Scott leaves the room.

Somewhere, deep inside, that still small voice tells Rob that this is his fault.

If he’d never bought that dingo. If he hadn’t allowed Fred to piss on Clay’s daddy’s grave. If he hadn’t tried to set RIA on fire.

On and on.

The voice sounds a lot like Dr. Shantz. it’s calling him a volunteer.

He whips out his phone and finds “CRACK DEALER” in his contacts.

“Hello Rob.” Dr. Shantz answers after the third ring.

“Hey, you think I could see you again next week?”

“Sure. I’ll have my receptionist reach out.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Back in his room again, cup of coffee nearby, Rob finds himself in front of a blank notebook with a pen in hand.

He writes three notes.

The first goes to Gamble.

Tony

We got lucky last week. I ain’t doing that shit again. Our backs are against the wall this week and we gotta look out for each other. I ain’t saying we throw the VV guys to the wolves - Keyes is right. We need to work together as a team. But when the rubber meets the road, I got your back and you got mine, right? 

Rob

He folds it really small.

Next is Hunter.

Scott

Take two tylenol and drink a lot of water. I still fucking hate you, but I’m on your team. Don’t expect me to play make believe - but I’m not going to let us lose. 

Rob

This one he doesn’t fold at all.

The last goes to Keyes.

Keyes

I’m sorry about your laundry. 

Rob

Keyes’ note gets a few crisp hundreds folded into it.

He quietly creeps into the hallway, sliding each note under his teammates' doors. The moment they're under and can't be taken back, he's flush with embarrassment and hustles back into his room before anyone can see.

Rob leans back in the chair, taking a big swig of coffee and looking at the ceiling above.

Medieval times. 

A bunch of goddamned hair brained wrestlers, half burnt out from head bumps and nose bumps running around with fucking swords. 

What could go wrong? 

Maybe I’m not the scorpion. 

Maybe I’m the dragon - guarding a bunch of gold that I can’t even use. A treasure I don’t understand. 

I just know it’s mine and I won’t let these false knights take it. 

So fuck it, let’s lean in.

Give me a goddamn helmet and sword and I’ll give the fans what they fucking paid for.

Medieval times. What in the actual fuck is PRIME doing?