Long Road Out of Eden

By Sunday morning–the day after UltraViolence–the posters were all over the Twin Cities.

MIDWEST WRESTLING KARTEL LIVE AT THE ARMORY SPECIAL GUEST: PRIME SUPERSTAR NATE COLTON!

But they didn’t tell the whole story.

No details about what he’d be doing there. Signing autographs? Cutting a promo? Would he wrestle? Against who? What kind of match?

So many questions, but the poster gave no answers.

It also gave no mention of why Nate took the gig in the first place: his new travel partner.

# # #

Nate Colton sat at the dinner table, watching the steam rise from his coffee mug.

His father, seated across from him, did the same.

Every so often, one of them would look up, hoping–or dreading–to catch the other’s eye. But the New Diamond always seemed to miss the old dog, and vice versa.

A slow sip, the clank of ceramic on wood; the only sounds in a sea of silence.

Both men stuck in place, waiting out a Red Light that nobody called, but both could feel.

At last, the father broke the ice.

“You want to talk about it?”

Just six words…but a whole world of meaning packed into them.

Why did you think it was okay to try and kill two different people with OUR move plus what you almost did to Fred Dick and don’t think I’ve forgotten about you invoking the Creedence Curse I HAD TO HIDE IN THE GARAGE FOR AN HOUR

Nate tapped his finger against the side of his mug, right in the middle of the gradient where off-white turned into light gray. He soaked in the words, both said and unsaid, as he calculated his response.

“Not really.”

Jake nodded slowly, letting the matter pass.

Tap tap tap, went Nate’s fingers on the gradient.

Tap tap tap went Jake’s, against the word “Okayest” on his own mug.

After a moment, Nate gave his own loaded question. “Do you?”

Damn near thirty years and you’ve NEVER talked about your dad, and suddenly you dump that shit on me right as I’m heading into a goddamn war? What the fuck are you trying to say? That I’m just like some motherfucker who was so awful that you pretend he never existed?!

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

“Nope.”

The younger man cast his eyes to the far wall, which his mother had filled with pictures of the family. He took in the smiling faces–particularly the one on a tow-headed boy, eight years old, a smile as bright as all outdoors as he held an infant in his arms.

Ever since he was the boy in that picture, Nate had seen it hanging in that same space, on that same wall. Like so many things in their home, it was ingrained in his memory.

Like so many things in their home, it didn’t look right anymore.

“I think this’ll be good for you,” Jake said. “Get back to your roots…at the very least, get you out of that goddamn meat grinder for a minute.”

“Hmm.” Nate brought the coffee to his mouth, mostly to keep his thoughts from spilling out.

I like how you’ve turned this into you doing me a favor

But Jake caught the scowl on Nate’s face as he pulled the mug away. “You don’t think so?”

“Nah, it ain’t that. This coffee’s disgusting.”

“You made it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyway. You know how much he needs this. I feel like he doesn’t really understand yet.”

“Dad, he practically grew up in the locker room. He’s still helping you with the Rust Belt shows, isn’t he?”

“He’s seen it, but that ain’t the same thing. Nobody fucks with staff on this level–especially when they’re the booker’s kid. But before long he’s gonna be in it for real. This trip…” Jake trailed off as he gathered his thoughts. “I figure, this’ll give him a taste of what it’s like. Maybe he’ll change his mind and go back to school.”

“And if he doesn’t, he’ll have a leg up for next year.”

“Right,” Jake replied…but the word came with its own scowl, and it wasn’t from the coffee.

“I know, Dad. But if Blake’s going to make this work, he’s gonna need our support.”

“You think I ain’t been givin’ it?” Jake snapped. “He gets more of my attention than anyone but the Jeffries kid. I’ve lost a couple students already, ‘cause they think I’m playin’ favorites. I fuckin’ hate it, but…I mean, what do they expect? They all know what the name means.”

“That’s all well and good, Dad. But you need to–”

A door opened down the hallway, cutting the argument short. Both sets of eyes turned toward the hall, waiting for someone to appear.

That someone was Blake Colton, walking sideways through the doorway while carrying two large bags.

Nate still hadn’t gotten used to his brother’s new look. His style was the same–messy hair, anime t-shirt under his Colton Academy jacket, chunky headphones around his neck. But those clothes fit a lot tighter than they used to; the kid had packed on quite a bit of muscle since recovering from his injuries.

“Hey, little bro!” Nate said, forcing a smile to his face and excitement in his voice. “You ready for this?”

“I’d damned well better be,” Blake said, reciting the first of Jake Colton’s Rules. The old man chuckled, but quickly pointed at his youngest son when he got a good look at him.

“Hell is that on your shirt?”

“It’s called My Hero Academia; it’s a–”

“No, I meant all the dirt and shit.”

“Oh.” Blushing, the young man looked down. “I was trying to find…something. Under my bed.”

“I hope you found it.”

“No…it was in the closet, actually.”

“Go look there again and see if you can find a clean shirt.”

“Fine,” he said, dropping his bags and trudging back to his room in that teenager way,  even though he’d just turned twenty-one.

“Damn, kid’s been getting after it,” Nate said once the door had closed. “I mean, I knew…but it’s still weird seeing in person.”

“Tell me about it. Pretty soon he’ll be working the road too…then it’ll just be me and your mom. And the dog.”

“I’ll take care of him, Dad. Don’t worry.”

“I know you will. But I’m still gonna worry…about all you kids. That doesn’t just turn off ‘cause you’re grown, y’know.”

Nate looked back toward his brother’s room. Any moment now, Blake would emerge again, ready–they hoped–for the next chapter of his life.

“I know. But hey…how else are we gonna get our name on the Belmont trophy again?”

“Four for the family,” Jake said with a grin, and held up his mug.

“Four for the family,” Nate echoed, and completed the toast.

# # #

They broke the trip into two days, stopping in Peoria for dinner, a workout, and a night’s rest. While they were tempted to visit the original Sketti Bucket location, doing so ran afoul of one of Jake’s Rules.

Rule #53: Don’t eat at places you can get back home. You know what McDonald’s tastes like.

Instead, they tried a local sandwich place. It wasn’t Sketti, but it was still pretty good.

The next day started bright and early with another short workout, then back in the car. The Nate-and-no-girls-mobile brought the boys (and no girls) into Minneapolis at about four in the afternoon, well before bell time.

As per the tradition of brotherly road trips, Big Bro handled most of the driving, while Little Bro handled the navigating…but not like you’d expect. Blake spent the drive learning the real secrets of the wrestling business…and his atlas wasn’t a map or an app, but a book written by his father (and then rewritten by his mother.)

“Wow. Dad does not like managers.” He flipped to the next page. “Or comedians…or Seattle.”

“Heh. Yeah, some of those caught me off guard too. But damned if he hasn’t been right about most of ‘em.”

“Especially managers, right?”

Nate’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Don’t even get me started on that fuckin’ guy. I knew he was a piece of shit, but who fakes being paralyzed?”

“I mean, fake injuries aren’t exactly a new thing…”

“Yeah, but…not like that. I swear, if I ever see him again he’s gonna need that chair.”

Blake looked up from the book. “You okay, big bro?”

“...Not yet. That last one is still eating at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Blake said. “Does Dad have a Rule about that?”

“Flip ahead a couple of pages.”

Blake did so, skipping past more Rules about professional and personal relationships, how to care for title belts, and the importance of shower shoes. In the middle of the book, he found a subsection with a different layout–while most pages had an individual rule with a number and brief explanation, this one had a heading followed by a detailed list and full paragraphs.

“How to Get Over a Loss,” Blake read aloud.

“That’s the one.”

“Losing sucks. I don’t have to tell you that,” the boy continued. “This doesn’t sound like Dad.”

“Nah, I think Mom took all the ain’ts out before they printed it.”

“Oh,” Blake said, and went back to the reading. “It hurts, and it should–but you can’t get in your head about it. Reacting badly to a loss will sink your career faster than the loss itself. Here’s what always worked for me.”

Blake read the next words silently, interrupted when his older brother finally said, “C’mon, share with the class.”

“Step One: Let It Out. Yell, swear, kick a trash can. Get it out of your system however you need to, as long as you don’t hurt anyone. Then, pay for any damages.”

“Did that, pretty much right after,” Nate said. “Missed the title match, and I wrote a check for that Coke machine before I left town. Had to be done.”

“Step Two: Heal Yourself. You can’t stay mad or it’ll mess you up, so get your balance back. Spend time with the people you love. Call your friends. Do all your favorite stuff. Remind yourself why you got into this life in the first place.”

“Doing that now,” Nate said, reaching over to ruffle his brother’s hair.

“Hey!” Blake knocked Nate’s hand away. The arm bent back at an odd angle, and pain lanced through Nate’s shoulder–his consolation prize after a rough fall at the end of Jason Snow’s UltraViolence win. He winced, but kept the wheel steady as he drew his arm back into place. As far as Nate could tell, his brother didn’t notice.

That’s a relief; last thing I need is to worry the kid

“Step Three: Take Away the Positives. Watch the match again, focusing on what you did right. Symbolic victories don’t count for much, but you can always find something to hang your hat on…even if you completely embarrassed yourself out there.” Blake chuckled. “Mom definitely rewrote that one. Dad would have said ‘shit the bed.’”

“Ha! Yeah, probably. Anyway, I ain’t done that one yet. As soon as we get some downtime, I’ll give it a look.”

“You got to drop FLAMBO on his head again. That’s gotta be…like, your favorite thing.”

“It’s top five for sure.”

“Step Four: Address the negatives. Watch it again, and look for what went wrong. Look for mistakes, weaknesses, holes in your game, and make a plan to fix them.”

“There you have it. It doesn’t always take; sometimes you gotta let the steps play out or go back and try again. But I always get there.”

“Shouldn’t those two steps be the other way around?”

“I thought so too. But Dad says you gotta reset yourself before you can analyze. Otherwise you’re too deep in your head, and there’s a chance you just spiral instead of gaining any real insight. There’s a lot of guys who lose their minds that way, and then it’s over.”

“Huh. And that works?”

“Put it this way. My worst stretch in PRIME is still more impressive than a lot of people’s best. And when–ope. Looks like we’re almost there.” Nate pointed out the window to direct Blake’s attention.

Whatever Blake was expecting to see out there…it wasn’t that.

“Are those…ninjas?”

“Oh yeah. The Cities are crawling with them. Used to be a lot worse, back when I started. Couldn’t swing a cat without knocking one down.”

“Oh, don’t tell Kohime that. You know how she feels about cats.”

Great now I’m gonna ugly cry in front of my baby brother, why not just shove that knife in a little deeper kid

“If you think the ninjas are weird,” Nate said, desperately changing the subject, “wait until you meet the wrestlers up here. We could send our craziest dude and he wouldn’t get a second look.”

“You mean the Suburban Savage?”

“Heh. Yeah, probably. Now when I pull up to the bag, grab both our gear bags and bring ‘em in.”

“How come I have to?”

“Rules of the road, kiddo. Newbie gets the grunt work. It was my turn years ago; now it’s yours.”

Rule #15: Top dog picks up the tab. Low man carries the bags.

“Boo,” Blake grumbled, but looked in the back seat to make a note of which bags to grab. “Wait…why am I grabbing mine? I’m not wrestling tonight.”

“Establishing good habits. Learn them now; they’ll be second nature by the time you start for real…and this is one of the big ones.”

Rule #4: Always bring your gear.

“Okay…” Blake said, though he didn’t quite get it. But he would, in time.

For today, Nate would have the singular joy of introducing his baby brother to the band of lunatics that made up MWK. Knaves of Steel, the robot tag team. Ian Visible, the imaginary referee. Hector “The Inspector” Hyde, the wrestling detective. And at the head of them all, a booker with a restraining order filed by the entire state of Nebraska.

God, I love this business

Why can’t it always be like this?

# # #

June 14, 2025. Minneapolis, MN. Midwest Wrestling Kartel.

The match results on RingDispatch.com read:

Nate Colton d. Chester “The Jester” Callahan by pinfall at 8:21 after the Colton Clutch Suplex (cobra clutch suplex)

But they didn’t tell the whole story.

Little attention was paid to the fact that Nate was moving at half-speed for most of the match, as he was still nursing his aches and pains from UltraViolence. Even less space went to how Callahan seemed to go on autopilot for the last two minutes, barely putting up a fight.

No mention at all of how loudly Blake Colton cheered at his brother’s victory. Nate was actually a little embarrassed.

They stayed at the venue until the wee hours–signing autographs, then shooting the breeze with “the boys”--most of whom had crossed paths with one Colton or another, and all of whom–except Callahan, who had slinked away after the match–were eager to pick the brain of a PRIME superstar.

After a thousand questions and enough “I s’pose”s that even the most staunch Midwesterner got the hint, most of the crowd filtered out of the locker room. All that remained were the Coltons and the booker, Geoff “The Main Man” McGregor–a barrel-chested old timer who hadn’t changed his style or speech patterns in thirty years.

“Thanks for doin’ the show, kid,” Geoff said, louder than necessary. “You and your family are welcome any time. Just wish the Main Man could have got you in there with Max Disaster; he’da shit himself.”

Some beefs never die, I guess. Wonder if FLAMBO and I will be the same at that age…one of us will have to start doing the third person thing I guess

“Maybe next time. I’m not sure I could have handled it tonight–just looking for a tuneup before my fight in PRIME next week.”

“With the Malone kid? Haven’t seen his old man since he tried to raise the pyramid under the Wilkins Arena five years ago.”

“Pyramid?” Blake asked, utterly confused.

“It’s a whole thing. I’ll explain later,” Nate whispered.

“You oughtta be fine,” McGregor said. “If you ask the Main Man, you really gotta worry about the next round with–”

“No disrespect, but I really have to worry about Joe Fontaine. No looking ahead.”

Rule #18: Looking ahead is the quickest way to stumble.

“He may be a jackass,” Nate continued, “but he’s dangerous…and that’s before you count his arsenal of chairs–”

“Jolf clubs,” Blake corrected.

“--whatever…and his friends, who are all Universal Champions and most of whom want to see me eat shit. I appreciate the confidence, but my focus is right where he needs to be.”

The Testosterone Machine (as he used to call himself) bristled at Nate’s defiance, but a smile soon cracked the facade. “You’re Jake Colton’s kid, all right.”

For all the darkness in Nate’s heart, sometimes it only takes a little spark to let the light shine again. Something like a compliment that means more than any accolade ever could.

“Thank you.”

The two shook hands, before Geoff brought out his other hand, which held a white envelope. “There ya go. Next time you come through and need a spot, give the Main Man a call.”

“I’ll do that. As for this…why don’t you spend this on the boys? Least I could do for God’s Gift to Evolution.”

Also something Geoff used to call himself.

“Appreciate that…the Main Man will let ‘em know. Drive safe, Nate. And you–” He turned to Blake, who’d been staring at the retired wrestler like he was in the zoo. “--keep listenin’ to your big brother. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

McGregor headed for the door, a spring in his step. He was riding high–a sold out show, a bonus in the form of refused payment…and best of all, an excuse for the old dog to relive his glory days, in the form of wrestling history’s most ridiculous catchphrase.

“All right! WHO WANTS A HAM SAMMITCH?!”

The door had barely closed before Blake spoke. “What a weird guy.”

“Buckle up, kiddo. It only gets weirder from here.”

“Really? Weirder than ninjas, robots, an invisible referee, and…Geoff?”

“...Okay, Minneapolis might be peak weird. But at this level…for every breakout star, there’s a hundred people doing whatever crazy shit they can to get noticed. Chasing the dream any way they can, even if it means dressing like a clown–literally, in Chester’s case–and barely making enough to afford the gas back home.”

“That’s gonna be us if you keep turning down the money.”

Nate waved off his brother’s concern. “Don’t worry; PRIME has me more than covered. That payout wouldn’t mean a lot to me. But it’s gonna mean the world to these guys. Remember Rule 22?”

Rule #22: When you make it, pay it back every chance you get.

“Oh,” Blake said, as if he’d never really considered what the rule meant until then. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“All right. Let’s get out of here–long day tomorrow. You got the bags, low man?” Nate fished around in his pockets until he found his phone and keys.

“I’m on it, top dog,” Blake said.

Nate tossed the car keys to his brother. “Go ahead and load up; I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay!” With all the energy of someone who hadn’t wrestled that night, Blake hefted Nate’s bag over his shoulder and left the locker room, leaving the New Diamond by himself.

Phone in hand, he fired off a quick text message.

Hey I’d like to talk about this

Then another that was far more deliberate.

I know I screwed up and I’m sorry I want to make this right Can we please talk?

Finally, he typed out one last message, agonizing over every letter

I miss you I love you

He didn’t send that last one, though.

What was the point? She’d been ignoring all his messages for a week.

And no matter how strong the light gets, sometimes it only takes a little thing like that to snuff it out again.

Nate let out a heavy sigh. If anyone had been there with him, they might have noticed that he looked smaller after exhaling.

He certainly felt that way.

Nate set down his device, and picked up his father’s book of Rules. He flipped through the pages until he found the lesson he was looking for.

“How to Get Over a Loss,” he read aloud.

“Step One…”