Coup de Grâce

I. The House of Waffle

Brother, what kind of animal have you become?

Cooley thinks it, but he dares not say it to the savage beast sitting across from him. No, he just watches over the edge of his coffee mug as Rob defiles his hashbrowns.

It’s almost like Rob doesn’t know he isn’t in prison anymore. What causes that? It’s not as if someone in this La Casa Del Waffle is going to shiv him or try to steal his food. In fact, the modestly dressed patrons and uniformed wait staff are all shitting their pants as the hulking gringo clatters and bangs through his meal.

Can an animal that has lived in a cage ever truly be free?

A scared one. All of the anger and violence is simply a facade. 

The faded art adorning Rob’s arm is a ruinous terrain of curled skin and open wounds. There must be a hundred cigarette burns and he has yet to acknowledge a single one of them. Curiously enough, Rob makes no effort to hide them. Each day since they left the foster home Rob has added a few. His skin looks like the Beaches of Normandy, filled with holes and gore.

What did he dream of as a kid? Surely not this.

“This ain’t no fucking Waffle House,” Rob remarks between forkfuls of potatoes.

If you aren't a poker player, you may miss the hint of pity and guilt in Cooley’s warm smile. He adjusts, leaning into the table to feel more intimate with his old friend.

“So, uh, what’s your play here, Rob?”

“The fuck you mean?” Rob asks through a mouthful of crispy hashbrowns.

“We found Finn. So what’s next?”

For the first time since the plates have been set down, Rob stops eating. He swallows the last bite and remains still.

“Well, you know, I’ll fucking tell him… I gotta try to make shit right here.”

My God, he doesn’t have a clue. We’re here, in Mexico, and he hasn’t even thought about what comes next. Oh, Rob, my wild beast.

“Right. What’s right? What does that look like?”

That scowl. Cooley swears it’s like an image left on the TV too long, forever burnt into Rob’s forehead. It’s the bedrock of Rob’s face, the bottom layer. All the wrinkles, the crow’s feet, and the scars are just sedimentary layers that stick to the surface. He’s that scowl and little else.

“I don’t fucking know, Cooley. I know I ain’t gonna teach the fucking kid how to ride a bike or tie his goddamn shoes. I just, I gotta fucking do this, alright?”

Don’t push the envelope off the table.

With a simple nod, Cooley surrenders.

“Je me rends.”

“You fucking what?”

“Nothing, Rob.”

II. Two Truths and Two Lies

There are a few hours to be wasted between breakfast and meeting up with Finn. Rob and Cooley walk the streets of Guadalajara burning American cigarettes and pretending to ignore the elephant in the room. They talk about the art, of which Guadalajara has plenty, and the picturesque Navidad spirit proudly displayed around the city.

They stand in front of a sculpture of a man's head silently smoking their cigarettes. The skull has been removed from the sculpture and a tree grows out of the top. A few piles of dead leaves lay in a halo on the ground below the naked tree.

"I bet that's real fucking pretty in the fall," Rob comments.

I'll never see it.

"A tree is a tree and a man a man. You can find beauty in all of their seasons if you're looking. That's art."

"I never understood that shit."

"That doesn't surprise me, Rob," Cooley chuckles and they both grow silent again.

Somehow the clinking of sand off the timeglass in this gap is more painful and torturous for both of them than Rob's literal impending death.

After an adequate beat, Cooley decides to roll the dice.

"Why, Rob?"

Rob doesn't look away from the tree. He thinks about Cooley's comment.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to meet Finn? What do you hope to gain here?"

Rob envisions a tired mason waking before dawn's light to warm up his forge. He slips his free hand in his pocket to tool around with the phoenix amigurumi that has been within arms reach for months now. Suddenly, he's not so cold. It's almost like the old woman in that church basement is there hugging him once again.

"Grace, Cooley."

Silence. Cooley pulls a small bag from the inner pocket of his lime green western suit and dabs a bit of nose candy onto the space between his thumb and forefinger. In an instant it's gone.

"Are you scared, Rob?"

Brother all I am is scared. 

"No."

Cooley knows better. Of course he's scared - scared of death, of what comes after, of being judged for his actions. Probably most prevalent, right now, scared he will meet his son tonight and finally speak into existence what he's known all along: Rob Williams is fundamentally unlovable.

Cooley didn't take the contract to help Rob find Finn for the money - Cooley's got more money than God. No, Cooley thought that maybe he could help his dying friend find some peace. He takes a drag off his cigarette and thinks about all those post-apocalyptic movies. Why do those people go on when there is nothing left?

What's Rob got left?

Nothing. The thought terrifies Cooley.

Cooley switches his cigarette from his left to his right hand and then puts his arm around Rob.

"Me neither."

III. Poetry in Motion

Tonight the famed Areno Coliseo de Guadalajara is hosting a touring independent wrestling group of gringoes. Tonight Finn Thorne is wrestling at Areno Coliseo.

It would be easy to leverage his status in PRIME here. Having someone from one of the major American promotions at the show would likely double the size of the crowd, but Rob pulls his beanie down low and pays the gate like every other person in the crowd. He soaks it all in, the sticky floor and smell of popcorn. Above all, the pure energy that pulses through the fans. There is not a place in the world he'd rather be.

Tonight he is not "The Legend", nor the burning wreckage of his past. He's not the bane of Sebastian Gold. He's not even a man dying of brain cancer. Tonight he's just a fan. He used to love this sport.

Where did it all go Pete Tong?

"That's him," Cooley frees Rob from the mental bear trap by pointing to the hulk in the ring.

Finn is dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a white tank top, and combat boots. An Oni mask obscures his face and he is wrestling under the moniker "El Diablo Blanco". Not a bad schtick.

The kid moves like nothing Rob has ever seen: an equal mix of berserker and samurai. Raw power explodes from every punch or slam. It's loud and angry and unapologetic, like a 383 Stroker running around 8000 RPMs. Even with all of that nuclear energy, a gentle and thoughtful grace accents each movement. And the skill. Finn slithers from headlock to suplex like a cottonmouth dancing over a river's surface.

That is my fucking son.

“This is fucking art,” Rob remarks in wonder.

"You're not wrong."

They both cheer and clap when Finn pulls out the win, tapping his opponent with a camel clutch. They watch a bit of the rest of the show before Cooley tugs on Rob's jacket.

No more stalling.

IV. The Crescendo

There’s always a distinct smell to the places where the equity is blood and sweat. Rob first smelled it in the fieldhouse of his high school and it has lived in every locker room throughout his career- from Madison Square Garden to bingo halls. It is an awful potpourri, but Rob is an awful animal and so he inhales it deeply. The sweet mix of rank sweat and mildew permeates his nostrils with that glimmer of something that’s always made these spaces so special.

As Rob has found with most of his life, magic lives in the space between grime and hope.

Even in the heart of Guadalajara, thousands of miles from anything remotely familiar, Cooley knows a guy. A real sawn-off mustachio type with a lazy eye named Dino. It seems, at times, that Cooley has lived a thousand lives. Cooley greases Dino with a wad of Mexican bank notes that would choke a horse. Rob muses that the entire stack of bills is equal to roughly one chair shot on Hessian. He has so much, yet his soul is forever in a drought, a broken mirage of salvation always just out of reach. This time it will be different, just watch.

I have lost sight of the magic. 

His pity party is cut short by Cooley pointing to a young man sitting alone in a locker. A hulking mass of testosterone with his hands resting in a bowl of ice. The kid has the physique of Adonis. A pool of sweat has formed on the ground below where the young man holds his head down. Like father like son, a sweat hog licking his wounds.

For the first time in his life, Rob Williams stands in front of his son.

“Great fucking show, kid.”

Finn’s head shoots up, a puzzled scowl on his face.

“Holy shit, it’s you,” Finn exclaims. A wave of familiarity washes over Finn's face. The Oni mask has been removed. Finn's eyes are his eyes. It’s like looking into a mirror. Even that fucking scowl is there.

“You… you know me?”

Maybe this will be easier than Rob thought. Maybe Finn has been waiting for this day. The kid might’ve gotten into wrestling just waiting for this day, for this moment, when his dad approaches him backstage. The shit-eating grin is quickly wiped from his face.

“Yeah, man, of course. You’re Rob Williams! I’ve been following you for years. Holy shit man, what are you doing here?"

Christ, he sounds like that fucking Gold kid. I never asked anyone to follow me. I'm no hero. Maybe I could've been his if I'd stuck around.

"I was in town."

The feelings get a little too real and that soul calls out to Rob, "Give me vice, feed me." Rob pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds out and offers one to Finn, whom waves it off.

"My mom died of cancer a few years back and I quit," Finn replies.

Fuck. 

Rob puts the cigarettes away.

"I'm really, really sorry to hear that. You know, I knew her?"

"Oh my god, do I ever. I was seriously your biggest fan when I was a kid. Mom and Dad didn't love that, but hey you kicked some ass."

Mom and WHO?

"Didn't know your mom was married."

"Well, he wasn't my real dad, I never met him. Some shitbag mom met on the road. Nah, she married a guy named Terry when I was three or four. Wore the same shirt and khaki combo every day - microwaved his bacon, you know? But he was there for every game and what not. He even adopted me."

Rob expects find anger, but there's only solace. Finn has a father.

"He still around?"

"Oh yeah, we talk almost every day."

For the next hour the two fighters talk like they've known each other forever. They lament about the business and promoters stiffing you. Finn tells Rob about growing up with Terry and how he got into the business. Rob is relieved to find Finn is a good man. Whatever this Terry was or wasn't, he was a good man, too. Finn is humble and funny and smiles a lot. He laughs at Rob's jokes and hangs on every word.

Finally, Finn stands up, breaking the fever dream.

"Alright, well, I gotta shower and get out of here."

They stand and Finn reaches one of his great big hands out to shake Rob's. Looking at it for a moment, Rob grabs the young man in a firm hug. Despite Rob being a literal stranger an hour ago, Finn returns the gesture. Something just feels right to him. It's time.

“You know, I’m actually…”

…sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Sorry that I wasn’t there and sorry for who I am and sorry that you have my blood. This world is shit. I should’ve been there to protect you from all of it - the horrors. But more than that I should've been there for the everyday shit. I should've been running along side you the first time your training wheels were off. I'm sure I could've learned that stupid "down the rabbit hole" shit while you fumbled with your laces. Instead it was Terry. I sold it all to keep myself safe and I'm so fucking sorry, kid. 

All of this and here Rob is squeezing this poor fucking kid to death, making it about himself again. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.

Dumping all of his shit on this kid won’t fix anything.

What fucking right do I have?

The thought gives Rob a moment of respite. That gut-check “what the fuck am I doing” breath before letting go of the match as the it burns his fingers. For once he looks down and sees he's holding that flame over everything good and he's soaked it all in kerosene. Maybe if he had more of this he wouldn’t have missed all of Finn's birthdays. His son could know all of Rob’s many, many flaws at a personal level and understand that whatever Finn's demons are, he is still loveable because Rob loves him no matter what. Maybe Rob could have been loveable, too.

If you love something, let it go.

Rob lets go and backs up towards the door.

“...down here scouting for talent. You got some great fucking stuff, kid. Top-notch shit. If you ever want to try your hand at the big show, I can help you out.”

Finn smiles, nodding his head slowly.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, kid. You're a fucking natural."

"Wow, thanks Rob, but I got a good thing here."

"Yeah, well, you know - if you ever change your mind. Here's my number."

Rob quickly looks away and bites his bottom lip to hold back the tears as he scribbles down Cooley's number.

The truth is he might not be alive by the time the kid decides to call and it would just be too much to know he let him down one more time.

"I'll be seeing you, kid."

V. Sounds Better in the Song

Mariachi static fills the radio of Cooley’s rented jalopy. Neither man has talked since they left Guadalajara.

“So how did it go?”

“Like a fart in fucking church, Cooley.”

"Wet or dry," Cooley questions without skipping a beat. Despite the esoteric crisis bubbling below the surface, Rob can't help but crack a smile. He punches Cooley playfully before lighting up a cigarette and looking out the window. The landscape has changed from the cityscape of Guadalajara to a lifeless desert.

"Dry. I... I didn't tell him."

"Oh?" Cooley asks, trying to hide his interest. His disappointment in his friend is immense. Palpable. He grits his teeth and squeezes the wheel to keep from screaming at Rob. All of this work and he was too scared once again. A scared animal indeed.

"No. We talked about wrestling mostly. He seems like a really good person."

The mariachi static fades the deeper they get into the desert. Cooley reaches up to turn the static off, but Rob stops him.

"I wanted to tell him, Cooley. I turned around to tell him right before I left, but I... he still has hope in his eyes. This life hasn't fucking eaten him up. So I just figured, you know, what the fuck man - what right do I have to save my fucking skin at his expense? I don't know."

A smile wide as cloudless, starry night sky above covers Cooley's face.

"Bravo, Rob. It may not feel like it, but you have done the right thing. What does this mean for you, though? What is left?"

They drive on in silence for a time, both men marinating in reflection.

"Where the fuck are we going?"

"Taking the scenic route."

VI. I’m Just a Heathen, Still

Rob has had plenty of "spiritual journeys" into the desert on various exotic drugs, but never made a habit of it while sober.

Why not?

Looking at the last gasp of the moon setting in the west, the final beams of light conceding to the distant sunrise across that wide open desert below the ledge he sits on, Rob concedes as well.

Sebastian Gold is right. The fucking kid is right and Rob put a cigar out on him for it. He shakes his head in shame, fingers tracing the craters on his arm. He is an awful man. Fear of being loved kept him from telling Charlotte he’s sorry. A shiver causes Rob to twitch. He’d have you think it’s because of how goddamn cold the desert is as god wakes up, but the truth is it was a singular thought:

I'm almost out of time. Is this how I want to be remembered?

He thinks about Gold. Despite the kid’s saccharine nature and the ever-present air of how hard he’s trying to be loved, Rob isn’t that much different than him. More entrenched, maybe. Maybe that is why he hates him - the little pimple on his ass is inadvertently holding a mirror up to Rob.

His mind quiets and feels himself within his own body, fully present. When was the last time he felt like this?

Rob envisions himself as a friend to Sebastian. A mentor. Hell, maybe even a father figure. He surely could teach this kid how to “ride a bike” and “tie his shoelaces” in the wrestling industry.

The sun is almost full burn and Rob stares directly into it for as long as he can muster. It’s so big now that it looks to be devouring the entire landscape, but it’s still so far away. Lightyears. How could something seem so tangible but be so distant?

Rob could help this kid. Sebastian may have hope yet. Hell, he may even carry on the “Legend” after the cancer finally eats whatever is left of Rob’s brain.

How do you want them to remember you?

Rob Williams is a proper cunt and he will be until the end, he resolves.

This isn’t a movie and there's no happy ending. This is wrestling, a life between superstar and swindler bred in the minds of carnies and Gypsy’s. Rob has said it time and again: the only currency tendered here is blood. The best he has to offer… no, the only thing he has to offer, is pain.

Pain is the touchstone of all growth and at Colossus, Sebastian will experience growth.

A skittering rock snags Rob's attention. The biggest wolf he's ever seen stands mere feet away. His coat is a deep black, with fault lines of gray where time has won out. Blood covers it's jowls from a fresh kill. Rob's fight or flight screams, but there is a peace in the wolf's glowing orange eyes. The beast opens it's great jaw, its red tongue lolling out to bare its awful teeth and for a moment, it almost seems to be smiling.

Maybe he, too, is having a moment of respite.

The whole world shrinks around these two wild animals. They are silent and motionless for what feels like an eternity. Finally, the wolf turns to the death rattle of the moon and lets out a deep, guttural howl. All at once all the hate in the world bellows up from Rob's belly and into his throat like bile he cannot hold down any more. He, too, joins in the howling at the omega of this night.

Two beasts baying in unson.

When the animals have exhausted all their scorn, their eyes connect again.

I surrender.

The giant hound unceremoniously turns and disappears into the fading darkness.

VII. The Final Act

“You ready to go?”

Rob wakes up cold and stiff, half expecting to see the black wolf. But it's just Cooley asking if Rob is ready to begin their journey back.

He's not just asking that, though and they both know it.

Closing the books on this last loose end, making peace with Finn, that's supposed to be it. Rob "The Legend" Williams' Final Act. To leave means to walk directly into his fate.

He nods North and South.

Rob will head into Colossus and Sebastian Gold having accepted his rotten nature and the hate within his heart. There will not be a redemption arc for Rob Williams. He is pretty fucking ok with that.

"Yeah, let's make like a tree and get the fuck out of here." fin