Funk #49

Two weeks, no strenuous activity.

Dr. Fihlguud was very clear.

The gym was off limits until the pain and swelling went away. Two weeks of ice packs, ibuprofen, and relaxing at home.

Pure misery.

Nate Colton, so accustomed to being active, now forced into idleness. Lying on the couch, alone with his thoughts.

Fucking worthless ass goddamn Hanlon

Those thoughts? Not great.

Receipt’s coming; good luck doing lines off a titty bar toilet seat after that, dickhead

Not great at all.

Then that loudmouth asshole Bader can get an oxygen tank for his oxygen tank

It became clear after the first day that Nate needed some help. A consummate professional who could heal his spirit as well as his nose.

They can be roommates in the hospital and trade bedpans while they oooooooooooooooooooooooohhhh

Kohime Mori might not have any medical training, but she knows how to make her man feel better.

With every stroke of her fingertips, Nate feels a sense of calm wash over him like the waves of the Atlantic on a pristine Portugal beach.

That was a great day; can’t believe it’s been almost a year

Under her care, his mind drifts away from his troubles; the pain and humiliation suffered at the Intense Champion’s hands, the looming threat of Jason Snow and his wild card manager, the pained face of a college kid…they all fade in the distance, like a mythical beast screeching at escaping sailors.

But every Scylla has a Charybdis; a vicious whirlpool that threatens to drown and consume a man who thinks himself safe. Today it comes in the form of even older memories, bubbling up unbidden from the depths of his desires.

It’s not the same, is it

Remember how it felt when she touched you? That little spark, every time? God, she was just so…alive…

Another pass of Kohime’s hand interrupts the thought, and allows reason a chance to speak.

You fucking idiot, if Skye were here she’d already be gone again. Now get your head out of your ass and enjoy the company of a woman who actually loves you

“Are you all right?” she asks, noticing the cloud that passed over his face for a moment.

“Never better,” he answers with a smile, pushing the troublesome thoughts into the Hole as he often did. “Good thing I have you to take care of me.”

She beams back at him, and goes back to stroking his hair.

He closes his eyes and sinks back into relaxation, appreciating the soothing sensation whenever her fingers brushed against his face.

This is what I need right now. Quiet…calm…peace…

Buzz buzz, his phone says from the coffee table.

…not whatever this is about to be…

He half-heartedly reaches for the device, but it’s just out of reach…intentionally so.

“Ah,” Kohime chides, and pulls his arm back. “No screens for you, Mister Patient.”

“I know, Doctor,” he says, playing along. “Can I just see who’s calling?”

“I’ll check for you.” She lifts his head off her lap, then grabs his phone just as the buzzing stops. “I think we missed some calls when you fell asleep earlier. There’s one from Alexa Van Horn…”

Ugh

“That can wait. She just wants to reschedule some public appearances.”

“Oh. There’s…Becky Sichmeller?”

“She’s heading up the class reunion. I’ll call her back tomorrow.”

“And just now from…Aristotle Demimonde?”

“Shit. I gotta take that.” He holds out his hand expectantly, but Kohime holds the phone out of his reach.

“The doctor was very clear! No strenuous activity!”

“Trust me, not answering will be a lot worse.”

Kohime finally relents, placing the phone gingerly in Nate’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks, babe.”

But for all the importance of the caller, Nate does not press the button to call back.

He doesn’t have time before the phone rings again.

“Yyyyyello?”

“Jason Nateman! What’s good, stud?”

This is what passes for a normal way of greeting teammates in the Colton-Tsonda zone.

“Chandler! Good to hear from you!” Nate replies, hoping that the Model Citizen can’t hear him rolling his eyes. “What’s up?”

“You waking up to bloody snot on your pillow? Hanlon’s a platinum status fuck.”

“Bad news for him; I’m gonna be right as rain by Montreal. Nothing that a little TLC can’t fix.” He grins up at Kohime and taps the tip of her nose, drawing a giggle from his sweet lady love.

“Listen, I know you’re probably deep in pre-marital bliss over there with Kohime. And I hate to intrude but, well, I called and you picked up, so…yeah.” Chandler may be a world-class nudge, but he mangoes to sound sincere. “Since we’re tagged up, and you’re a mensch, I got a favor to ask. It’s…not small.”

There it is

A pained smile flashes over Nate’s face as he waits for the other shoe to drop. He knows this call isn’t because Chandler needs attention.

…

It isn’t just that.

“What do you need?” he asks, leaving the restful position where he’d spent all morning. Kohime says nothing, but the displeasure is obvious, as is the conversation they’ll have as soon as he hangs up the phone. Nate gives a quick nod; he’s not happy either, but they both know how this will end.

“How’s a layover in sunny Southern California sound on the way to Ottawa? There’s a family thing I gotta deal with. it’s complicated.” In the pause that follows is understanding: though their families bear no resemblance, the two men share an understanding of how family and wrestling can be a strange brew. “An appearance by the New Diamond could sorta, maybe, help me spelunk my way out of a deep hole I’ve dug for myself.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I really appreciate it, dude. I’ve got these kids. I don’t ‘have’ them, like I didn’t splooge them into life or whatever, but I’m…responsible for keeping an eye on them. They’re good kids, and they can both go in the ring, ya know, and I’m definitely overexplaining, huh?”

“Little bit.”

“I left them high, dry, and fucked in terms of training when I went on my little walkabout. They probably think of me as the guy who went out for a 9-month smoke break without so much as a word. They’re not wrong to be mad.”

Nate hears, in the deep breath that follows, a great deal unsaid about whatever has cleaved Tsonda’s family in two.

“You saw the folder that Ruslan left in my locker room?”

Nate did, as did anyone watching ReV 66. But until now, only Chandler and Alexei know how and why the contents of that folder had Tsonda seeing scarlet, nearly choking out the Stanislav lieutenant on last week’s ReVival.

“That fucking cockroach had pictures of the kids. Pictures of them in this parking lot, taken at night. He…” Both men are familiar with a rage so powerful it makes you blind, deaf, and dumb. Both men know this exact species of rage directed at the Red Army. It’s their shared darkness. Nate knows what goes on in the silence while Chandler seems to collect his thoughts.

“He threatened my kids, Nate. So they can hate me, and keep freezing me out. I’ll take it, but I gotta keep them safe. I’ve got a plan for it, but first I need to talk with them. I know this is a stupid and byzantine and cowardly way to do it, but if I bring the face of PRIME with me, then this will go down easier. At least for Jaime. He thinks you’re the coolest man alive. Ok, he probably just has a crush on Kohime. I’m not sure if any of this makes sense, but…family, ya know? I can’t take the chance of anything happening to them because of me. Like I said, not a small favor, but what’s a weird overly familiar request between tag partners, right?”

Nate looks up at Kohime, an apology already in his eyes.

She nods, because she knows. There was never a doubt.

“Send me the time and place. I’ll see you there.”

/~/~/~/~/

The smell always strikes first. And in most gyms, the tang hits harder than the stiffest enziguiri, that potpourri of sweat, grime, dust, funk, BO, feet, crotch, pits, blood. A menagerie of the fiercest scents that the body can produce, and a few olfactory surprises only available in a place where bodies are thrown against canvas and each other repeatedly.

Nate takes a deep breath and grins. It smells like home.

Junkyard Wrestling is the well-funded legacy of Junk Dixon, a legend from the era above Chandler Tsonda, and two eras above Nate Colton. Junk’s rambles up and down California inspired many of the ReVolution era PRIMEates, and when he slung his boots up on the wall for the last time, he immediately hung the sign outside that welcomed wrestling aspirants from all over.

Now, it’s where Nate and Chandler will find Chandler’s wayward mentees. Chandler’s abrupt departure from his own life in mid-2024 forced Jasmine Jeong and Jaime Aguilar, formerly trainees at Chandler’s gym in Carlsbad, to find a new dungeon. Chandler knows he has no right to take it personally that they’ve gone elsewhere for tutelage.

Chandler takes it personally.

“Y’know, Dad fought Junk Dixon a few times, back when they were starting out,” Nate chatters, blissfully unaware of the tension between the Model Citizen and his charges. “I should get Dixon’s number so they can talk shop later.”

“Yeah,” Chandler says, his attention too far adrift to tell Nate the sad tale of what has become of this gym’s namesake. His heart pounds.

There are two ring setups, with sparring sections on the outside edge of each. In the nearer ring, some of the novices line the apron watching two young men grapple. But it’s the far ring that catches and keeps Chandler’s eye. There, squaring off against a male cruiserweight, is Jasmine Jeong. This isn’t the simple stuff of this nearer ring: Jasmine sidesteps a shoulder block, flashes to the ropes, and nails a spinning wheel kick to knock down her opponent.

“You’re gonna wanna see this,” Chandler says to Nate, his eyes trained on the female phenom. Both men watch as the twenty-year-old takes one step, crow hops, and bounds to the top rope with a dazzling mix of agility and balance. And then she takes off.

Jasmine’s hang time and angle of descent make for an aesthetically pleasing bit of knockout ballet. Her knees drive her opponent’s head to the mat with a nasty impact meteora, and the three count is elementary.

“Wow,” Nate says. “Shame she wasn’t in the Belmont last year; she’d have fit right in.”

“Dude!” Chandler gives Nate an exclamation point of a light shove on the bicep. “I said that to her, and she’s all ‘it’s PRIME or nothing.’ You gotta tell her that. Maybe it’ll soften her up and she won’t kill me.”

Chandler nods to the ring where Jasmine has just aced another wrestling exam. He and Nate stride over. And now, with attention no longer on the action inside that ring, the gym at large starts to notice the two megawatt stars who happen to be sauntering around the Junkyard.

A few whispers of “is that…?” and furtive nods pass in the wake of the pair. None of the youths have started livestreaming as of yet, though it’s inevitable.

Colton and Tsonda approach the apron. Jasmine has her back turned to them, speaking to one of the trainers. Chandler recognizes the focused clench of her jaw; she’s getting feedback she already knows. The kid is her own toughest critic, more demanding than any of these teachers could be. It’s why she’s good. It’s the same stubbornness that Chandler used to make himself a wrestling god, and it’s what makes the two of them so similar. It’s what makes them drive each other crazy.

“Excuse me, are you Nate Colton?” One of the trainees has made discretion impossible by stepping towards the tag partners. The New Diamond, it should be noted, is the one who gets noticed first. “And you’re Chandler Tsonda?”

The two stars are familiar with the responsibilities of fame, chief among them: politely nod and smile. A small crowd begins to encircle them. Nate shakes hands and makes a good show of joining opportunistic selfies. Chandler does the same, but mainly just looks in Jasmine’s direction, to no avail. Her opponent has left the ring, and she stands alone.

“Gimme a sec,” Chandler says, nodding to Colton, and slides under the bottom rope.

Colton is left with a crew of kids with stars in their eyes. They quickly form a circle around him; the New Diamond barely has a moment to register that Tsonda is gone before jumping into the conversation. Like a shark tank, but the sharks are hungry for career advice instead of meat.

“That was dope,” Tsonda says, once in the ring. “You beat that guy like he stole something from you.”

It’s not much of an icebreaker, but Chandler doesn’t have much hope of breaking the ice. A mild thaw would be fine.

Meanwhile, Nate is eagerly responding to a student. “No kidding? My dad trained there too! It was still Robinson’s back then, but Wallenquist was a big help when he changed his style.”

“I’m serious,” Chandler says to Jasmine. She looks down and unwraps her wrist tape—forearm up through the fingers, oh so familiar—like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk?”

“Hard pass.”

Terse, as expected. Jasmine’s loyalty and stubbornness go hand in hand. If you mess with the former, expect to forever endure the latter.

“Jazz, c’mon. Can I—

“No,” she says, and avoids eye contact. “If you’re asking, the answer is no. You don’t have my consent to talk to me.”

“You’re angry. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

She snorts a laugh, but says nothing.

“I burned your trust. I’m not asking to be forgiven overnight. But there’s something more important right now than my fuck-ups. I need you to listen.”

“I bet,” she says, sharply.

“But the biggest obstacle is fear,” Colton states, carrying on his unrelated conversation. “You can overcome damn near anything if you put your mind to it…but if you’re scared, you’re screwed.”

“You’re in danger,” Chandler warns.

Jasmine points down. “Wrestling ring, duh.”

“Not a sprained ankle, Jasmine. Real life danger.  My thing with Ivan has…lost containment. Alexei Ruslan might be targeting you. Targeting Jaime.”

“Unlikely,” Jasmine snaps, finishing the unwrap on her left hand.

“This is different. I fear Alexei has graduated from chairshots to cutting brake lines. Could be wrong, but it’s not a bet I’m willing to stake Jaime’s safety or yours on.”

Jasmine looks like she might reach back and give him a nose to match his tag partner’s. She finally makes eye contact with Chandler, her lip curled in a snarl.

“You don’t have to concern yourself with my safety, or my training, or literally anything about me. What happens to me, or Jaime, is for us and the people in our lives to worry about. So you worry about the one and only person in your life: yourself. I’ll be fine.”

He’s too insistent on the task at hand to register how much this hurts, though later he will replay this over and over, and know that she’s right.

From over Jasmine’s shoulder, Nate answers an unheard question. “Not my finest hour–Jaime, right? Thing is, you’ve got to look at a loss as a learning experience. It teaches you what you’re doing wrong, if you’re receptive.”

“I don’t care about winning the argument, Jasmine. I’m all the awful things you think I am.”

She sucks her teeth. Chandler reads this as agreement, or at least armistice.

“He threatened you. If you or Jaime get hurt because of me, I couldn’t live with myself. Which I know means nothing to you, and I’ve earned that, but if one of you gets tuned up, what does that do for your graps career? For your progress?  You’re so close to making it. You can want for me to fuck all the way off, but just, please…take me up on our shared interest in your future.

Her focus returns to her wrist tape. Her silence signals to Chandler that he has at least gotten her to stop tossing barbs at him long enough to consider his offer.

“And I brought Nate goddamn Colton here, as a peace offering.” Tsonda gestures to the outside of the ring at Nate and a slew of adoring fans. “So go meet him. He’s a good dude, and if you want to be in PRIME someday, you sure could do worse than being friendly with a future Universal champion. And please think about what I said.”

She quickly glances down, where Nate Colton is facing a tough question from another student. “I guess…never lose sight of what’s important. For me…that’s my family, my love for the sport, and my integrity. It’s easy to forget when you’re thinking about the money and the titles and all that…but the stuff that really matters will still be there when the rest is gone.”

/~/~/~/~/

You can’t throw a rock in seaside Southern California without hitting a restaurant overlooking ocean vistas that trafficks in vaguely healthy green- and fruit-infused dishes offering wellness benefits at high margins. It’s at such an establishment that Nate Colton gets a taste of coastal plenty (and coastal nonsense) as Chandler Tsonda experiences it every day.

“Merely an observation,” Tsonda offers from across the table to Colton, extending a hand out to the Pacific horizon, “but they’re a little light on this type of view in Evansville, huh?”

“Yeah. I bet it takes a long damn time to get tired of seein’ that.”

“Least I can do is get you a decent avocado and show you a great big ocean.” Chandler peers down at his menu, but keeps talking. “Thank you, by the way. I owe you one for all your help. Muchas gracias, for real.”

“No problem,” Nate replies. “We gotta look out for our friends.”

A small-but-meaningful part of Chandler Tsonda glows. Friend. He quickly gabs through the feeling.

“Well, let’s get a damn win to celebrate,” Tsonda says. “I can’t gas us up as the best tag team in the world until after our first win. And I got no love for those cutrate clowns Daniels and Williams.”

Colton scowls; obviously holding no more regard for their opponents than Chandler does. “I musta heard a thousand stories about guys like Williams. Always ends in being drunk, broke, and dead. And I lost all respect for Daniels when…hell, I can’t even remember which tantrum it was.”

“She fucked her own head if she thinks the Whorsemen shtick works. Congrats to all the teenage edgelords on finding each other, what a special treat for them and whatever subreddit they oozed out from. And don’t get me started on their truce with Moscow.”

“Fuck them, forever. And anyone who pitches their tent in that camp. Bunch of worthless goddamn bootlickers.” The Model Citizen chuckles in agreement.

“Fuck them forever. Didn’t think that type of colorful language was in the Colton lexicon.” He lowers his gaze. “But it does something to you, huh? War with these people. I know you warned me, but it’s…a sticky kind of hate. I see it now.”

Truer words…that hate is stuck all over Nate Colton’s face. Tsonda doesn’t need to ask why, even if he was gone at the time.

“I was going to kill him, Chandler.”

Tsonda nods. He only has to think of how violence hijacked his rational mind at ReV 67 to understand.

“I was fully prepared to put Ivan in the dirt…and for the life of me, I still can’t explain why I didn’t.”

“The cost of keeping your soul, I s’pose.” Chandler twirls his fork through a sald. “The appeasement and backbiting of the Whoresman, the lazy viciousness of the Red Army, that’s playing the game on easy mode. We’re not naive, we’re good enough to win with the difficulty turned up. Hesitating to stick a knife in somebody’s ribs makes it harder to win, sure. But we didn’t sign up for this because it’s easy. Maybe the reason you didn’t bury Ivan is the important difference between us and them.”

Tsonda shrugs at his own philosophizing. There are things he understands about himself, and perhaps about Colton, but that are hard to make concrete.

Colton digests Chandler’s words about as easily as his half-eaten salad. He knows that the Model Citizen is right…yet he can’t help but think of those who’ve fallen by the wayside in the past.

RIA, whose career might be over because of Ivan’s cruelty and her “sister’s” complicity.

Jasmine and Jaime, whose lives are at risk for the sin of…knowing Chandler Tsonda.

Phoebe Gaskins.

Blake Colton.

The difference between us and them…

How much is it worth?