Out of Control

“Hey, Chuck.”

“I’m the welcome wagon.”

“Been in PRIME damn near four years now; fought everyone from established Hall of Famers to the Next Big Thing. I’ve won fights on four continents, pinned Universal Champions, and beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of a seven-foot monster. Even got kidnapped once.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Point is, I’ve been around the block here…but this is a new one for me. All this time, and I’ve never been anyone’s first opponent.”

“Everyone else I’ve fought, they’ve proven themselves through success or longevity. Boss doesn’t put me in the ring with dead-enders. Guys like Terry Woods, Ben Lynch…got a foot out the door already; they just need an extra kick. Or guys that the boss just wants gone; like an Arthur Pleasant or a Darin Zion.”

“I don’t get those fights. She knows it’s a waste of my time, and hers.”

“Hoping that hasn’t changed.”

# # #

Far back into ancient history, certain cultures built grand temples in tribute to the gods. Those temples would serve as the center of their society, hosting grand events, passionate sermons, and regular human sacrifices.

In more recent history, someone built one of those in Chicago. But instead of gods, it was a tribute to one man’s ego.

Still had the human sacrifice, though.

For years, that man and his ego gorged themselves, choking the life out of the city’s wrestling scene in the process. Minor promotions folded or moved; hopeful trainees looked outward to Minneapolis, or Detroit, or Evansville. The only future in the Windy City was as another body in a mountainous pile of them, stacked so that someone could live up to his own last name.

Eventually, the stream of neophytes dried up entirely, and this dark god was left to devour himself. His vast empire collapsed, his temple crumbled amidst a sea of explosions that couldn’t cover the sad whimper of the actual end.

The rubble was cleared within months, but though its existence was erased, the temple’s influence remained. The site was walled off and forgotten. Nothing would be built there; nor would anything grow.

This place is not a place of honor.

No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here.

This place is best left shunned and uninhabited.

And yet…

If you looked over the wall, you’d see the contrary. A patch of wild grass here. Some weeds there. A lone rabbit, burrowing its way from outside. Small traces of life, long dormant but newly defiant, now free to breathe and thrive away from the baleful eye of the beast.

Those traces also existed on the wall itself, in the form of a brightly-colored, poorly designed poster. Big words promising big action…but in reality, so small, so fragile. Those responsible knew that while death was no longer a certainty, neither was survival assured.

It was a sign, the same as the other bills posted on the wall. But also like the rabbit, like the wild grass. They all conveyed the same message.

Nature is healing.

The poster on the wall read:

2CW PRESENTS:

SUMMER SLAUGHTER 2025

MAIN EVENT: “THE SHERIFF OF SEXY” COLT SMITH vs. “THE NEW DIAMOND” NATE COLTON!

But it didn’t tell the whole story.

No mention of the long-standing feud between Smith and Nate’s father, Jake Colton. From 1997 to 2010, the two had almost a hundred fights, each one more bitter than the last. Neither one knew or cared about the all-time record between them. They each acted like they were one up…but fought like they were one down.

No mention of how this was Second City Wrestling’s grand return after ten years, or how an influx of local talent opened the door for the brand’s revival. The Logan Square Auditorium was a far cry from the United Center, but new life starts small. Fragile.

But if this worked…

The promoter called in favor upon favor, pulling in every scrap of star power she could find. Every wrestler, no matter how capable, with connections to the area. The Barlows, the Bolds, and once the circle expanded enough, the Coltons.

Naturally, they would not be found wanting.

“Coltons in the HOOOOOOUUUUUUUUSE!”

They were instead found in the hallway, just after lunch. Plenty of time to change, practice a little, and shake hands with the roster before the show.

Nate Colton led the way toward the locker room, with Blake in tow. Each man carried his own bag, which Nate had always preferred to his father’s Rule #15.

Never did like letting other people carry my load

“This is gonna be great,” he said. “Dad always says Chicago crowds are among the best. And for the first show? Those folks are gonna go apeshit.”

“Can’t wait. You think Slaughterhouse will be here?”

“Depends on how his parole hearing went, I guess.”

Nate felt a sense of ease as he walked toward the locker room. It was shaping up to be a great day and a great show. If the vibes weren’t immaculate, they were damn close.

If only that could last all night.

If only.

“Well, Ah’ll be damned,” came a booming voice and the fakest Texas accent in history. “If it ain’t Cold Crowd Colton’s boy!”

Both Coltons turned to face the speaker; one with a look of anger, the other with a look of feigned amusement. They saw a middle-aged man with weathered skin; years of tanning beds made his legs look the same color as his boots and chaps. Thinning hair trailing out behind his trademark Stetson. His brown stubble showed signs of gray…and those signs were big enough for Times Square.

Yet behind all those signs of being past his prime, the man still had the same disarming smile, the same mischievous eyes. The self-proclaimed “Sheriff of Sexy” was just as dangerous today as he was in his youth.

“Smith!” Nate fired back, forcing a smile. “Can’t believe someone’s husband hasn’t shot you yet.”

The old dog approached, surprisingly spry for his mid-50s, and greeted the New Diamond with a handshake. “Not a chance, pup! Still quick on the draw and layin’ down the law!” He mimicked drawing guns from his holsters and firing them in the air.

Still doing finger guns; what an asshole

“Uh huh. Good to see you again, Colt. Sorry you couldn’t make it up for the party last weekend.”

“You kiddin’? Your old man’s probably on his knees thankin’ God Ah had work. Woulda looked real bad if Ah stole his wife right in the middle of their anniversary!”

Reflexively, Nate put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. He immediately felt the tension in the joint, like the kid was about to throw down with a seasoned veteran in the hallway.

“God knows your momma could use a real man. Can’t imagine Jake’s any more exciting in the sack than he is in the ring.”

Nate didn’t even have to turn; he could feel the anger on his brother’s face. “You take that–” Blake started, but Nate tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, Blake. Sometimes you just gotta let the old dogs bark,” Nate said, smiling as if Smith hadn’t said anything at all. “Have you two ever met? Lemme introduce you. Blake, this is Colt Smith–”

“I know who he is,” Blake muttered…drawing an even wider grin on the Sheriff’s face.

“Colt,” Nate continued, ignoring Blake’s aside. “This is my baby brother, Blake. He’s gonna go pro next year; I’m helping him get ready.”

“Hey kid,” Colt said, offering a hand that Blake did not accept. “Can’t wait to see you boring thousands of fans like the rest of your family.”

“Fuck you!” Blake snapped.

Nate turned away from the Sheriff to face his brother, whose face was fully red and ready to launch more curse words at maximum volume. “Blake, I need you to go take a breather, okay? Just for–”

Naturally, an old hand like Colt Smith wouldn’t give him the chance. He smelled blood in the water, and went after it like a shark.

“Hey, ain’t you the one who got all fucked up by that big Russian? Didya piss yourself before he grabbed you, or after you landed?”

“That’s enough,” Nate growled, whipping his head back in Smith’s direction. By the time he leveled his gaze at his upcoming opponent, he’d managed to put his fake smile back in place.

Judging by the Sheriff’s smug look, it was nowhere near fast enough.

FUCK

“Ha! Got your panties in a twist already. Ah’ll see you in the ring, pup. Try not to put everyone to sleep out there!”

Nate felt his hand–the one still gripping Blake’s shoulder–tense up, but he kept up the same bland expression.

“Just you, Sheriff.”

“Heh.” Smith spun on the heel of his boot, whistling a tune as he sauntered away.

Son of a bitch. He’s gonna be hammering me with that all night now

“Nate?”

Might as well hand him a goddamn chair while I’m at it

“Nate?” His brother’s voice, repeated, barely broke through the red haze in Nate’s head.

Oughtta dogwalk that fucker soon as the bell rings, that’ll teach–

“Nate, that hurts!”

“Oh!” Suddenly shocked back into reality, Nate pulled his hand away from his brother’s shoulder. “Sorry, bro. Lost my head for a minute there.” He shot a glare in the direction Colt Smith had gone, and sneered again. “What a prick.”

“No wonder Dad took a shit in one of his boots that one time.”

“Ha! Damn, I should have hit him with that. Asked if he’d washed his socks since then.”

Blake giggled, helping the previous tension bleed out. “Bet they called him Poopsock years before that South Park episode.”

That drew a bigger laugh from the older brother, who threw his arm around the younger. Nate smiled, as if trying to show that his mood had already improved.

But mostly, to hide the searing pain in his own shoulder.

MotherFUCK

“Anyway, don’t worry about him. Guys like Smith, they’ll push whatever buttons they can find to gain an edge…and you know what Dad says.”

Rule #6: If someone’s trying to get in your head, don’t hold the door for them.

Nate continued, “Best way to beat a guy like that? Don’t rise to him. If it don’t bother you, and he knows it…that’s gonna rattle him more than anything you could say back.”

“What about Poopsock?”

“...Almost anything,” Nate replied, barely stifling another laugh. “You get into it with guys like that, you get caught up in revenge…they’re just gonna drag you down to their level. That’s why I try to stay out of it.”

“But you get into it with FLAMBERGE all the time. There was the whole thing with the pennies…”

“…That’s different.”

“Why?”

‘Cause fuck FLAMBO, that’s why

“‘Cause fuck FLAMBO, that’s why.”

Blake looked…unconvinced. “What makes him different from Colt?”

“Colt…look, I don’t like the guy. What he said about you and mom, and using that bullshit nickname for Dad that Duke Williams saddled him with…none of that sits right. But there’s a lot worse out there…and anyway, this place needs him. Fans from back in the day are gonna buy tickets. That’s gonna help the promotion, and everyone who works here.”

“You think more people are here to see him than you?”

“It’s closer than you might think. Anyway, I’ll be gone after tonight. They’re gonna lean on him for a while, at least until some of the other guys make their names. Does that make sense?”

“I guess,” Blake said, a little disappointed. Clearly he was hoping for an ungodly beatdown of his father’s biggest rival.

“Don’t worry, kiddo. I got a plan for the ‘Sheriff of Sexy.’”

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

“Can’t tell you yet. Remember rule number…forty-one.”

Blake looked confused. “Forty-one? But we’re not even in Seattle.”

“...oh. Must be fourteen, then.”

Rule #14: Don’t show your cards until you have to.

 

# # #

“There’s two kinds that come out of…that place in Chicago. The first kind are the guys who have no place in this business anymore. Bigots, creeps, abusers…the kind of people that make the rest of us ashamed to be involved.”

“The other kind are the ones who have some staying power. For better or worse, they stick around and make an impact.”

“I know you ain’t the first kind. Otherwise you never would have got a contract. The first and last time I’d see your name was in the papers when you turned up in a ditch somewhere, covered in owl scratches.”

“But are you the other?”

“Gotta say, I’m worried. Read up on you a little bit. Didn’t watch your previous work–I won’t give that place the clicks–but I know the type. Arrogant. Entitled. Think your shit don’t stink.”

“I hope you’re smarter than that, Chuck. ‘Cause that’s gonna get you laughed out of the company.”

# # #

The match results on RingDispatch.com read:

Nate Colton d. Colt Smith by submission at 14:11 after the Colton Clutch (cobra clutch)

But they didn’t tell the whole story.

Tanner Quest mentioned the dueling chants, with the crowd evenly split between a local legend and a wrestler with a worldwide following, but left out Smith’s constant jaw-jacking.

While they talked about the key moment of the match–a late counter that allowed Nate Colton to finish off the veteran–they didn’t talk about the strategy that set it up.

Yes, much was made of Nate Colton finishing his father’s old rival with Jake’s signature hold…but a reporter can only write what they see, and had no way of knowing how the match almost ended.

“SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF!”

“COL-TON! COL-TON! COL-TON!”

The Logan Square Auditorium was a far cry from the United Center. New life starts small and fragile.

“SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF!”

“COL-TON! COL-TON! COL-TON!”

But not always quietly.

The packed house made sure of that. Their applause, chants, and cheers would provide the heartbeat for this new life.

“You hear that, Mister New goddamn Diamond? Everyone in the world knows your name and they still love me more!”

The endless chatter from Colt Smith almost stopped it.

“Just another Human Resthold like your ol’ man! I bet your kid brother’s gonna be even worse…if he makes it!”

Smith talked trash from the moment he stepped through the curtain. Nate did his best to tune him out…follow his father’s rules, and the example he wanted to set for Blake.

Easier said than done.

“First time he gets in the ring for real, he’s gonna piss himself again!”

Let’s see how well you talk with a broken jaw, loudmouth

He swung wildly, but Colt Smith dodged the punch, then came back with a few of his own.

“Good thing Ah’m here! This show needs some star power!”

Anger boiled within him, even as he chided himself to calm down.

You know better than this. BE better than this.

But that had gotten so hard lately.

Easy to stick to your guns when things went well. But Nate was floundering…in this match, and in his career.

Out of the Almasy, thanks to fucking FLAMBO

Couldn’t finish the job in Toronto ‘cause of that scumfuck Bader

Came up short in Japan

Haven’t had a real win in almost half a year

And now this prick won’t SHUT THE FUCK–

A sharp DDT derailed his train of thought. Colton rolled to the ropes, more on instinct than anything else, and pulled himself to the corner.

Exactly where he wants me

“SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF! SHER-IFF!”

Colt strutted to the opposite corner and turned to face Nate, once more taking aim with his imaginary guns. Seconds away from the move that made him famous, a running yakuza kick into the corner.

Boothill.

The Sheriff of Sexy flashed his signature smile, no doubt relishing the ending to come.

On the other side of the ring, Nate did the same thing.

Time to turn the cards over

Rule #8: Be confident, not arrogant.

Smith’s greatest weakness, even in his glory days, was that he couldn’t see beyond his own shine…and that shine was a lot duller than it used to be. Not that he’d ever admit it.

So of course he couldn’t see the telltale signs–that despite all he’d been through, Nate Colton’s breathing was still very controlled. He was sweating less. His eyes weren’t glazed over, even though he’d just been dropped on his head.

The thought that Nate might be sandbagging? Never once crossed the Sheriff’s mind.

Colt Smith was firing on all cylinders…but he was still a man well beyond his peak. Nowhere near a match for anyone the New Diamond had faced in PRIME.

Yes, he was an excellent wrestler…

But you ain’t Farthington

Yes, he was utterly ruthless in the ring…

But you ain’t Snow

Yes, he was a dedicated shit-talker, with a knack for getting under people’s skin…

But you ain’t Jiles

And yes, the incoming kick would have put Nate’s lights out…

But you ain’t Avalon

The look on Colt Smith’s face when Nate dodged out of the corner would become the stuff of Colton family legend. The Sheriff obviously hadn’t considered the possibility until his foot sailed through the suddenly empty space.

From there, it was a simple matter for Nate to grab the veteran from behind and start applying the Clutch.

You ain’t getting out of this, old man

You know why?

‘Cause you ain’t Jake fucking Colton

“RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

The Clutch securely applied, all that remained was to complete the Suplex and put this one in the books…only, Nate didn’t do that. There was still too much struggle.

Do it

Not from Smith, who tried his best, desperately flailing every free limb.

Do it. End this fucking asshole.

From himself.

Without realizing, he’d slowly twisted Colt’s arm…turning the move from the one his father used into the one he himself used on Snow and Hanlon.

What you said about Blake, about Dad, about MOM, you don’t deserve to be in MY ring or breathe MY fucking air

Colt Smith started to fade, forcing referee Harris Barlow–uncle of PRIME’s Ashley–stepped in to check on his status.

No no no stop it right now you could seriously hurt him or end his career

Good, he ain’t worth it

That’s right, HE AIN’T WORTH IT AND BLAKE IS WATCHING

A subtle twist in the opposite direction, restoring the airflow. The veteran gasped, and spent the last of his energy tapping his free hand against Nate’s arm.

DING DING DING!

“RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

As the Sheriff fell to his hands and knees, Harris Barlow raised Nate’s arm in victory. He soaked in the cheers, mostly from his brother who watched from the timekeeper’s table…

Sure as hell don’t feel like a winner

He looked down at the man who’d spent the last fifteen minutes tormenting him, physically and emotionally. Who never found an unkind word that he wasn’t willing to say about Nate’s family.

Kick him in the teeth

Make him think twice about talking shit ever again

“COL-TON! COL-TON! COL-TON!”

Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the crowd. Thoughts, ideas, visions danced in his head.

Comeuppance.

Punishment.

Malice, disguised as justice.

A lone voice cut through the fantasy.

“WAY TO GO NATE! LOVE YOU BIG BRO!”

Just as before, Blake’s voice served as a lifeline. One more time, he looked for his brother at ringside.

The kid was all smiles (and messy hair) as he threw up his arms in celebration.

No

I’m gonna be what Blake needs, not what you deserve

Nate Colton bent down and offered a hand to the fallen Sheriff of Sexy. Colt stared at it, like he’d never seen a hand before.

Then he shook his head, his cocky grin slipping back into place.

“God damn…” he said, in a voice with a lot more rasp than before. “You Coltons really are somethin’ else, ain’tcha.”

He swatted the hand away before staggering to his feet. The crowd applauded for the legend, who tossed off a halfhearted wave before rolling out of the ring and hobbling to the back.

Nate Colton let him go, without incident.

It was the kindest thing he could have done.

Or the cruelest.

# # #

“PRIME, for all its faults, offers something special. So full of promise…but not a single guarantee. You come in thinking the world owes you something and you’ll get humbled real quick.”

“No, the only thing PRIME’s gonna hand you is a chance. The chance to see if you can hack it against the best wrestlers in the world…and some complete bastards.”

“Think you can do that, Chuck? Prove to everyone–prove to me–that you belong here?”

“Well…here’s your chance.”

“You better make the most of it…’cause you won’t get another.”