Title: The Most Consistent Theme in My Life Is Death (Overkill, FU vs. AFUC)
Featuring: Nova
Date: 06/15/07
Location: OHHHHHHHHHHHH-kaloma!

“Maybe I had lost something. Or maybe I had just been King of the Mid-carders. Maybe the competition in PTC was just too much for me…[but] I’m still breaking records…and I’m gonna break more of them. Merry Christmas, PRIME. It’s gonna be one hell of a new year.”

- Nova, 5-Star Champion, Christmas 2004


“I…I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

- Nova, Universal Champion, May 2nd, 2007


The Streets of Oklahoma City, four days prior to Overkil

The hot, windless streets of Oklahoma City are dead tonight…

…save for one former PRIME Universal Champion wandering the streets for lack of anything better to do.

It used to be he’d spend the time between shows at home with his wife and family.

Then, when he lost the wife but mercifully kept the family through inseverable blood ties (yes!), he’d spend the time leading up to shows getting drunk and attempting to contact them. Well, he did that for a while, anyway. Then he kicked the “attempting to contact them” part and focused more on what he was good at: getting drunk.

But now, he’s lost the family. What does that leave for the down-time?

He can’t hide in hotel rooms. Ever since those fucking meatheads in the Big Easy decided to use him for a stocking stuffer �" and by “stocking” I mean “casket” �" his claustophobia that hadn’t bothered him since childhood had been suffocating him. Cooped up surrounded by bland, uniformly-patterned walls and the same scratchy floral bedspread, the Ghosts in the Darkness (as Nova has begun to silently dub his personal demons) have loomed larger than ever, clawing at his sanity without respite, invading the solitude.

So he’s become a bit of a drifter �" a ghost himself, to an extent �" wherever PRIME takes him…and PRIME generally does a pretty decent job at scooting around and keeping its roster of clinically proveable maniacs, uh, diverted…but they kind of dropped the ball for Overkill in finding that American metropolis worthy of a pay-per-view show.

“Oklahoma City…,” Nova says to himself with a sigh as he stops next to the entrance to a laundromat to light a cigarette, “…pretty sunset, at any rate.”

It doesn’t bother him at there’s no life in the streets. For some reason Nova feels even more lonely walking in a crowd of people he doesn’t know, and despite whatever you may hear, being a professional wrestler �" even a noteworthy one �" doesn’t get the streets mobbing up like the sound of even one of Paris Hilton’s pink stilettos touching out of limo onto pavement; this is why the Risen Star’s head turns when he sees a figure shuffling down the other side of the street towards him.

Nova’s vision isn’t great; it’s been slowly crapping out on him for years. When you only have to see as far as a running clothesline’s distance in front of your face in order to excel in your profession, it’s pretty amazing (and disgusting) how far you’ll let your eyesight deteriorate. But regardless, the figure comes into focus: a hunched old man in dusty old-fashioned clothes �" you know, derby cap, motheaten sweater, faded monotone jacket in synthetic fabric that was probably crafted from equal parts asbestos, thalidomide, and Agent Orange �" shuffling along the sidewalk, eyes cast down at the endless line of square concrete tiles littered with McDonald’s bags that flutter across his path like tumbleweeds.

Hello, oldtimer, Nova thinks to himself, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, looks like someone else is feeling as restless as I am.

In the mind of the Risen Star, a thousand stories play out at once connecting him in the most absurd of ways to the old man. Maybe he’s his biological father, returning to him in the twilight of his own misspent life to atone for sins of twenty-eight years ago. Maybe he’s an assassin sent by someone to make Nova atone for his own sins �" a cousin or relative of his late ex-wife, perhaps �" and he’s toting a shotgun under that coat, ready to split the former champion in half with a single pull of the trigger.

Or maybe they’re both space cowboys marooned on a planet full of babes and no dudes, because they all died when the community mineshaft collapsed, leaving all their hot, twenty-something wives at home to sponge-bathe alone and dream of a couple of virile studs to come along and…wait, that was a porno. A real porno.

Suddenly the man stands fully erect, casting his cane aside. Nova instinctively balls his hands into fists. YES! Attaboy! Man, that’s an inspiring image! Talk about your vision of hope…

Then the man’s arms jut out awkwardly and a shudder crawls up his body from his toes to his feet before he collapses on the sidewalk. Nova’s expression turns to horror and his eyes widen. He dashes across the street, no cars in sight, and runs up to the man, whose body has ceased trembling.

“Ohhhh, no!” Nova growls, dropping to his knees and ripping the man’s jacket away from his chest, “I have had enough of this! Come on, you old fart! COME ON!”

He folds his hands and places them against the man’s chest before compressing five times. “Come on, man! Gimme some life here! Don’t do this!”

Nova puts his mouth over the man’s and breathes out deeply, ignoring the creepy-ass stubble on the old guy’s face in the way that people always block out uncomfortable details during an adrenaline-fueled act of…uh, action. “Come on, goddammit! Your lungs can’t be as corroded and vile as mine! Jumpstart, you ancient motherfucker!”

More compressions. Nova feels a rib crack and resists the urge to vomit. “Oh, please come on. Please…PLEASE! COME THE FUCK ON!”

He breathes into the man’s lungs again before compressing on his chest a third time. Breathing heavily he rests back on his knees staring down at the old man’s body.

And that’s all it is. A body. Nova doesn’t need a coroner to pronounce this guy dead.

The Risen Star slams the underside of a fist down onto the man’s chest. “WHAT THE FUCK! You had to check out on this exact square foot of a street miles long with no one around to bear witness but me, didn’t you?! You couldn’t scrape together enough personal dignity to drag it into an alley somewhere and save the rest of the world from dealing with your problems! Like we all don’t have our own shit to deal with! You’re fucking pathetic! Fuck you!”

Nova leans back again, one hand reaching down to the sidewalk to steady himself and the other covering his face as tears stream through the cracks of his fingers.

“Fuck you…”


REC. 06/16/07

The grainy lens of a late-nineties model Sony HandyCam blinks to life, and the image of the Risen Star seated in an office chair, obviously in his hotel room, gains clarity. A cigarette tray full of butts sits behind him on the desk along with a fifth of Wild Turkey and a tumbler with ice. A blunt hangs out of Nova’s mouth, thick smoke occasionally shooting from his nostrils in little jets.

“So I, uh…,” Nova begins, looking into the camera and scratching the back of his head awkwardly, “…I’ve been thinking a lot about death recently. Go figure.”

He sets the blunt in the ashtray and stands up, stepping out of the camera shot for a moment. The sound of a window is heard, and a cough. “Jesus…” Seconds later Nova sits back down and stares into the camera.

“So as I was saying before this boxed-out Kathy Ireland nightmare got to me was…I feel like I’ve been confronted with my own mortality a lot recently, and reflecting on that kind mood…”

Nova diverts his eyes for a moment and takes a heavy pull off the blunt. “…I’ve decided that in the event of my death, please execute the matters referred to herein as the last will and testament of Caesar Christopher Vega.”

That said, he turns and tops off his glass before taking a long sip, followed by the obligatory “Ahhhhhhh.” “Now I know the first thing some of you �" and by this I’m referring to the suits �" will say, ‘Whoa there…is he smoking a blunt and drinking Wild Turkey while informing us of his postmortem material wishes?’ And the answer is yes, on both counts.”

Another sip. “And yes, drinking Wild Turkey has been known to throw me into wild, unrecallable, incoherent rages…and yes, getting blazed isn’t a prudent way to go about setting one’s affairs in order…but ask the ones who know me, and they’ll tell you that I’m drunk more than sober, and I never do the prudent thing, so I figure this is kind of just maintaining normalcy. Amen.”

The Risen Star sets the tumbler back on the tabletop and removes a pair of bifocals from one of the breast pockets of his polyester blend, super-breathable shirts. He perches them on his nose and stares down at a sheet of paper simultaneously plucked from his back pocket.

“ *Ahem*…Okay, let’s begin. My list isn’t long, as anyone who has a working knowledge of my professional or personal life will vouch for.” Nova looks down at the list, and then solemnly up at the camera.

“The Illustrious Face-Eater. If he’s alive, wherever he is…I know it’s kind of technically illegal, but could someone give him my glass collection? And let’s be clear, I don’t mean the Lino or Powell pieces out on the back patio…no, I mean the ones you smoke pot out of. I mean, I’ll be dead, and I highly doubt Facey will lose sleep over taking charge of my vicious collection of bongs, many of which he’s spent hours upon hours ogling. So that only leaves us with the need foor a crazy bastard to deliver them. I’ll be delivering a favor plea from beyond the grave to some fortunate soul on that one.”

He lights a cigarette. “Onward. Danny Ferguson. Actually, rewind back to Facey for a minute. You can also give him any spare ganja you find lying around the crib, too. If you really want a laugh, lace it. Now back to Danny. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering 850 Singing Testigrams (ask about them!) to be delivered to his residence upon my passing. The thought of this actually going through is so enticing I’ve debated killing myself to expedite the process.”

The Risen Star’s eyes shift away from the camera, and the nervous look returns to his face. “So, uh, now that we’re done with the small stuff, I guess we move on again. To Matt Ward I leave any profits from the remainder of my contract with PRIME and endorsements, along with the photo albums in the safe in my workout room…and a grave plot next to my own in a cemetery to be decided at a later date. Also, entrust him with my epigraph, which should read, “Died of utter contentment following his triumph over Matt ‘Tchu’ Ward in their fourth and final competitive matchup.””

“To Lindsay Troy I leave my estate, currently managed through financial advisors Munnigrüber & Munnigrüber, in Olympia, WA, in its entirety. A fund will be established to maintain the grounds crew and house staff, as well as keep the liquor cabinet stocked at all times. I imagine this last thing will consume most of the resources.”

Appropriately, Nova raises his glass to the camera before taking a sip. “Finally, I give to PRIME the sum of my monies and assets, currently valued at 4 008 374 dollars and…uh…forty one cents, I think? Just make sure I get, like, a banner unfurled in my honor every week with maybe an anthem performed by a brass band that everyone can stop and stand at attention to? None of that God crap in it, though.”


The Ford Center, Oklahoma City, the night before Overkill

Nova stands on the entrance ramp staring out at the empty arena.

“Now how long has it been since I saw this?”

The voice startles Nova, who turns to see Blaine Blair standing behind him. He turns back to stare down at the ring. “More and more this job…career…just seems so ludicrous to me, Blaine. What the hell are we doing?”

“Wrestling appeals to the most basic instincts in people, Nova,” Blaine replies, “heroes, villains, love affairs…but most focally, violence. Combat. It’s the Coliseum, civilized. Like the British revolutionizing ground warfare…” His eyes light up.

“Wow, Blair,” Nova replies, “never figured you for such a…fanboy.”

Blaine cocks an eyebrow and waves a hand. “Oh, can it. I’ve been around this business longer than people realize, and I’ve been around PRIME longer than anyone on the roster. I love this place, Nova. And is that a…a smile I see on that stubbly mug? My God, it is a night of firsts! First time I’ve seen those pearly whites in almost a year!”

“Yeah…,” Nova offers eloquently in reply.

“You used to have so much fun, Nova,” Blaine goes on, “they couldn’t peel that grin off your face with a steel chair. You loved PRIME as much as I do.”

“I was high, Blaine,” Nova replies, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

Blair turns and walks away, back towards the curtain, but he gets the word in as he does.

“No, Chris…you were happy.”
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