the road to HELL is paved with GOOD intentions

“NATE COLTON!?”

I’m the angriest I’ve been in at least a month.

Maybe it’s because I hadn’t seen a kayak in that long, or because I’d won my match against Chad Freedom, or because nothing else had actually raised my ire in that time. The Math Johnson Experience has continued unabated, and no one has been able to be the clouds blocking the sunshine of my life. Life as a professional wrestler with a legally-binding contract to PRIME has gone better for me than I could’ve imagined.

And then Henry motherfucking Keyes happened and my entire fucking day is now ruined.

I was in the middle of planning my revenge against him, because that half-and-half he made me spill was expensive and also, nobody fucking wipes a goddamn Chicago countertop with my body.

You hear me, Keyes?

NOBODY!

So, I’ve been making a plan. It’s a good one, I promise you that.

I intend to haunt that fucking sky pirate and his stupid eyepatch and those chiseled, well-toned muscles attached to it until the end of his fucking days. I’m going to build a blimp the likes of which that motherfucker has never seen before, and I’m going to pursue him to the ends of the earth. The moment he sees the Blimp That Math Built – no, wait, the Battle Blimp – he isn’t going to want to fuck with me anymore. Yet he’s already fucked around, and the Battle Blimp will be what happens when he finds out. Mathematically superior to whatever shit-heap airship Keyes has that doesn’t have any of the perfect angles I’ve got going. I’ll have York conjure me up a zombie dragon too, that’ll fuck up the tiger. And I will not stop, EVER, until Henry Keyes and all those that support him are no more. I’m going to—

Oh.

Right.

The whole reason for my outburst earlier.

I’m holding my head in pain, because I hit my head after Keyes salooned me. (That’s a verb now, fuck you.) I’m not sure how much time had passed, but clearly no one thought to call an ambulance for me or my bleeding head wound. Unfortunately for me, I was woken up by York.

And once I came to my senses, York told me that I’d been booked against Nate Colton on the next ReVival.

Hence my reaction.

I learned a few things as well. Henry Keyes was still in Survivor, so I’d have to put off my plans to pursue him until his dying day for another time. It might be days, weeks, months, or years before I put my plan into motion, but that sky pirate should count his fucking days. The Battle Blimp will have its man.

“Yes, yes, Nate Colton.” York said impatiently. He sat at a table across from me. I don’t remember sitting down, but I don’t remember a lot of things. “Scion of Jake Colton, a longtime enemy of the Tatertons.”

“Really?”

York, naturally, couldn’t hold his face straight and he scoffed, “Heavens no. I have never met the man or any of his spawn in my life. It’s just that I have to introduce everyone to you as though they are my sworn enemies.”

He did have a business card to live up to, I suppose.

“Right…” I said, rubbing my throbbing head. It likely throbbed because York was saying words with his mouth and my brain wasn’t having it. That must be it.

“Nate Colton…”

I chewed on his name just to get a feel for it.

His name had that crunchy Midwestern quality, so that’s already a mark against him. Fuck the Midwestern United States, by the way. These last two ReVivals I’ve had to attend have all-but-proven that it’s for losers. My initial angry reaction to having to fight this Indiana boy has given way to a new emotion.

Jealousy.

There are people out there that like this man. They adore him. They cheer his name and his every move in a way that they never will with me.

And I needed to know why.

Because I look at him, and I realize I don’t understand a single thing about him or the Colton family. He’s dressed like a blueberry and he has a toy pig on his shoulder (wtf?) and I think he took over the general locker room. I’ve heard rumor that he even put up a sign that just has the word “asshole” with a big NO symbol written on it, which was the universal sign that York and I weren’t allowed in there.

I needed more information.

And there’s only one place I knew I could find information about Nate Colton. Well, two, but even I want nothing to do with Savannah Scandal. That… thing gives me both the hibbies and the jibbies, and possibly even the willies.

“York,” I said, standing straight up, “Get in the Cybertruck™.”

“Did you actually say the tradem—“

“WE ARE GOING TO EVANSVILLE.”

*.*

We got in the Cybertruck™ and got the fuck out of Chicago as quickly as humanly possible.

My face and head still hurt, and it wasn’t just because of that motherfucker Keyes. You see, I had made the decision to not take my glasses off when I wrestle, and Chad Freedom decided to punch a man wearing glasses. Rude motherfucker. I know it that sounds dumb that I’d wear glasses to wrestle, but it’s part of the aesthetic. It’s part of the experience. I wanted people to know that the guy kicking their asses doesn’t even need to take the glasses off to do it.

That American flag wearing a human being just happened to hit me so hard that I didn’t have time to think about it.

Fuck me that was dumb. I looked like a raccoon for days after that match.

A lesser man would’ve stopped and wondered how much more difficult forcibly changing their own destiny would be, and if it was worth continuing.

Thankfully, I’m not a < man. I’m not an = man, either. I’m a > man. With a Cybertruck™. And the Cybertruck™ goes bazzzznovroomzzzkkk.

(I think that’s enough consonants.)

My point is, nothing ever worth doing is easy.

Still, that was pretty bad. It’s the type of bad that has me understandably worried about how the Experience will continue. I’m but an average pro wrestler, and I’m in a league full of fucking monsters. The best wrestlers money could buy (and Steve Lemieux for some reason) worked here, and they’re almost all dirtbags that would stab their own mothers in the neck if it meant they got a shot at the Universal Championship.

Nate Colton is his own kind of monster, even if he doesn’t quite fit the description that I just floated.

That’s a man with morals. Standards.

I needed a leg up on this one.

That’s why I’ve coaxed York into this road trip across the whole of Indiana to find the source of Nate Colton’s power. I needed to know what created this particular monster, the Godzilla to everyone else’s King Ghidorah.

After all, it couldn’t get worse, right?

Well, a sign coming up told me what I’m in for and how much I might regret asking the question, because in all of the continental United States, no sign implies as much impending doom as this one:

WELCOME TO GARY

As unwelcoming a message as I’ve ever seen, as though my stomach’s dropped out and there’s a black hole there threatening to consume me in its anxiety juices. Fucking Gary. I knew something was wrong before I ever saw the sign (which opened up my eyes) when York made a comment that gave me pause, specifically because it came from him.

“What the devil is that smell?”

Shivers.

You know the smell is bad when the professional necromancer is complaining about it.

York hadn’t really enjoyed his experience in a Cybertruck™, and I can’t really imagine why. It’s the most beautiful thing on the road, after all. But he really let me know how bad a time once we hit Gary and I let him know that I needed to find a charging station soon.

“You what, mate?”

I was concentrating on my driving, but I could see him flailing his arms a bit at the thought of having to making a stop inside Gary. Clearly, he was upset that I hadn’t thought to recharge before we left that shithole Chicago. Or maybe it’s because he saw that derelict arena on the way out and wanted me to stop and let him work dark magic over it before I talked him out of it. I don’t know.

What I knew was that the service station I pulled into was not exactly the beacon of activity. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 1AM on a Saturday in Gary, I don’t know. Either way, I got out of the Cybertruck™ to recharge the battery.

As I’m going about my business, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

Someone was coming up to me, not realizing that I am not something to be trifled with as a legally-contracted member of the PRIME roster. I’d asked a lawyer that York knew if I had a license to kill with that contract. He’s yet to give me an answer, so I’m going to assume that I do. This man approached me, and he asked a question with a viciousness that I didn’t think was possible.

“Gary?”

Few questions in this life filled my little black heart with terror quite like that one. It’s the tone. And it’s the face that he vaguely looked like Nate Colton to my eyes. Same doofy hair, same dopey smile, and I swear there’s a pig mounted on his shoulder. I couldn’t tell in the dark, so maybe it’s just a backpack.

“The fuck did you say to me?” I asked.

“Gary.”

This is a threat. It had to be. I reacted in kind.

“Back off,” I told this freak, “I’ve got a license to kill.”

Debatably.

This gets this freak to back off, but only for a moment. I’ve seen one or two things that would freak out other people just from my association with York, but watching this creature bend backwards and call into the air had my black heart skipping a beat.

“GAAAAAAARY!”

What is this, Vault 108?

I watched as several more figures emerged from the shadows, all disgusting mutants. I swore one of them had a third arm, but not in the place you’d expect. They answered the carrion call of their brethren, and now they were surrounding the Cybertruck™.

“Gary! Gary! Gary!” they chanted.

The commotion causes York to peek his head out from the Cybertruck™ and look at me.

“What is all the bloody commo—HOLY SHIT!”

York quickly shrinked back into the safety of the Cybertruck™ and slammed the door shut doing so. Can’t say as I blame him. Even more Gary residents are coming out of the woodwork. All of them spoke the one word they know, in resonance with the other residents.

“GARY! GARY GARY!” one of them shouted while pointing at me. They started closing in on me.

So I did what would naturally come to me in situations like this.

“FUCK ALL YOUR GARY MOTHERS!” I shouted, and then I fled into the Cybertruck™ and hurriedly started the engine.

You will never see another Cybertruck™ rev up and drive off like a bat out of hell as fast as mine did that night. A Gary tried to stop me, but there is no stopping a Cybertruck™ when it goes bazzzznovroomzzzkkk. He bounced right off and I kept driving, and I didn’t stop driving until we were halfway to fucking Evansville.

Fuck Gary.

All my homies hate Gary.

*.*

You might be asking yourself an important question.

“Did all that actually happen?”

To which I respond… It’s fucking Gary, Indiana. Who cares?

I’m surprised they were advanced enough to have a place to charge an electric vehicle like the Cybertruck™. Maybe those guys were saying something other than “Gary” and I gave so little of a fuck that my brain processed it as such. Still weird that they all crowded around us like that, but I’d bring a gang too if they went face-to-face with someone of my stature, too.

In any case, it turns out Indiana’s a bigger state than I thought.

Who knew?

I definitely underestimated the sheer girth and size of Indiana when I decided I was going to Evansville for my research. And I was still going to have to get to Kansas City in two weeks to put properly Nate Colton in his place – in the fucking dirt. Just one of the many fun things to work with when you go on a road trip with your close associate in your electric vehicle that you can’t stop putting a trademark symbol after.

About three hours into our trip, when dawn was threatening to put an end to a night and I was thinking about pulling into the next hotel, York asked me a question I thought he would ask a lot sooner than now.

“What is it that you hope to achieve when you reach Evansville?”

“I want to know what I’m up against.”

“It’s Nate Colton. Just so you’re aware.”

“I’m aware,” I said through clenched teeth. “He’s tall, handsome, talented, comes from a big wrestling family. He’s everything you want in a pro wrestler, and that drives me the fuck insane.”

York turned to me with a raised eyebrow. At this point in the road trip, he was tired and bored and I wasn’t sure if he actually slept or not because I hadn’t figured out if the whole “consorting with dark powers to raise the dead” thing meant that he could sleep.

“Insane? You?”

“Don’t start with me, York.”

“I remind you that you’re consorting with me,” York said. He didn’t need to pull out his business card to let me know what that meant, “Insanity is part of the package, Nate Colton or not.”

“My point is, he’s got all of that going for him. He had the whole world in his hands, and he’s done nothing but fumble it. Total butterfingers moment, very cringe.”

“That reminds me,” York said, “We should stop at a service station to pick up some Butterfingers. The most evil of candy bars.”

“No. You’ll get crumbs in the Cybertruck™.”

“Fair enough.”

Silence drifted between us.

York and I have been entangled for a fair bit now. I knew enough about the man to know a little bit about what made him an “enemy of mankind,” but we needed each other to make this PRIME venture work. That was the important thing.

York reached for the radio and put on Jason Derulo, which I think is an act punishable as a war crime.

We would arrive in Evansville late that morning.

I knew we were there because I saw signs that the Colton family were a big deal around here.

All the little Evansvillites with their Nate Colton-themed merchandise. (York thought that the Nate Colton-branded dog walker was a bit much.) That way a diner around here that York and I stopped at had something called a “Colton Cola.” (York thought it was an 8/10, and I wanted to strangle him.) A few residents recognized us and chased us away with literal pitchforks and torches. (York thought that they could’ve brought more than they did, and I’m just glad I’m good at parkour.)

I learned quite a bit about Nate Colton.

He truly is the beloved son of this big little city, too big to be considered a small town and too small to carry Indianapolis’ jock strap. People truly still believed in him, despite the fumbles and the bumbles he’s experiences as a legally-contracted member of the PRIME roster. They believed in him the same way they scorned someone like me, who consorts with a necromancer.

I hate him for it.

But let me be clear: It’s not out of envy.

I have a fucking Cybertruck™. You don’t envy your lessers just because they drive shittier vehicles than you and yet are more beloved than you. You simply drive your Cybertruck™ and let it go bazzzznovroomzzzkkk.

No, what I feel is anger that he’s squandered it so much.

He believes that if he tries his very best, like no one’s ever done, it’ll all work out in the end and he’ll be as happy and as beloved as he was going in. Even if he loses. Even if he fails. Even if he lets down everyone in the end, he’ll still be the beloved little scion of this shithole of a city. He’s a man of good intentions in this cutthroat industry we’re all in, and nobody’s reminded him just what the road to Hell is paved with.

I’m a scumbag from New Jersey, painfully average in all things, with the scorn of scores directed at me for the mere fact that I exist. People have wanted me fucking dead since well before I ever came to PRIME, so I react in kind to everyone I ever cross paths here.

But rather than take my anger out on him the normal way – and let me be clear, that’s going to happen regardless – let me make a little offer to you, Nate Colton.

Let me be your Virgil to your Dante.

Let me guide you down this road you built from Inferno (or Gary) to Paradiso.

Let this scumbag from New Jersey, painfully average in all things, show you what a little D E S I R E can grant you. Stain your soul a little black and let’s see what heights you can truly reach.

Think about it. Consider it.

Otherwise, “New Diamond” might as well be “New Coke” for all the good your name’s become.

*.*

“We could’ve just kidnapped the whole lot of them.”

We were a safe distance from Evansville at this point. I had everything I needed to know about Nate Colton, and I was taking the Cybertruck™ westward. York was still with me for some reason, making dumb comments like that one.

“As much as I would enjoy doing that, I’ve noticed a trend around Nate Colton where every single idiot who engages in cartoonish villainy against him tends to painfully regret it in the end,” I said.

York considered my words gravely, as the man is nothing but cartoonish villainy. Why do you think he hung out with Max Kael for as long as he did?

“You may have a point.” York conceded.

I could tell by the wince on his face that he hated conceding any point to me.

“Why bother driving all the way here, then?”

“Two reasons,” I said with my usual smile, “First, I needed to know if these people still believed in him, or if they resigned themselves to their mediocrity like an Indianapolis Colts fan.”

I chanced a look at York, who clearly didn’t get it.

So I clarified, “Like Tottenham, but for armored rugby.”

“Oh.” York got it. “What’s the other reason?”

“To get you in my Cybertruck™ and waste your time, specifically.”

I had to keep myself from laughing as the realization dawned on him that I’d been fucking with him this whole time.

“Excuse me?”

“Remember, York, our partnership is supposed to be a two-way street. I give you your foothold in PRIME, I get your help. So far, there’s been a whole lot of foothold and not a whole lot of help. Which is to say that I’m doing all of the work.”

“Hmph,” York let out a breath, “Stop the car. Let me out right here.”

I tilted my head, seeing as he’s asking me to stop between exits on I-64. Nevertheless, I did as he asked and pulled over to the side of the road. There’s nothing but plains on either side of the road. He opened the door, but turned to me. “As a reminder... I am what I am, Math Johnson. An enemy of mankind forevermore. Nobody living or sane consorts with me,” York said, before he bared his teeth, “Except for you.”

He got out of the Cybertruck™ and after stepping away, a literal goddamn raven flew from out of nowhere and landed on his shoulder. A second one landed on his other shoulder. He took two more steps forward and an entire flock descended upon him. Flying around him in circles and obscuring him from view. More and more joined them until they sudden, as one, flew as a flock away.

York was gone.

In broad daylight.

As if to say, "Don't fuck with me like that again."

That asshole didn't even bother to close the door before he pulled that stunt.

Oh well.

Off to Kansas City.

At least Gary isn't on my way there.