Given

Nate Colton said of his friend The Anglo Luchador, “No one has given more to PRIME.”

Tom always thought the sentiment was sweet but false. Jon Rhine gave his ability to walk for the company. The man who paralyzed him walks to ovations now. There are circumstances. The Bayou Butcher hasn’t earned forgiveness from The Luchador, but right now, no one gives a shit.

They all think he broke his word.

Hypocrite.

“No one has given more to PRIME.”

What has he received?

Heartache. Scarring. Resumption of a checkered legacy. Family that hated him.

Madrid is such a vibrant town. Culture. Food. Nightlife.

Tom Battaglia sat in a luxury hotel suite like it was a maximum security prison.

“No one has given more to PRIME.”

When the dust clears on Tropical Turmoil, if Brandon Youngblood’s latest news stinger is true and not a salmon-jacketed ruse, there will be four wrestlers left standing from ReVival 1 who rode out the entire reboot without pause.

Hanlon.

Jiles.

Daniels.

Luchador.

Two festooned with Universal gold. Another who took Youngblood to his absolute limit, which is more than Tom could say in his two attempts at scaling the Tower of Babel. He’s been called a top name in the company. Ha. Just a belly full of wins over people in his weight class, few above it. You can only ride a victory over Garbage Bag Johnny’s rotting corpse so long before people see it for what it really.

Are those people his peers? His haters?

His mother?

He didn’t forget what his parents put him through since coming back. A wrestler and a housewife frustrated with the business that put food on her table. Her husband hurt her as he hurt his son. She takes it out on the only son who took the mantel up successfully.

The only family who hurt him more than the Battaglia family was the Best family. Fuck them. All of them. And their shit-encrusted company too.

“No one has given more to PRIME.”

What a shitty return on investment. He didn’t think he had any friends left. Brains lie to those they afflict with depression, and in reality, Nate, Ria, Miranda, fuck, even that old salt Suleimon would in a moment spend an hour playing unlicensed therapist. But he didn’t see it. All he saw was a locker room of people who thought they saw the real him.

A dragon suplex into the steps. Doing the one thing Brandon Youngblood warned him not to do.

Pissing off Jason Snow.

He could tell everyone until he was blue in the face that it wasn’t him, but it got him the one thing he wanted most in the world.

That’s what he’s gotten out of PRIME for what he’s given. Stepping to another legend in the business in a match where no one, not even his mother, would give him a shot at winning.

Ha.

“No one has given more to PRIME.”

What has PRIME taken from him? Was it his family? His entire family?

His phone lit up.

“Babe.”

He slid across and accepted the call.

“Hey!”

“Hey babe. Great news. I wanted to surprise you, but I kinda need someone to pick me up at the airport.”

“Airport? Where are…”

“Where do you think I’m going? Me and the kids are coming to Portugal. We’re gonna see you beat the fuck out of that bald bitch like I know you can.”

She’s coming to Portugal. With the kids.

This should be happy news.

‘Why does it feel like his stomach’s being clawed apart into a trillion ribbons?

It was the words of his mother. Poisoned him.

She was coming over to end it and then go on vacation.

No.

Yes?

He dropped back on the bed, splaying his arms, his phone dropping to the floor.

“No one has given more to PRIME.”

Nate Colton may have been right. He might be wrong. But what is given can never be taken back.

The converse holds true for what is taken too.