Title: I'll Fold My Freak-Flag and Lay It on Your Grave (King of Kings, Universal Title Match)
Featuring: Nova
Date: 12/14/06
Location: East of the Mighty Mississippi

December 8th, 2006, Nova’s hotel room, sometime early in the morning…

Beep.

"Chris? Are you there? Oh, God…why won’t you pick up? Why won’t you answer my calls? Chris, Lulu is still sick. She’s getting worse, and I’m really scared and I need you right now. I need you, and your daughter needs you. I…oh, for fuck’s sake, Chris, where are you?"

For a moment the only audible sounds on the voicemail recording are sobs, muffled by the distance between Ariel Martiarra and the phone that surely rests in her lap.

"I’m taking Lulu to the hospital, Chris. If you…if you decide to give a shit about the family you wanted back so badly, you can come to the Children’s Hospital on Beaubien Street in Detroit. I…"

A sigh, a sob…and then nothing. Beep.

Later on, in the early afternoon…

"Huh-WOOOMPH!!"

…Nova rolls off the side of the bed as he comes to, crash-landing on the generic floral-printed carpet of his hotel room. Swinging his legs around he sits up, leaning back against the bed’s frame and groaning as he puts both hands to his temples.

If it weren’t so much fun, he’d really regret becoming the Original Villain’s new drinking buddy.

"Hey, baby…"

"AHHHH!!"

Okay, retracted. He regrets it. He regrets it so much.

The night’s hook-up snuggled up in his Smashing Pumpkins Rock Invasion tour shirt can only be the product of Snow-caliber drinking. Her face looks as though it had been lit on fire, beaten out with a chain, relit, and left to burn.

"Get out," Nova mumbles callously, still in the first throes of what promises to be a monster hangover, "and leave that shirt. That tour was the stuff of legend."

The woman freezes up, the combination of hurt, embarrassment, and fear making her strange face even stranger. Nova turns his attention away from her and sees the answering machine blinking. Probably those sons of bitches from FX again, crabbing about how ‘Fuck You’ as a choice for a stable name is causing them all kinds of headaches.

Well, Nova’s got a bit of a headache himself at the moment. Grabbing up the machine by its tiny boxy frame, he turns and Nolan Ryans it into the wall opposite the bed-frame. Shrieking, the woman in bed pops up and grabs her dress on the way to making a mad dash out the door.

"Hey! HEY, MY SHIRT!" Nova yells after her, but she’s halfway to the nearest convent by now.

The Rising Star plops down on the edge of the bed, continuing to rub away last night’s punishment. He can see daylight eking through the blinds, and "Bell-Bottom Blues" by Derek & the Dominoes is floating faintly out of the radio.

"Bell-bottom blues, don’t say goodbye…I’m sure we’re gonna meet again…and if we do, don’t you be surprised, if you find me with another lover…"

Grabbing his Camel Lights and spark from the night-table, Nova lights a cigarette before reaching down at bedside for the blue bandanna that’s become a symbol over time of his wrestling career. He pushes his hair back with both hands and slides it onto his head as he stands up, smoke shooting from his nostrils in two streams.

Time to face another day in the string of them leading to King of Kings.

To the Universal Title.

The only thing that matters.



------*~*~*------



"No, honey, I…will you just listen? Please? Can I…okay, what is it?"

December 16th, 2006, outside WOSU 89.7 FM studio, Ohio State University, Columbus, OH

Thomas C. Robinson of PRIME’s news staff speed-walks across the parking lot to the college radio station’s double-door entrance, a briefcase in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Thin wisps of hair flutter in the evening breeze, as disorderly and scattered as the man himself feels at the moment. Concentrating too hard on the conversation at hand, he drops the briefcase, which pops open, sending papers fluttering about. He kneels to gather them.

"No, I know you had a brisket roast planned, with the cabernet," Thomas reiterates as he attempts to salvage the contents of his case, "and I know about the negligee, and I’m not trying to skip out on our dinner, I swear, but sweetie, this is a huge interview, okay? It’s the night before the company’s big show and this guy is center-stage, and he asked for me specifically to do a last-minute interview. That’s big. Fuck!"

He snatches at some papers that flutter out of reach. "No, I wasn’t cursing at you, it’s just some…*sigh* look, do you like the brisket roasts, and cabernet, and negligees, and a house to enjoy them in? Because stuff like this puts guys like me on the map. I gotta go. He’s waiting for me inside. Love you. Hey, I love…hello?"

Shaking his head, Robinson flips the phone shut and snaps the clasps of his briefcase. He stands, brushing off the knees of his suit, and walks inside the building.

Past the receptionist. Hi, I’m here for the reserved studio, and all that bullshit.

Up the stairs.

Down the hall.

As Thomas opens the door to the studio, he’s startled by the darkness and quiet. Practically the only light in the room is coming from the hallway behind him, and he jumps as a voice comes out of that darkness.

"Close the door, Robinson. Those fluorescents are fuckin’ my world up."

The unnerved PRIME newsman obliges, and as the light from the hallway closes in on itself and disappears, his eyes focus and he realizes that the studio isn’t devoid of lighting at all, but rather very dimly lit from a few strategically placed pole lamps. A single table sits in the center of the room, with two chairs. Behind one of them, on the far side, is a figure enveloped in shadow, his face obscured by the hood of a black Wu-Tang sweatshirt.

"Nova?" Thomas manages to croak without stammering. Even for the Rising Star, in the wake of his allegiance to Fuck You, this seems so…somber.

"You got it, boss," comes the Rising Star’s reply. A small bright coal burns in the black shapelessness of his face, no doubt a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His fingers are intertwined, elbows resting on the table, and black tape covers his forearms all the way up to the knuckles. "Take a seat."

Robinson obliges, pulling up a chair and popping open his briefcase. "Okay, I thought we’d start with the obvious. It’s the night before the biggest match of your PRIME career and I was wond-"

WHAP! Nova’s arm shoots across the length of the table and slams the briefcase shut. Robinson catches the lip of the table with his fingers to prevent him from falling backwards out of his chair. "I thought…," the Rising Star says slowly after a moment of silence punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the interviewer, "…that I might tell you a story."

Not daring to look down at his watch, Robinson begins nodding overenthusiastically. "Sure. Sure, Nova."

With Thomas’ acquiescence, Nova almost seems to relax a little. Almost. He leans back in his chair, exhaling smoke into the air of the poorly-ventilated studio, the hood of the sweatshirt still completely concealing his face in the relative dim. "Do you like the Old West, T.C.?"

"I…I suppose so," Robinson replies, convinced in his mind that if Nova asked him about the Nazis at this particular moment, he would reply that he was a fan.

"I am, too," Nova agrees, taking a final drag from the cigarette and letting it fall to the floor before stomping it out, "I love the old cowboy legends. Could you guess who my favorite is?"

"Wyatt Earp?" Robinson almost winces as he says it, unsure whether replying with a simple ‘no’ would have been a better choice. Something in Nova’s voice is making him doubt every word that comes out of his own mouth.

"Right you are, Tom," Nova replies, impressed, "now how did you know that?"

"That’s what…what Angelo Deville calls you sometimes," Thomas answers, trying to discern where Nova might be headed with this.

"Do you know why he calls me that?" Nova asks.

Robinson can feel without seeing that the Rising Star’s eyes are boring into him. "No, I don’t."

"Well, I’m not gonna tell you," Nova replies quickly, a hand moving up to the side of his head and sliding a joint out from behind his ear. Thomas looks away for a moment and hears the lighter flick, but when he turns back the flame is gone, and Nova’s face is again hidden by shadow. "It doesn’t matter to the story, anyway.

"Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday once rode into a notoriously unruly town. Their reputations preceded them, and a whole host of ornery cusses awaited their arrival, but in a style befitting the stature of their legend they dispatched, with extreme prejudice, some of the most ferocious outlaws ever to strap on spurs and side-arms.

"For a while the duo lived in relative happiness, enjoying the rough-and-tumble environment of the town, but as was generally the case with most great heroes of the Wild West, a woman came into the picture and complicated everything…but not just any woman, Tom. They say her hair was more golden than the rocks silted out of San Francisco. Her beauty was unparalleled. And Wyatt and Doc caught wind of a contest, a contest to earn a duel with the man she was bound to, a man widely respected and feared, a devout religious man.

"No hard feelings between the two, Wyatt and Doc both agreed to enter this contest, which would be a fight…no weapons, only their fists and the wits to command them. But another man entered this contest, a man recognizable by his immaculately-shaven head, which was unordinary in those days. He was one of the only men ever to best Wyatt in a duel, a duel that Wyatt survived but one that cost him the love of his wife Star, who abandoned Earp for his better. The day of the fight came, and a fight it certainly was. Six men met in unarmed combat, and as the dust began to settle it was clear that Wyatt was coming out on top, before his rival and even before the Doc. So his rival removed a pistol from his belt and shot Earp in the back."

"Was that how Wyatt met his end?" Thomas asks, only in the moment realizing that he’s on the edge of his seat leaning halfway across the table.

The end of the joint in Nova’s mouth crackles, and a cloud of smoke protrudes from the shadows of the hood. Robinson shies away, coughing and waving the ganj-mist out of his face.

"No, it wasn’t," the Rising Star replies. "It could have been. Wyatt was gravely wounded, and his rival advanced on him with murder in his eyes, but the Doc stepped between them and with the help of some townsfolk dragged Earp from the scene. Playing the cheap shot as an accidental discharge, the fight was allowed to continue, and though the Doc fought on against Wyatt’s rival in hopes of avenging his comrade, the bald man triumphed. Wyatt left the town to recover from his injury, and the Doc disappeared out of disgust with the whole ordeal. It was a very dark time for Holliday and Earp."

There’s silence in the studio as smoke continues to rise above the frame of the Rising Star, the joint in his mouth almost at its end.

Thank Christ, Robinson thinks to himself, barely able to breathe in the boxed-out radio booth. His head is swimming, the feeling similar to the time in college he bought a brownie from one of his friends in the environmentalists’ club. He loves supporting bake sales. "And…and then? Nova? And then?"

The relative silence continues for a moment, save for the bum-bum-bum of blood coursing through the arteries of Thomas’ head. To him it’s a drum corps. When Nova speaks, in the hazy dim of the studio, Robinson can hear a smile in his voice.

"Why, they came back, of course."



------*~*~*------



December 10th, 2006, Nova’s hotel room at the Hyatt Regency, Buffalo, NY, midday

Beep.

"Chris…"

The voice of Nova’s ex-wife piping out of the answering machine now is thick with anguish and racked by uncontrollable sobs.

"The doctors now…they aren’t even stacking the odds in Lulu’s favor! They’re saying…they’re saying she’s probably going to…oh, God…her fever isn’t letting up, she cries non-stop until she’s too weak…I hope wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, it’s worth it. I hope it’s worth it not to be here, holding the hand of our baby girl when she’s confused and sick. I…I hope it’s fucking worth it…Nova."

Beep.

Stories below, in the hotel’s workout center, a black-taped fist with "F U" in white across the back of the hand slams into a punching bag. The sound echoes off the walls of the other wise empty room.

Nova stands in front of the bag, drenched in sweat, a lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth. He throws another right into the center of the bag, takes a half-step to the left, and swings around with a left hook into the bag’s sandy guts.

Nova’s sound defeat at the Great American Nightmare is the impetus for these sessions that otherwise involve only a handle of bourbon, an ounce of the stickiest fire in the city, and two packs of Camel Lights.

He’s gotta get stronger, hit harder. He has to be able to throw those sledgehammer blows that can crush a man’s face like a bag of fuckin’ Sun Chips, the way that Tchu can.

Right, left, right, right, left, right, right. Sweat pours in rivulets reeking of nicotine down the sides of his face, having already conquered the water retention capabilities of the black bandanna around the forehead of the Rising Star.

He has to hit faster. He needs to land four punches to the face and ribs of the Inhuman Being for every one that Tchu gets on him. The former "Anti-PRIME" has a way of making those ‘ones’ worth a couple from anyone else.

The sound of Nova’s leg striking the side of the bag goes off like a shotgun blast in the room, reverberating for seconds. He’s gotta kick hard enough to make Tchu want to crawl back into the womb. His legs don’t resemble the sides of cow hanging in Chicago’s meat-packaging plants the way that the Universal Champion’s do, so every blow landed needs to be a message well-received:

Fuck You. >=)

Nova pauses for a moment, pulling the cigarette away from his lips and exhaling. He could quit smoking, of course…but then he’d want to die, and that just isn’t going to help him on the 17th. No, he’s just gotta keep at it, despite wanting nothing more than to collapse on the mats and pass out.

It’s crunch time, and no one’s gonna postpone King of Kings because Nova wants more training time.

The biggest match of his life is approaching like a freight train.

The Universal Title.

THE ONLY. THING. THAT MATTERS.



------*~*~*------



December 16th, 2006, the studio in Columbus, well into the night

Air whistles through Nova’s teeth. "Ahhh."

He sets a flask down on the table and slides it across to Thomas Robinson. "Oh, no," Robinson replies, waving his hands, "I, I couldn’t, really. Gotta drive and all that."

"Drinking alone is no fun, T.C.," Nova states matter-of-factly, "okay, it’s fun, but not nearly as much fun, so bottoms up there, big guy."

"Nova, I don’t…," Robinson begins, but the Rising Star cuts him off.

"I’m never letting you get out of here if you don’t pull off the damn flask, so just have a nip and quit being such a fucking downer," Nova commands.

"Well, when you put it that way…," Thomas replies before holding the flask to his lips. Bourbon. "GAH!" he exclaims as he pulls it away. "Whoo!" Wiping his lips, he slides the flask back across the table. "So…whew…so you were about how Wyatt and Doc eventually returned to the town?"

"Yeah, I was," Nova agrees as he lights a cigarette, satisfied with the interviewer’s compliance, "they returned, but not together. Doc rode back into town first, and then Wyatt a few weeks later. There were still demons for Holiday to deal with, however, and before long, indeed before a true reunion between the two could take place, he vanished from the town again."

"And of the bald man? The girl with golden hair?" Thomas interrupts.

"Keep it in your pants, Robinson," Nova chides, "I’m getting there. Wyatt’s rival earned his shot at a duel with the religious man for the hand of the golden-haired girl, and everyone in the town thought he would take it with ease…"

"But he didn’t," Robinson finishes, a clearer picture of Nova’s cowboy legend coming into his head. Perhaps the chronic haze and cheap bourbon weren’t affecting him so adversely after all. He motions for the flask, and Nova slides it over to him with a nod.

"No, he didn’t," Nova continues on, "he lost that duel, and no one in town ever saw or heard from him again. Most thought he was dead. Fewer cared. The man who did overcome the preacher and win the hand of the golden-haired girl would have an interesting role to play in Wyatt Earp’s future, though. Months went by in the town. Earp was slow at first to regain the salt in his step and fire in his eye, but as time progressed, eventually the outlaws came to fear his presence in the town again, even without the deadly Doc at his side.

"In time, the golden-haired girl began to haunt Earp’s dreams once again, and this was made more complicated by the fact that she belonged to the man who defeated the preacher, the man who had become a confidant of Wyatt’s over this expanse of time. The man was called Inhuman for his gun-toting abilities, having lost no more than a couple of contests in his entire tenure in the town. They drew guns together against the outsider, a distinguished fellow clad in European fashions who wore black paint on his face…not exactly par the course for the Wild West, you know?

Thomas nods, the smoke in the room no longer bothering him.

"Putting their friendship aside, Wyatt challenged the Inhuman one for the girl’s hand as he rightfully could…" Here Nova pauses for a second, taking a long drag from his cigarette, "…and he lost when they met one another in respectful combat."

"That must have been very difficult for Wyatt to deal with," Thomas interjects, finally seeing his opportunity for something resembling an interview, "having never been as close to the woman of his dreams as he was that night."

"Not as difficult as the aftermath," Nova replies, what warmth existing previously in his voice fading away, "the Doc had come back, with a few outlaws of his own, and his view of the town had changed. In truth, Wyatt’s had, as well. The town they protected, championed, was an individualistic, self-serving entity incapable of reciprocating the kind of respect they had shown towards it in their years of service. So Holliday and his gang threw down the gauntlet in the middle of the town’s square one night, proclaiming their lordship over the shit-hole, and the Inhuman one met them, gun-hand gripped firmly on his holster. Moments later, Earp joined him, staring down at Holliday and the most dangerous crew the town had ever witnessed. Time stood still, and then Earp had to make a choice, to stand with his old friend and ally against the town, or to continue upholding it with the man he had come to respect. You know what decision he made…don’t you, Robinson?"

Unable to see Nova’s eyes clearly in the darkness, Thomas casts his eyes downward uncomfortably.

"Yes."



------*~*~*------



December 14th, 2006, Nova’s hotel room at the Country Inn & Suites, Columbus, OH, early evening

Images of Tchu flash in front of Nova’s eyes. Against Karina Wolfenden, Aimz, the Illustrious Face-Eater…his first Universal Title match against Hoyt Williams, the K-Wolf again, Ivan Stanislav…his second Universal Title match against Killean Sirrajin, then Olsig, then the Great American Nightmare…

…all victories. The defeats, against Clyde, Lisieux, the Dual Halo…inconsequential.

Nova sits in darkness in his hotel room, which from city to city has become his place of residence, and watches tapes. And watches tapes.

And watches fucking tapes. His phone is unplugged…no need to be pestered days before the match of his career with useless bullshit. And useless bullshit is about all anyone would call him for, anyway.

Knock, knock, knock.

"I didn’t order any fucking room service," Nova says quietly, without need to shout because he’s watching the tapes on mute to spare himself Nick and Richard’s inane prattle.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Hey! Asshole! What about ‘piss off’ isn’t universally understood in English and Spanish? ¡Mee lejos! Go the fuck away!"

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Okay, that’s it. If the fucking building isn’t on fire…"

Nova yanks open the door and glares with bad intent in his eyes down at a cowering messenger boy. "What. The. Fuck."

The boy thrusts out a piece of paper, his hand shaking violently. "I-i-i-it’s abou-bout your daughter, sir! Please!"

"My daughter?" Nova cocks an eyebrow as he snatches the paper out of the boy’s hand. "Everything alright?"

Opening it, the color drains out of Nova’s face and his mouth hangs open as the air rushes out of his lungs. The paper crumples in his hand, and the boy begins backing away, holding out his arms non-aggressively.

"I’m only the messenger. Don’t shoot the messenger."


One plane flight later, at the entrance to the Children’s Hospital in Detroit, MI

Nova sprints across the parking lot, flinging open the double doors as he makes his way through the emergency room entrance. Immediately, personnel are on him, holding their arms out in protest.

"Sir, wait!"

"Sir, where are you going?"

"SIR!"

"I’m here to see my daughter!" Nova shouts, "where is she?! Her name is Lulu, she’s two years and nine months old! WHERE IS SHE?! WHERE IS…"

Seeing a doctor trying to move away from the crowd of receptionists, chart in hand, Nova shoves past them all and grabs onto her by the shoulder. "What is that?!" he demands, ripping a chart of her hand.

"No, please!" she exclaims, but Nova turns away from her, staring down at the paper clipped to the top of the board.

CERTIFICATE OF DEATH:

SAMARA LUCINDA VEGA

Date of death: 12/14/2006

Date of birth: 03/23/2004

Cause of death: Sepsis derived from respiratory system, pneumonia

The chart clatters to the floor and Nova turns, holding up trembling hands as he backs up against the wall of the emergency room, his eyes wide with shock.

"NOOOO!!" comes an anguished wail from down the hall, and Nova looks up to see Ariel standing next to a doctor, sobbing hysterically. The doctor puts her arm on Ariel’s, but Nova’s ex-wife can only cry, one hand pressed to her own cheek. She looks up, and her eyes widen as she sees Nova leaned against the wall several yards away.

She pushes past the doctor and races towards him. Nova does nothing as she reaches him, arms outstretched, and begins flailing against him desperately.

Time slows dramatically, and "Bell-Bottom Blues" by Derek & the Dominoes comes back to Nova in this moment, when he looks down and sees Ariel’s head lowered, her arms slowly pulling back into the air and coming down against his chest.

"Do you wanna see me crawl across the floor to you? Do you wanna hear me beg you to take me back?"

Her fists pound against him, her head still down as her body shakes with every wail that escapes her lungs.

"Baby, do ya ‘cuz I don’t wanna faaaaade awaaaay…give me one more day, please…I don’t wanna faaaaade awaaaaaay…in your heart I wanna stay…"

Time speeds back up as orderlies pull Ariel away from Nova. She’s shaking with rage and despair, eyes puffy and lips trembling. She stares her ex-husband in the face, and for the first time, Nova feels true hatred emanating from her eyes. "I never want to see you again. Ever."

Snapping out of the nightmare that seems to swirling in nauseating circles around him, Nova takes a step forward. "Ariel, you don’t…please, you don’t…"

"I mean it, Nova," Ariel practically spits through gritted teeth, "I mean it as much as I thought you meant those things you said about still needing your family. And now…now I just want to be alone…alone with my daughter."

She turns away into the arms of one of the nurses who Nova recognizes even now as one of his ex-wife’s old friends. She glares at Nova, her lip curling in disgust.

"Ariel, wait…," Nova protests, stepping forward and holding out a hand, but a man dressed in scrubs steps in front of him.

"I think you better leave," the man says coldly.

"No, just let me…," Nova begins, trying to get around him, but the man stands firm.

"Leave now," he repeats.

Nova looks him in the eyes, the beginnings of white-hot anger starting to pop off his brain like tiny fireworks. He could put this man in his own hospital with one punch, no doubt about that.

His narrowed eyebrows turn downward, and the sparks fade.

But why do that?

Hadn’t he become enough of a villain?



------*~*~*------



December 16th, 2006, the studio in Columbus, very late

Nova shoves back his chair and stands up, a silhouette in the darkness, and begins pacing around his side of the table. "Yes, you know what choice Wyatt made the same as I do, Tom. He chose loyalty to his best friend over the festering, needy little town, and he turned his back on the Inhuman one and the whole lot of them. Except for the girl with the golden hair! She still haunted his dreams, and Wyatt wanted nothing else but one more chance to win her away for himself. After all, he deserved that much after everything he had done!"

Nova slams his hands down on the table, and Thomas Robinson begins shaking uncontrollably. "Nova, I…"

"For more than a month leading up to that final confrontation, the town was razed with warring factions!" Nova cries. "Wyatt, Holliday, and their gang of outlaws were met at every turn by the Inhuman one and his band of ‘do-gooders and freedom fighters,’ as the press chose to label them, and it was beautiful chaos, the epitome and consummate image of the Wild West, until finally! FINALLY! The night of the showdown was upon them, with the stakes as high as they’d ever been! Wyatt and his friend-turned-enemy met in the middle of the town and drew their weapons!"

Nova holds out his arms, and for the first time, what little light there is in the room falls on his face. "Do you know how it ended, Tom?! Do you know what they said about that epic battle?!"

"No!" Robinson cries in response, cowering back in his chair.

With one smooth movement, Nova pulls his hooded sweatshirt over his head and drops it onto the table, at the same time hitting a switch that causes overhead lights to envelop the room in fluorescent bleached-out color.









His chest heaving with heavy breaths, Nova stares into Robinson’s eyes, the dark circles underneath his own giving them a ghostly quality.

"They said that was the last duel Wyatt Earp ever fought."



------*~*~*------



December 14th, 2006, Nova’s hotel room at the Holiday Inn Express, Detroit, MI, almost midnight

The Rising Star stands in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand pressed against it and the other holding firmly onto the marble countertop. Tears pour down his face, and he almost has to squint through them as he stares despondently at his watery reflection.

The bandanna. The beard. The hair.

He had become what he always feared the most: a joke. And in the process, he had ruined lives, making the joke a cruel one.

In light of his daughter’s death, his funny stoner shtick seems ludicrous. It all seems so ludicrous, so fake and shallow, like a dirty bronze coin wrapped in gold foil.

He had let this image of himself, and the same one crafted with a hunk of metal slung over his shoulder, so dominate his life that nothing else could break through. The Universal Title was the only thing that had mattered.

It’s made more pathetic by the fact that it isn’t the first time he’s let this kind of pursuit dominate his life. It’s just the worst, because now he truly has nothing. No family. No support. What he has is his reflection in the mirror.

And he hates it.

The gentle buzzing of the electric razor thankfully breaks the depressing silence. Nova begins running it over his face.



------*~*~*------



December 16th, 2006, the studio in Columbus, still very late

Thomas Robinson eyes the door as Nova stands in front of him, and thanks God for the table between them.

"They said," Nova continues, "that Wyatt lost this second duel to the Inhuman one’s immaculate gun-hand, and that when he did, he went crazy with anguish over another lost opportunity to win the hand of the girl with golden hair. They said that Earp wandered out into the desert, his soul consumed with lamentations, until he disappeared in a sandstorm and was never heard from again."

"That’s…that…," Robinson stammers, but Nova slams his fists down on the table again, sweat running down the sides of his pale face, on which is displayed a look of…desperation?

"So whaddaya think, Tom?!" Nova growls, "are they still the same story, mine and his? Is that it’s gonna turn out for me? Ride off like Wyatt Earp, crazy from another defeat that my psyche can’t handle? Off into the fuckin’ sandstorm?!"

"I…I don’t know!" Robinson exclaims, holding his arms up.

"OF COURSE YOU DON’T!!" Nova screams, spit flying out of his mouth, "OF COURSE YOU DON’T, TOM! YOU’RE ONLY THE MESSENGER! DON’T SHOOT THE FUCKING MESSENGER!"

Nova collapses back into a chair, his head coming to rest in the cradle of his arms on the tabletop. "This…interview…is over, Robinson. Get the fuck out of here."

Wasting no time, Thomas C. Robinson grabs his briefcase and flees from the room. Nova doesn’t lift his head to watch him go.



"That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."

- Joan Didion, "Goodbye to all That"
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