Penance

Thy Rod

Two weeks have passed since Rob bought the piece of Blackthorn wood.

While traveling through New England for the ReVival Northeast leg, Complete Abandon stopped at a roadside farmer’s market. You have to admire the humor in the striking dichotomy of patrons these places attract. On one side you have the granola eaters with their bare feet trying to avoid the chemicals of capitalism in the food they feed their kids. Their kids with names like River and Indigo. On the other side of the coin, we have god-fearing fundamentalists wearing their red hats with a bold, white acronym stamped upon them. They put their dollars to work in support of self-reliance.

Everybody comes together for free-range eggs and farm fresh meat.

As the others grab supplies, Rob peruses the outer band of table with various odds and ends and knicknacks. On the far corner of the perimeter, Rob stops in his tracks.

There it sat, ugly and violent in its raw state. Long, sharp thorns protrude from all sides of the unfinished beast. Its thorns scream out, “Do not touch me lest you want blood.” He drags his fingertips along the fine points of the wood’s defenses and feels an instant connection to it. Rob felt, no… was compelled to buy it. It called to him. Something was inside that wanted to come out and it needed him.

What an odd idea- purchasing the dismembered limb from a tree. A living thing that has withstood the tornadoes and rains and droughts of some hundred years. The mother of this branch has been watered by the sweat of slavery and the tears of freedom. It has stood witness to men who called themselves Patriots indiscriminately slaying those they saw as their captors, only to watch the same men shed the blood of their own neighbors sometime later. And now he sits blindly mutilating it, to what end he does not know.

Now he sits in the warm glow of a fire, working feverishly. The wood emits a cacophony of scraping and crackling as the Swiss-made whittling knife carves through it. Sweat sits on Williams' forehead as he studiously drags the knife along the piece of Blackthorn.

What is his aim with this piece of wood? He doesn’t know. He felt, nay… was compelled him to purchase it.

Rob is no carpenter. He is handy and knows enough to be dangerous (see: crucifix). Finish carpentry, though, is a goddamn art. And a man has to know his limits. Wood as something holy. A craft intended only for those select few, blessed to master and manipulate wood to their will.

He is driven, though. Without understanding, he knows that he alone can liberate what lies within this piece of wood.

More will be revealed.

Reverberations

Laughter spills from somewhere in the camp.

Normally, this would annoy Rob. An item on a laundry list of qualities Complete Abandon embodies that made his skin crawl. They're loud. Or quiet. They laugh at dumb shit. They make awful coffee... in general, their existence.

Ever since the loss to Winters and Diamonds, though, the volume has been turned down. The coffee even tastes better. Rob pauses his project. He reaches down to ruffle the soft fur of Boots' head. Despite being homeless by the legal definition, Rob's been in worse situations.

"Hm," Rob thinks to himself.

He hears John's voice.

"If you run into one asshole, it's probably them. If you run into one hundred, you may want to take a look at yourself."

That familiar southern twang opens the floodgates of nostalgia. Memories flow freely through Rob's mind, much like the Chattahoochee River he and John used to fish. One memory eclipses the rest, the reverberations so vivid and resonant that they're tangible.

The cold porcelain of the bathtub he lies in, covered in vomit and tears. John's warm hand under his armpits, lifting him from this hell. The deep concern he had that he was staining John’s crisp, white dress shirt as John held him tight. Most of all, the echo of John's voice as he repeats, "It's going to be okay, bud. There's nothing we can't fix together."

You've reached John. Leave a message and I'll give you a call back as soon as I can. I hope you're having a great day.

BEEP

Rob sits with his mouth open and a hand on his head, staring off into the distance. He listens to the faint, static white noise of car alarms, babies crying, and music that is the heartbeat of a metropolis. Nothing. There are no words. Rob nearly fumbles the phone as he brings it down to hit the pound sign.

A single hot tear rolls down Rob's cheek and Boots licks it away.

If you'd like to erase your message press 1.

"Who was that?" a voice asks from behind Rob, snapping him out of his daze. Rob spins around to find the Father, standing like a great tree before him. Not tall or broad, but as imposing as the Roman Army.

“Nobody,” Rob replies, quickly turning the phone off.

"Hmm," the Father ponders, drawing on his cigarette. "Sometimes the best you can do is put down the shovel."

Rob looks confused.

"Stop digging."

"I was nothing without him," Rob replies.

"You are free of your past sins, Robert. Absolved. You have paid the price in blood and misery and are made anew. Stop trying to see yourself in the broken shards of your old self-image. This Robert Williams is not there. That man worried about things like vengeance and winning or losing. Titles. You are on a higher path now."

The words ring true in Rob's core. Like an outward token of the inner decision, Rob snaps the phone in half and tosses it into the bonfire. Sparks fly and the embers hiss as Rob abandons the final shreds of his former self.

"Come with me." the Father says, holding out his hand to Rob.

Blindly, Rob takes the Father's hand and follows.

Know Thine Enemy

“Lamentations 2:14. Thy prophets have seen false and foolish things for thee: and they have not laid open thy iniquity, to excite thee to penance: but they have seen for thee false revelations and banishments.”

Rob appreciates the pageantry of Catholicism. He appreciates the poetry and prose of the writing. It's a lot like wrestling. He smirks at the idea of Jesus cutting promos on the masses. For the life of him, he has never been able to connect with what's being said. It's the stuff of Dungeons and Dragons, mythical beings and winged creatures. But what is not to love in all the horse and pony show? It's like a god circus.

Penance.  Rob scans the room. This could be a fucking bingo parlor just as easily as Mass. What sins could this lot have committed that would warrant penance? They don't know the definition of penance. Rob had to look it up.

pen·ance /ˈpenəns/ noun 1. voluntary self-punishment inflicted as an outward expression of repentance for having done wrong.

"What the fuck are we doing here, anyway?" Rob not so subtly whispers to the Father, who sits on his left with his head bowed in thoughtful contemplation.

Silence.

"I'm tired. And hungry. Let's get the fuck out of..." Rob begins but is abruptly interrupted by the Father with a simple finger held up in the air.

"Know thy enemy, Robert."

Rob sighs loud enough to gain a few glares. He puts his hands up, waving the white flag.

The priest talks about faith.

"What does any of this have to do with Don Winters?" Rob asks in earnest.

"My child, Don Winters is but a symptom of a disease. He is but a proxy of the true enemy, the belief that you can get something for nothing. All of this blood of christ. Word and light. No one is sacrificing. He deprives himself of nothing. Something for nothing, all of this is. He thinks forgiveness is free. Has that been your truth?"

"No." Rob replies.

"No, it hasn't. You can only outrun fate so long. Have faith, my child. You already do, you just need to recognize it. Faith is the way of strength. You've been confused. Your whole life you've had people like Donovan Winters tell you that faith was married to their gods. This is just a tactic in their deluded exercise to maintain control. Faith is a word that stands on its own without being propped up by some silly carpenter. Who says your faith had to be in some monotheistic construct? False prophets, that's who. It's the faith itself that matters."

The Father pauses for a moment before bowing his head again.

"More will be revealed."

Better To Understand Than Be Understood

"What the fuck is that?" Rob's attention snaps from the nearly finished Blackthorn project. When feeling good about himself, he fancies himself something of an artist. It's helped all of the Sunday mornings coming down from the bathtub gold-fueled benders. It's shit, but there are 10,080 minutes in a week and when you're awake for all of them, you get weird. You can take the meth out of the boy, but you can't... Well, you get it.

Anyhow -  Rob licks his dried lips and sniffs the air like it may hold the secret location of what he seeks. It doesn't, though, and likely wouldn't tell him even if it did. From inside the old Winnebago Rob has been calling home steps the Father. He hears it, too.

To the trained ear there is no sound quite like the unmistakable humming of a tattoo gun.

Rob has no problem with tattoos. Even shitty ones, cause god knows he has and has had his share of those. Most people don't opt for blackout - nuclear solution. No, what drives our hero to drop everything and enter an earnest search for the source of this familiar melody is not the quality. It's the stutter of the motor generally associated with a rig made with whatever shit you had lying around the house. Once again, it's an unique hum. Especially a homemade one.

"Now, Robert, let's remember our manners." the Father calls after Rob, to no avail.

Some things are still sacred.

How does one make such an implementation? Well, it's a surprisingly versatile operation honestly with a litany of methods. A lot of them Rob learned from an old printed version of The Anarchist Cookbook. One or two he picked up in the Flowery Branch Trailer Park, in beautiful Flowery Park, GA. He might even have learned some in jail, but that's a story for a different time. Most all revolve around the readily available direct current made by creating a circuit from an RC car battery. More importantly, though, almost all of them wind up infected or worse.

It doesn't take long to find the source despite the ever-growing density of the camp. Seriously, these people are like fucking rabbits. Every time Rob turns around there's some new face and they are all just way too eager to help. Service. But, as the Father constantly reminds Rob, you must give away what you've found to keep it. So Rob plays along. A few of them might not be terrible if he's being honest.

A small group is huddled around the open rear doors of Lem's muted green, early-model Astro Van. It’s the type of van that had curtains on the windows. Maybe even a VCR/TV combo built-in if the owner was doing well. The crowd has gathered to witness a boy that Rob doesn't totally hate named "Fast" Eddie Sullivan carve into the meaty part of Lem Hawthorne's front calf.

Rage. How could they bring such fuckery to this place? It may be full of grifters and weirdos, barren of anything resembling privacy, but it's currently Rob's home. Plus, they're in fucking Boston of all places. There must be thirty or forty shitty tattoo places with a neon shamrock in the window within a mile in any given direction. Before the Father can land his calming hand on The Legend's shoulder, Rob has wrapped up Eddie in a full nelson, causing the tattoo gun to drop. He applies enough pressure to let Eddie know that he doesn't mean to harm him, but he's not fucking around.

"What in the fuck is going on here," Rob shouts, sending a shockwave that causes the entire group to bounce a step back like they just touched a hot wire.

They're all talking, but Rob isn't listening. He's tried, really he has. He's tried to drink the Kool-Aid and he's listened to their fucking "shares" and he's let them accompany him everywhere. But this, he cannot abide. It's completely acceptable to be associated with homeless and drug addicts and losers. Who gives a shit if people think the company you keep is crazy?

He will not be associated with the type of scum referred to colloquially in tattoo parlors across the world as scratchers.

Scratchers don't care about safety. It isn't about art. They don't care to learn and are ok with the consequences because it's someone else's body. Being shit is perfectly acceptable.

"Robert, breathe. Listen. Remember - it is better to understand than to be understood. One breath, Robert. Take one breath." the Father whispers in Rob's ear.

One breath. Two. Three.

Slowly the color wheel moves from red, back into balance. The voices of the followers are translated from a seamless growl of white noise to cries for mercy. Rob closes his eyes and exhales, releasing his grip completely and letting Eddie fall to the gravel below him. Eddie grasps at his neck before a mohawk-wearing kid who calls himself Francis the Great helps him up and out of the way. Rob looks around, seeing the shock in the group's eyes. Their heads hang low like a young fan who just found out their hero is a complete piece of shit. Rob's eyes lock on Lem's: they're big and painted heavy with disappointment.

As the oxygen returns to Rob's brain, his eyes drop to the spot Eddie was working on. Instantly what's left of our little Grinch's heart sinks.

"Oh my god," escapes Rob's gaping mouth.

The Totenkopf on the brim of Heinrich Himmler's hat is the first thing Rob notices. An incredibly well-done portrait of the Nazi leader is stamped on Lem's leg. Lem clocks Rob staring at it, and drops his head in shame. So this is why the young vagrant is always wearing jeans- they provide him with a sense of security. Of anonymity.

"Lem... I had no clue." Rob continues, trying to wrap his brain around this.

"I was young. My dad wasn't around. I was getting my ass kicked at school constantly. The internet was new, and the Movement was using it to recruit kids like me. It's been years, but I've always been too scared to show anyone to bring it into a shop and get it covered up proper." Lem explains without looking up.

A slight pressure on Rob's shoulder from the Father forces Rob to his knees before Lem. They're at eye level now. Lem looks up just enough for Rob to see the tears in Lem's eyes, rolling hot down his cheek in the crisp morning air.

" For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. Come to me, all you who are weary. I am the way. You are the way, Robert." the Father says to Rob in little more than a whisper.

Rob's giant battle-scarred hands find Lem's and give them a gentle tug, triggering Lem to look up.

And here, in this dirty lot, Rob gets it.

Lem sits with tears in his eyes, subjecting himself to physical pain to make right the wrongs of his past.

Penance.

"All of you, now, look at this young man and witness the miracle I see. For years Lem has carried this shameful mark. He has hidden it like a scarlet letter. Just like our enemy, Don Winters, he has tried to deny who he truly is. A liar concealing himself behind a mask of what he wants the world to think he is, of the man that he wants to be. But unlike that fucking coward, Lem here has subjected himself to that which is necessary for metamorphosis. For REAL fucking change."

Fire and fury fill Rob's words. They're hot like the fires of hell. The Father stands back, smiling in admiration.

"See, Lem understands. Pain, pain is the touchstone of ALL spiritual growth.  Any man who tries to absolve himself of his sins without subjecting himself to pain has tried to make mortar without sand. I'm proud of you, my friend. Hold your head up high and wipe your tears away, because you have shown your willingness to settle your accounts."

Lem's eyes light up.

Rob takes the homemade tattoo gun from the ground and presses down the switch.

"I’ve found liberation in pain, boys, and I can show you the way."

Completing the Works

"Is it done?" Lem asks from across the fire as he studies Rob's work.

"Almost," Rob replies as he licks his lips and squints, leaning in close to the piece of wood.

Before him lay all the instruments of his work: the whittling knife, sandpaper, varnish, and various tooling implements. Sweat drips from his beard as he applies the finishing touches with a fine-edged shiragami gouge. Rob snorts, leaning back to bask in the fruit of his labor before bringing the wood up to softly blow the remaining shavings away. He turns what was once a raw, ugly, violent piece of wood over in his hands. Holding it up to Lem, Rob beams with pride. Lem reads the finishing touches aloud.

Crudely carved in big, block letters, exposing the raw, unfinished innards of the shillelagh:

"Penance."

The dancing flames gleam in Rob's eyes as he speaks, accentuating the intensity and madness of his words.

"Before your eyes, I will repay Babylon. Don Winters misunderstood the message, Lem. Anna clearly said it to him when we laid his broken and bloodied body on the cross at ReVival. This wasn't about embarrassing him. I was trying to save him. How the fuck could this man have missed the clear symbolism of a crucifixion?"

Rob chuckles, shaking his head and spitting into the fire.

"I mean, come the fuck on, it couldn't have been more perfect. His sins,the cross... it was just," Rob grits his teeth, "perfect. It was beautiful and special and it was supposed to be our fucking moment. We gave Don a path to freedom, to wipe off his clown paint smile and truly be himself. And what did he do? He exploited it for his personal gain once again. Don Winters is Nebuchadnezzar, Lem, and PRIME his Babylon. His sweet words and false idolatry have wooed the people once again. I hand this fucking scumbag the chance at redemption - at TRUE redemption and what does he do?  He goes out there and fucking cries."

With two fists to his face and a frown Rob pantomimes a mocking cry.

"He talks about forgiveness and he talks about his savior's heart. Word. Light. More words, more saccharine. In the same breath as claiming I'm forgiven, this cock has the fucking gall to say he wants to come after me. He is still a paper man. A cardboard cut out of what Don Winters thinks the world wants Don Winters to be. We set the table, lit the candles, and handed him a juicy cut of redemption and he spit in our fucking faces. How does he want to repay us? By boo-hooing to the fucking fans about he wants my 5 Star Title. Aww, it wasn't Don's fault, he was forced into it, let's all clap for this piece of shit."

Rob taps Penance against his own forehead.

"If he will not accept his penance, I will bring it down on his fucking head. I know my place now, Lem. I am the ferryman and the only currency tendered here is pain."

Boots head rises and cocks to the side in response to the sudden surge of energy emanating from Rob. His words, though spoken calmly and confidently, carry a calloused vitriol.

"He wants a crucifixion match? Perfect. Winters wants to live in "his image"? WE WILL OBLIGE! I will fucking eat this man up. Eat him up."

A chill runs down Rob's spine as he feels the Father's presence behind him.

Rob and the Father speak in unison. Their words are so intertwined you can't tell which is the Alpha and which the Omega. Together they repeat the words the Father whispered to Rob at ReVival 42.

"For thou art my war club. With thee, I shall shatter nations. With thee, I shall destroy nations. With thee, I will break in pieces the shepherd and his flock."

FIN