Most of Us Are Sad

Friday morning.

The graphic posted all over social media read:

LIVE PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING!

With lots of pictures and names, and a QR code for ticket sales.

But it didn’t tell the whole story.

That was covered by a phrase familiar to Nate Colton for multiple reasons.

“Iowa Ride.”

The name of a legitimate amateur technique–and ironically, a notorious pro scam.

A roper of some credibility books a few wrestlers for a show, promotes the hell out of it, sells tickets in advance…then disappears with the money. With luck, the wrestlers don’t catch on until they arrive, only to take the heat when there’s no event.

So if you find yourself in another town, with no way to make money and an angry crowd looking for someone to blame…you just got taken for an Iowa Ride.

Nate’s Ride ended at the Ohio Expo Center, where he learned the venue was booked for something else…and wrestling was never on the schedule. He stood in the parking lot, where the midday sun was no match for the heat under his collar.

He was just…so…angry.

At himself, for getting fooled.

At his father, who vouched for the guy who contacted Nate.

At that thieving bastard, who’d be up to his neck in shit if Nate ever found him.

At…

At everything.

Everyone.

All. The. Time.

He felt the urge to hit something, someone…but the only options were his own car, and his own brother. Blake sat in the passenger seat, dinking around on his phone.

Lousy ratfuck thief, fucking over the boys AND the fans like this

I can at least warn the other guys but I don’t even know half of ‘em

No way of finding out who bought tickets

And of course I’ll be the one to catch hell when five thousand people show up for nothing, and now Nate Colton is the guy who fucked over the whole city of Columbus

Bad enough you fuck with my money and time but you are fucking with MY GODDAMN NAME

Finally, his rational mind got a word in.

OK, you’re pissed. Now what?

I’m gonna find him and break his goddamn elbows

Not any time soon. What are you going to do about this, right now?

Good fucking question. What can I do about a show nobody’s actually putting on?

The answer appeared, like it was already staring him in the face.

“Fuck it.”

A smile curled on his lips.

“We’ll do it ourselves.”

He didn’t have a plan yet. But he had a course; he could follow it until a plan came together.

“Blake!” he shouted, finally drawing his brother’s attention. “We’re doing a pop-up!”

“...what?”

“Call Dad; get the checklist. Paperwork, too. License, insurance, the whole nine. And any contact he’s got in the state, especially if they can help with the permit. Or a ring.”

“Oh…okay.” Blake started dialing; at the same time, Nate reached into his pocket.

He had his own call to make.

If this was going to come off, Nate needed extra star power. Someone who could send the crowd home happy, no matter what. And most importantly…

“Tom? It’s Nate. I’ve got a problem.”

Someone who owed him a favor.

# # #

The sun shone. Birds chirped. Italians gesticulated with one hand with phones pressed against their ears with the other, crusty seeded long rolls in paper bags clutched between their phone-arms and bodies.

Saturday morning in South Philadelphia.

Tom Battaglia stood in the foyer of his rowhome in his boxers, fuzzy slippers, and a t-shirt, holding a steaming mug to his chest. He breathed deeply, taking in the ambient buzz of an urban summer morning.

At least until his ringtone, the opening synth to “Mr. Crowley,” pierced his peace.

“Nate!”

“Huh? Slow down, what’s wrong?”

“Iowa Ride? In Ohio? The fuck you talkin’ about…”

He listened intently and nodded, eyes furrowed.

“I know, I owe you one. Still gotta check with the Mrs. Hold on.”

Tom walked back into his home to the foot of his stairs.

“HEY TAM! We doin’ anything this weekend?”

“I don’t think so!” her voice replied with the requisite echo and bad acoustics of a Philly rowhome.

“Okay! You mind if I head out to Ohio for an indie show?”

“Indies? The fuck, haven’t you been a big star forever now?”

“Yeah but the Coltons are in a jam!”

“Why didn’t you lead with that, you dipshit? Of course, go, I’ll just have a spa weekend. The boys will be okay by themselves.”

Tom looked over to the living room. He had no doubt his older son, sitting with his face in his phone, a bowl of cereal next to him on the endtable, would be fine.

Vinny, however, was listening. And Tom hallucinated the devil horns growing right out each side of the back of his skull.

“One of them won’t! I’m taking Vinny!”

“Aw man,” the younger child sighed.

# # #

Saturday afternoon.

Not seven hours after standing on his front stoop, Tom rolled into the parking lot to a throbbing mass of humanity moving chaotically in every direction with only one purpose. He slinked out of his driver’s seat as his son looked around in awe. PRIME shows were neat and mechanical.

This was different.

“HEY! Who’s the numbnuts with the green SUV blocking things?”

Tom turned around to see a hirsute man leaning out of the window of a box truck.

“I gotta get this fuckin’ ring over there.”

“Ah shit.”

He popped back into the car to find that Vinny wasn’t in his seat and the door was wide open. Annoyed, he leaned over to close it from the inside, but no matter how much he tried, he was not Reed Richards. As he popped back out of the car, he heard his son shouting.

“UNCLE NAAAAAATE!!”

“Oh god, please don’t annoy him,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate’s voice boomed across the lot. “VINNY! Great to see you, buddy! Where’s your dad?” Soon, Tom saw the New Diamond leading a small army of miscreants–two of which were mimes, because why wouldn’t they be–in his direction.

“He’s gotta move the car. He parked right in front of where the ring truck was coming in!”

“For the love of–oh, shit! It’s here!”

The box truck pulled up to where Nate and Vinny stood, and two men got out. They held a brief conversation with Nate–mostly razzing him for getting caught on an Iowa Ride–before opening the back. While they lowered the ramp, the New Diamond turned back to the ragtag gathering of indy hopefuls, weathered journeyman, and high school dropouts. “LET’S GET TO WORK!”

The disorderly mass of humanity found order in a hurry, heading into the trailer and bringing things out. Ring posts, supports, plywood, padding, canvas, tools…all the bits and bobs that would eventually form a wrestling ring.

Not a good ring, mind you. Way smaller than PRIME’s, or any other reputable promotion. Probably not even up to code.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Besides Tom, the only person not part of the assembly crew was Nate’s younger brother, who stood by holding a clipboard and a pen. Occasionally he would make a check mark, at arbitrary intervals.

Just as Nate had been the first one in line to enter the trailer, he was the first to exit, as he and one of the mimes carried a ring post. Walking backward, he turned toward his brother.

“Blake! Where are we on lights and sound?”

“There’s a couple local bands bringing their stuff,” Blake answered. “One of them said we should call a local comic who–”

“NO COMEDIANS!”

The New Diamond’s voice sounded sharper than Tom remembered…but of course, it had been so long since they’d seen each other outside of work.

“What about our announcer?”

“Local theater major. Even has his own suit.”

“Perfect. Keep it up, buddy!”

Blake gave a thumbs up, which Nate didn’t reciprocate because ring posts require most of one’s attention.

The younger Colton seemed almost a stranger as well. Tom remembered the scrawny kid from Nate’s pictures…or the broken boy in a hospital bed from last year’s near-tragedy. Now larger, stronger, a bit more self-assured.

But there was something Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on…

“YO, NATE!”

“Hey, Tom!” Nate answered with a grunt as he set down his end of the ring post, roughly where it would rest for the show. “Tom! Change of plan. The livestock hall still smells like cow shit, so we’re doing it in the parking lot.”

“Cow shit? That feels like an upgrade over the usual indie crowd. Been awhile though, you doing okay?”

“Doing great; looking forward to kicking some ass with you next week. Anyway, we’ll catch up later–got a ton of shit to do right now.”

“I gotcha. What can I do to help?”

“Umm…why don’t you talk to my brother? He’s worked out the lineup. I think.”

Nate went back into the line, because–contrary to the beliefs of wrestlers who forgot the dues they paid–rings do not assemble themselves. Tom turned around to greet the youngest Colton.

“Blake. Been awhile.”

“Hello, Mr. Battaglia.”

Blake held out his right hand, then drew it back in to shift the pen to his left. He held it out again.

“Mr. Bat… goddammit, Blake?”

He froze. His hands started shaking so much that he nearly dropped his clipboard.

“Jesus, I’m just fuckin’ with you. But don’t call me that. Makes me feel old.”

“I’m sorry?”

Tom shook his head.

“Loosen up, man. I don’t know what you’re used to in locker rooms, but I hate playing these posturing games with the rooks. Plus everyone else in your family knows me.”

No answer.

“It’s alright. What’s on the sheet there? We getting some of that shit-ass Ohio Valley pizza for after the show?

Blake shuddered at the thought. “We lost a lot of the lineup when we discovered the scam. But I think I’ve got something figured out.”

He handed Tom the booking sheet, written on the back of a Steak ‘n Shake napkin. Tom laughed and then scanned it. His face turned decidedly more serious.

“There’s a mistake on here. Why am I in the main event?”

“You’re the biggest name here.”

“Cut it out. Your brother is busting his ass to do this. I came out to help a friend in need. I’d be happy running crew and signing autographs after. He’s main-evented a pay-per-view by himself in the last five years. He’s the future. I’m just…”

He stopped himself short. His latest therapist warned him against self-effacement.

“It’s just not right. My ego ain’t wired like that.”

“Rule Number 76,” Blake answered, as if he were reading it straight off the clipboard. “If you’re putting on the show, don’t hog the spotlight.”

Tom shook his head.

“Ugh, you guys and your rules.”

More silence, and a quick shrug as Blake went back to ticking off his boxes.

“Anyway, who’s this Frank Turnbull guy? Heavy duty like intense like that freak I wrestled at RAPIER or a fatso?”

Blake gestured with his pen toward a worker, a large Black man carrying the ring’s center coil spring.

By himself.

“Little of both, really,” Blake said.

Tom laughed to himself mutedly.

“Good thing I have experience. So do you, really. Never got the chance to talk to you after the hospital. Standing up to Ivan…”

The color ran from Blake’s face. He tugged his collar, gulping.

“...you know, there are people on the PRIME roster who wouldn’t have done what you did.”

“R-r-rule number four…no, five. The m-most important f-f-fight is the one against f-f-f-”

“Hey, calm down. I’m sorry for bringing it up.” Tom threw his arm around Blake’s shoulder. “Sometimes I forget not everyone is as good at cramming the trauma deep in a hole as I am. The important thing is you’re here, right? In the biz like the rest of your family?”

The boy pushed away and turtled even further into his booking napkin.

As the parade of ring parts thinned, a shout drew their attention. “Look, Dad! I’m part of the crew!”

Tom looked up to see his beaming boy holding one end of a support beam. The other end was carried by Nate Colton, who seemed amused even though Vinny refused to walk in a straight line.

“Jesus, Vin, are you annoying Nate?”

“My lawyer has advised me not to answer such questions.”

Both Nate and Tom laughed at the sheer absurdity.

“Serious, Nate, is he in the way? He can wait in the car.”

“Nah, he’s good,” Nate said, his smile growing by the moment. “He’s more help than Benny usually is.”

“You do realize that bar is subterranean, right?”

Blake laughed, breaking his morose, nervous demeanor around Tom for the first time since his arrival.

Nate waved in their direction; Vinny did the same, and nearly dropped the beam in the process.

“Goddammit, Vin,” groaned Tom to his son.

“Sorry!”

Nate and Vin moved towards the bustling center where mounds of humanity not seen since the shooting of the Battle of the Bastards worked to put a ring up in world record time.

“My kid means well, but he doesn’t think things through sometimes. I think he has too much of his father in him, whoever that is.”

Blake…didn’t laugh.

“C’mon, that kills with Tam’s family, especially my father-in-law. He’s a loud Irish guy, but he’s the furthest thing from annoying.”

“So, the opposite of Benny.”

“We don’t really need to keep dumping on Benny, at least not until he gets here. Is he wrestling tonight?”

“No,” Blake answered. “Dad booked them in Kokomo.”

“Ah. Speaking of family, how’s Nate holding up? I’ve been dealing with my own shit, but the stuff with Kohime. I don’t even wanna mention it to him because we’ve been on separate islands since before Culture Shock last year.”

“He’s…”

The young man paused, and considered his words.

“...not great.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

Blake looked over both shoulders twice. One cannot be too careful, even in a sea of humanity focused on one thing that didn’t involve sharing family gossip.

“Nate…made a bad mistake. Kohime got really hurt by it. We decided until she’s ready to talk to him, we just…leave Nate out of it.”

“You know, that kinda reminds me of my own family. Like not immediate. But my mom and my shithead brother and even my dad.”

“But they were mean to you.”

“Sure, sure they were, and I’m still dealing with the aftermath. I haven’t spoken to my mother in months, but that’s not really healthy. However close your family is with each other, and I’ve seen how sour Nate’s turned lately. I know some angry people, but with a lot of them, it feels performative and so it’s not really dangerous.”

“You think my brother is dangerous?”

It was Tom’s turn to look over his shoulder. No child nor colleague in sight.

“I’m not gonna talk shit about a man who went deep inside the precinct with me for petty revenge. Even though I haven’t been through the shit with him since War Games? He didn’t stop being my friend, but I have no fuckin’ idea how to approach this.”

Tom looked Blake straight in the eye.

“You and your dad and family should. You were barely a wrestler when you stared down Ivan Stanislav. Why can’t you intervene with your blood?”

Blake, in the middle of another tick, jerked the pen across the clipboard. His right hand tremored slightly, but he didn’t say anything…and didn’t look like he was about to.

Until…

“Hmm.”

That was it.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Blake and Tom looked back toward the ring, where many hands put many pieces into many places. Mostly the right places.

“No–Vinny, I need you to turn it on its side! It’ll never fit like that!”

“Sorry! This is the first time I’ve ever had to put a ring together! Usually Aunt Lindz has professionals doing this!”

“Yeah, I know,” Nate said, still more amused than frustrated. “But we all gotta start somewhere.”

“I know. My dad always says Rome wasn’t built in a day. But then I read that if Remus killed Romulus it could’ve been called Reme.”

“Just…turn the damn thing, okay? And give me the mallet.”

“Okay Uncle Nate!” replied Vinny, handing it over. “So why are you doing all this by yourself? Dad didn’t really say much. He was quiet the whole way, just watching his speedometer or whatever.”

“Well…I guess I never liked being part of the problem. Part of the solution’s a lot better.”

“I should write that down! Y’know, cuz I’m a journalist.”

# # #

The match results on RingDispatch.com read:

Nate Colton d. Etienne Lemieux by pinfall at 11:25 after the Colton Clutch Suplex (cobra clutch suplex)

and

MAIN EVENT: The Anglo Luchador d. “Heavy Duty” Frank Turnbull by pinfall at 18:41 after the Japanese Ocean Cyclone Suplex

But they didn’t tell the whole story.

No mention about the series of minor disasters that plagued the show. No words spent on how Nate Colton paid for everything out of his own pocket, and made nowhere near enough back.

Yet the end of the night still found Nate Colton grinning ear-to-ear. The company helped a lot.

After the show, the gang stopped in at Wally’s Meat & Beer, a legendary destination among the wrestling industry.

They had a simple menu.

“Goddamn,” Nate said after finishing off his beer. “If only they could all be that fun, right?”

“You’ve gotta be joking!” Vinny said, aghast at Nate’s optimism. “One of the beams fell! If that happened in PRIME, the news would be DIRE!”

“But we pulled it off. That’s the point.”

“Yeah kid,” said Tom. “We don’t have ACE Network money. But the crowd didn’t care.”

Tom looked over at his colleague.

“And you actually look happy for the first time since we crashed the precinct.”

“Ha! Yeah, good times.” Nate pulled another beer from the bucket and twisted off the cap.

“Best part about wrestling,” Tom said after a swig. “The ultimate antidepressant. Got some shit in your life? Go kick someone’s ass. Or get your ass kicked, ha.”

“Yeah,” Nate agreed. Still smiling…but not as much.

A lot less, actually.

“C’mon. Shit can’t be so bad that you have that sourpuss right away.”

Now, not at all.

“You know what I love about the indies, Tom?” he said. “It’s simple. You show up, fight, get your hot dog, shake a hand, go home. Hardly any bullshit, ‘cause it ain’t worth it. But the bullshit never ends in PRIME. Now I’ve got a friend at my throat, because somehow I’m the monster in a company full of kidnapping and attempted murder and…that fuckin’ Bader guy.”

Tom takes a long pull out of his bottle.

“Yeah, that Bader guy sucks.”

A chuckle went around the table, diffusing the tension a little. But not enough.

“I wish I had insight on the other stuff,” Tom followed. “RIA has her reasons, but I talked to her less than I have to you. I feel like an island anymore, which is crazy, right?”

He finished his beer and twisted another cap off.

“My tag partner fuckin’ ghosted me. One of my teammates is in physical therapy while the other is a Lasagna Boy.”

Nate furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

“I don’t have a lot of answers. Hell, I can’t even help you cope with what you’re going through because the last time I fumbled a woman was before I met his mother.”

Nate’s grip tightened on his own bottle. He took a drink, mostly to keep from doing anything else with it.

Tom did the same, flashing an easygoing smile in the hopes of keeping everyone’s cool. Last thing Wally’s needed was a tag team imploding before they even took the ring.

“But the one answer I do have is why you were so happy a couple of minutes ago. We pick back up. We start over. And we either kick some ass or get our asses kicked.”

Nate nodded, and his smile returned, just a little.

“We start from square one.”

He toasted the Luchador with his bottle. Vinny eagerly joined in, adding his (root) beer to the celebration.

Meanwhile, Blake sat quietly, texting away.

# # #

The secret Colton chat.

@BWColton: We need to tell him.

@BTColton: nope

@JVColton: let him suffer

@BWColton: We’re not helping. I don’t like how he and RIA are treating each other.

@JVColton: sucks to suck he should have thrown out that skanks trash forever ago

@JMColton: Blake, we all agreed on how to handle this.

@BWColton: WELL IT SUCKS! HE’S PISSED ALL THE TIME AND NOW HE’S FIGHTING HIS FRIEND AND I HATE IT!

@JVColton: whoa little three mile moment there buddy

@JMColton: Don’t, Jennifer. He obviously feels very strongly about this.

@DJColton: What do you think?

@kmori is typing…