Take the Devil

“I’m sorry.”

“A simple apology, to a young woman who never did anything to anyone. An innocent bystander whose only crime was being in the same hallway.”

“Two words, and you could have avoided this whole goddamn situation.”

“But I guess that’s too much to ask; ‘cause neither one of you said ‘em. One of you can’t…and the other one won’t.”

“Which is which?”

“Does it matter?”

# # #

October 4, 2024. Spokane, Washington.

The hardest battle of Nate Colton’s life.

And the greatest lie he ever told.

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

The sounds echoed throughout the Spokane Arena. Three times, a steel chair collided with the head of Ivan Stanislav…and one time, his gargantuan frame collided with the concrete.

Nate Colton couldn’t hear the crowd, screaming at a fever pitch though they were. He couldn’t hear the count of Elvis Nixon, standing right next to him.

He only heard the sounds that reverberated across the arena, and shook him to his very core…

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

…and the devil in his heart.

Stand up

Stand up, you absolute motherfucker

All the attributes that led to his success in PRIME. The physical strength, pain tolerance, and stamina. The natural talent, the earned skill, the years of intense training.

They had all failed him.

Only one thing kept him standing in that moment. The same thing that kept the match going for the last ten minutes.

Hate.

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

The sins he had just committed replayed behind his eyes. Nate looked down at the Russian Bear, the colossal mountain of a man who laid waste to the PRIME roster for two straight years. Now, lying motionless on the floor, having finally run out of stamina.

Colton snarled, and tried to give voice to the words that burned in his mind.

Stand up so I can come down there and drive this chair RIGHT THROUGH YOUR FUCKING NECK

But something stopped him. The last trace of his self-control expended themselves, so the words that came out were:

“QUIT! SAY IT! SAY YOU QUIT!”

Elvis Nixon kept up his count, while Nate tightened the grip on the steel chair he’d used to lay Ivan low. And though the truth of his emotions burned bright in his chest, Nate’s words were again filtered.

“SAY IT! SAY YOU QUIT, YOU BASTARD!”

Get up you sack of shit, lift your head, twitch your goddamn finger, do SOMETHING

Give me a reason to come down there I will cave in your skull I will set you on fire I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

A million miles away, the bell rang. Vince Howard made the call. The audience cheered their heads off.

It wasn’t until Elvis Nixon tried to raise his arm that Nate understood what was happening. He brushed off the senior official and left the arena.

He didn’t make it far.

Nate Colton crumpled to the floor about three steps past the curtain. The hate had finally run out…leaving him with nothing.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, his new favorite song provided the lullaby.

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

# # #

“Y’know what pisses me off the most? Other than the part where neither one of you will sack up and act like adults, I mean.”

“It’s knowing what you could have been.”

“You could have been the new pillars of PRIME. Stepped into the roles that guys like Youngblood and Sykes left. But when you were called on to be strong, you chose weakness instead. So you spend all year fighting like mad dogs.”

“You know what happens to mad dogs, boys?”

“They get put down.”

“This is not a warning. You didn’t listen to those.”

“This isn’t a threat. You didn’t listen to that either.”

“This is an explanation.”

“After UltraViolence, I'm fighting two dangerous men. One, a respected veteran until the day he let some fucking con man be his mouthpiece. The other, a guy who had the whole world in his hands and pissed it away. When someone asks why I stepped in the ring with those two men and put ‘em out of everyone’s misery?”

“This.”

“Is.”

“Why.”

# # #

Nate first heard the song in Spokane.

He’d been hearing it ever since.

At ReV59, when Paxton Ray threatened his sister…and again, when Jason Snow inadvertently stuck a finger in his eye during their match.

At Colossus, from the first ring of the bell to the last.

At ReV61, when Fred Dick…did anything.

At ReV63, when Kenny Freeman…did anything.

Every show since the Manhunt, starting with the brawl that injured Phoebe Gaskins. The chair thrown by Hanlon connected with a

When Nate Colton saw the video, he didn’t hear one sickening THWACK!

He heard three.

And then, a THUD!

And now…

May 30, 2025. Las Vegas, Nevada.

The last moment of respite on the road to war.

Nate Colton spent it in his apartment, snatching a few moments of relaxation in between fielding messages from PRIME’s office.

So much to go over. More personal appearances–there were always more–with a greater emphasis on promotion over charity or community outreach. All Action Toys wanted him in for a new round of body scans. His contract was up for renewal, and the PRIME marketers were eager to lock him in for a longer term. Each message, each call, was a new intrusion on his fragile sense of peace. He’d been so busy that he hadn’t attended to his luggage from Montreal yet; it still sat in a pile by the door.

I wish Kohime was here. Could really use one of her massages right now.

But Kohime Mori was out of town, making an appearance for an indy show in New Mexico. She and Melissa Talamantez got along fairly well after the initial confusion, much to Nate’s relief.

Unfortunately, that meant the sensation of her strong hands against his back would have to remain in his thoughts. At least it was a pleasant distraction from the boring tasks at hand.

Before he knew it, he’d gone ten whole minutes without an interruption. Naturally, someone had to ruin it.

Naturally, it was Benny.

“POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME!”

Fuck me, I haven’t changed that yet?

“In the name of love!”

Nate checked the screen of his phone, which was the source of Benjamin’s sudden performance. Thankfully, the call wasn’t from Benny. That would be too weird.

Call from: Dad

Nate shook his head. He’d expected this call, after what he did to Jason Snow in Montreal. If anything, he was surprised the old man waited for Nate to get home.

Hell, I’m shocked he didn’t show up at the arena to bitch at me for it

Nate’s thumb hovered over the green button as the conversation played out in his head.

“I told you never to do that!” “Maybe some people need choking out, Dad.” “You’re tarnishing our reputation?” “What about them? They’re tarnishing…fucking EVERYTHING! They’re gonna turn this place into–

Boop.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Nathan.” Jake’s voice was uneasy, which in turn put Nate on edge.

Getting the full first name? Here we go…

“I…saw what happened at the show,” his father continued. Again, he seemed unsure of what he was about to say–not something Nate was used to. In fact, it ran counter to one of Jake Colton’s famous Rules.

Rule #13: When you do speak, speak with confidence.

But Nate was in no mood for Rules. Nobody else had to worry about them; why should he?

Oh, great. Here it comes. Time for another goddamn lecture when I’m dealing with a pack of shitbirds who don’t–

“Are…are you all right?”

…

OK, I wasn’t expecting that

“I’m fine,” Nate answered. “Those bastards got their shots in, but I’ve–”

“I ain’t talkin’ about that.”

You’re being weird, old man. I need you to not be weird right now

“Look, I didn’t want to say nothin’. Felt like you didn’t really need my advice anymore, so I figured I’d step back and let you find your own way. It’s just…I’m worried, is all. Seems like it’s been a while since you’ve been…well…you.”

“I’m fine,” Nate said, with maybe a little more bass in his voice than he intended. “I’m pissed ‘cause two jackasses hurt that girl and act like it’s not a big deal. Now are you gonna tell me I shouldn’t give ‘em an ass kicking for it? ‘Cause that don’t sound like how you raised me.”

“No, son. You’re right. It’s just…you might be taking it too far.”

“Hayes just threw a man–a wheelchair-bound man–off the stage. And I’m taking it too far?”

“Bader is a manager. That ain’t the same thing.”

Rule #39: Managers aren’t people.

I always thought that one was a little fucked up…but after Alexei and now Bader, I’m starting to see the point

“This way you’re going, Nate…it ain’t good. I thought it was gonna get better after that thing with Paxton Ray. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s gotten worse. And then in Montreal, the way you talked, it reminded me of…”

The old man trailed off, leaving Nate to wonder who his father was talking about. Probably some asshole he had to fight once. Duke Williams or Julius Slater or Baron von Killyourfamily…

“You reminded me of m-m-my…”

What the fuck? You don’t stutter. You’ve never stuttered.

“...of my d-d-d–”

“Of your what?”

Dog? Daughter? Doppelganger? What are you trying to say, Dad?

…

…

…oh.

The gravity of the conversation hit harder than an oxygen tank to the back of the head, or a title belt to the face. Not many topics were off-limits in the Colton home…technically, this one wasn’t either. Plenty of times, one of the kids had asked about the Colton family line.

They just wouldn’t get an answer. They hadn’t since…

…did they ever?

Nate tried to think of a single time when Jake had talked about his own father. His mother, yes. Rarely, and at the right level of drunk and maudlin. But his father?

Not once.

Of course, kids being kids, they’d press the issue…and Jake would leave the room. Their mother would usually arrive soon after, advising them to “let it go.”

At some point, they realized it was the only response they’d ever get…so they stopped asking.

And now, for whatever reason, Nate got a new one.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

The New Diamond waited for an answer…but it never came. His father had hung up, somewhere in the middle of Nate’s memory search.

Thank you so goddamn much, old man! You’re gonna lay that shit on me and then just bail? “Hey son, you know that guy I never ever talk about? You remind me of him!” Jesus Christ, you’d think I’m the guy who broke a kid’s nose or maimed a dude who already couldn’t walk, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

The phone rang again. Nate brought it to his ear without looking at the screen. “Dad, what’s going–”

But it wasn’t his father’s voice. “Hey, Nater Gator.”

“Oh. Hi, Mom.”

“Your father had to…step away for a moment.” The pause in Mallory’s reply told Nate more than her actual words did. Something was up. “What were you two talking about?”

‘Y’know. Wrestling stuff.”

Wait. Why am I sugarcoating this? She might be willing to give me a real answer.

“And…” he continued, “...I guess he brought up his own old man?”

For the second time in as many calls, Nate was treated to dead silence on the other end. He checked to see if his mother also hung up…but no, she was still on the line. And on Jake’s phone.

“Mom?”

“I’m here. That’s, um…that’s a bit of a surprise.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I know we’re not supposed to talk about it…but I figured, since he brought it up…”

Another all-too-long pause.

“I think…you should give your father a little time. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready.”

I’m twenty-nine years old; that’s not enough time?

“OK. It’s just…something I did reminded him of his dad, or something?”

“Oh.”

Another response heavy on meaning but light on explanation.

“Mom…what the hell is going on?”

“Nate, honey…your father loves you so much, and would never hurt any of you kids. You know that, right?”

“He…what?”

That is a really weird thing to say right now, Mom

“Right?”

“...yeah, of course.”

“Well, his father…wasn’t that same kind of man.”

“Oh. Did…you know him?”

“No. We talked about him one night, a long time ago. It was…very bad, and I’ll always be grateful that he was gone long before he could ever be in your lives.”

“Jesus. Probably explains the way Dad fought when he started out.”

“Yes. He was a different man, back then. I loved him so much, but he could be…frightening sometimes.”

Nate’s head suddenly filled with alarm bells and tornado sirens. “He didn’t ever…”

“No! No, nothing like that. But our fights were a lot worse, back then. Thank the Lord he settled down when you were born.”

“Yeah,” Nate muttered in agreement. That was a story he knew almost as well as the one Dad told at bedtime. But that didn’t stop his mother from telling it again.

“He missed your birth by a few days; he was coming back from Vancouver and the weather was bad. But when he got home, he picked you up…and it changed him. I could see it in his eyes. He promised right there to be a better husband and a good father…and he kept that promise.”

“I know, Mom.” While less important to Mallory, that day also changed the trajectory of Jake Colton’s wrestling career–he committed himself to a technical style, rather than the wild brawling he’d done up to that point. While initially it cost Jake dearly–from the loss of his previous fanbase to that nickname Duke Williams stuck him with–it gave him so much more in return.

“I just want you to understand, Gator. He doesn’t want you to go through the same things he did. I know you’re upset about what happened to that poor girl–how is she, by the way?”

“Uhmm…”

That’s a good question

He quickly pulled up the e-mail chain where he’d corresponded with Phoebe Gaskins and her boyfriend.

Last message was…six weeks ago? Really?

“She’s…she’s good. Healing up well. I’m checking in with her tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. Just…be careful. And maybe get to church now and then.”

“OK, ma. I will.”

“And give our love to Kohime; I think she’s really good for you,” Mallory continued. Then added, slyly, “You know, if it helped your father, maybe…”

“Stop it.”

“Fine,” she said, in the same way the kids would say it when she reminded them of their chores. “Just…there are so many things to hate right now. Try and leave some room for love, OK?”

“I understand. Tell Dad I love him. And you. Love you miss you, Mom.”

“Love you miss you, Gator.”

The call ended, and Nate sank back in his chair.

“That’s…a lot,” he said to nobody.

Of course, his folks could tell how much he’d been struggling. And while they gave him some very concerning questions, they may have also shown him the way out.

What he needed to do better. To be better.

But first…what to do about Hayes Hanlon and Jason Snow?

An old song played in Nate’s head. A familiar melody, nostalgic and sweet. He made a decision, then and there, to do what it took to get it out.

But not before he played it one more time.

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

THUD!

# # #

“Hayes, I bet you’re laughing like a jackass at that. Jason…yeah, we know.”

“But I want you both to look into my eyes right now. Look at a man who thinks that for all the dogshit things that happen in PRIME on the regular, hurting a non-wrestler–and an innocent person–is just about the very worst. Look at a man who is bound and determined to make you suffer for what you did. Then, ask yourself two questions.”

“Do you think I can’t?”

“Do you think I won’t?”

# # #

June 1, 2025. Las Vegas, Nevada.

The key turned in the lock. The door open, and a soft voice called into the room:

“Nate? Are you home?”

The occupant replied, “HNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKHHHHHHHHHH.”

Kohime Mori entered the room, her body laden with bags from her weekend trip to Albuquerque. She went to set them down by the door, only to find Nate’s luggage still there from days before.

She allowed herself a moment of exasperation before turning towards Nate. He was sprawled out on the couch, still fast asleep.

“HHHHHHNNNNKKKKKKKKKKNNNNKKKKKKKKKNNNHHHHHKKKKKK.”

He never used to snore this much. Not until that big jerk Hayes hit him in the face.

She thought a very unkind word about Hayes Hanlon as she set her bags down.

Poor Nate. He’s dealing with so much right now. I can take care of this for him.

She started separating Nate’s bags along with her own. Regular clothes went to the laundry. Ring gear had to be hand-washed; that could be done in the bathtub. He did not have a counterpart to her bag of stuffies–a silly choice, but one he was free to make.

Instead, he had a travel bag. Basically a backpack, something that could be kept close and held things that required quick access. It’s also where Oinkers McGoo stayed during road trips, so it could be sort of a stuffy bag sometimes.

He mentioned last week that his toothpaste was getting low. Maybe I can see what else he needs?

She unzipped the small compartment in the front; sure enough, he was out of toothpaste. Easy fix. Comb and toothbrush were in good condition. Plenty of hair gel, but his deodorant was starting to run low. I really like this scent; I’ll get him another.

Next, she went to the main compartment. In Oinkers’ usual spot, she instead found a thick book about ancient Greece. (Oinkers was very tired after the international tour earlier this year, and needed a break from travel for a while.)

A paperclip marked a page in the front third of the book; it hadn’t moved in two months. Does he plan to finish this? I should ask if he’s still interested.

She took one more look in the bag, and found…

…an old event program?

Kohime pulled it out of the bag, with the back cover facing upward. A list of sponsors; nothing too exciting. She turned it over.

“Art in Motion.”

The cover featured a young woman with short blonde hair and a bright smile. Her lithe muscles tensed as she coiled herself in preparation for a jump.

The paper trembled in her hand. She knew who this was. She remembered the face from all those internet reports by that awful woman.

She thought an extremely unkind word about Savannah Scandal.

Kohime didn’t open the program; there was no reason. She remembered the name as well; that was even easier than the face.

He says it in his sleep sometimes. Usually when he’s having a nightmare.

…

Why would he keep this?

Tears welled in her eyes as she slipped the flyer back into the bag. She needed to think. She needed to breathe. She needed to…not look at, not think about, the woman who had hurt the man she loved so many times.

The woman he couldn’t let go of, no matter what she did.

She couldn’t do any of that here.

The door opened, then closed. They key turned in the lock.

Then, after one last snore, a soft voice called out in the room.

“Hrm…’Hime?”

Rule #2: You can’t afford to be careless. That’s how innocent people get hurt.