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Poor, Poor Thurston Nomad can�t regain control. -=- Nomad is behind the wheel of his familiar jet black BMW Z3 Roadster, windows open, cranking "Voices" by Disturbed. The sleek German import sports car is shooting like a bullet down a road in Germany. He�s just left a Monday afternoon luncheon meeting with Dave Fenichel discussing his new line of merchandise, and is now heading back to Berlin. Nomad pushes a touch-sensitive button on his Rockford Fosgate deck, and the music pauses. He picks up a cell phone from it�s mount on the center console, and dials a number -=- Hello sir, I�m calling about a great deal we�re now offering for the Curves breast-enhancement system. Is Mr. Howell there? Oh, he�s not accepting calls? That�s alright, I�ll call when it�s more convenient. -=- Nomad hangs up the phone, and a grin comes to his face -=- Dumb little bastard is at the hotel. Well boy, is he ever in for a surprise. -=- Nomad pushes another button on his deck, and the music kicks back in. Nomad turns it up, flips to track three, and accelerates up to 90 miles per hour as "Stupify" slams over the speakers -=- You can tell the difference between a real psycho and a wannabe. You can tell the difference between someone with an identity crisis and someone who is genuinely fucked in the head. Marilyn Manson isn�t a psycho. He�s just starved for attention. Slipknot, on the other hand, are nine of the most messed-up people walking the earth today. Thousands of people stand on rooftops and bridges every year, and threaten to jump. But how many of them actually do it? Wannabes slit their wrists then call 911. Psychos blow their fucking brains out. To go all the way is the ultimate release. To make a half-assed attempt then pussy out is nothing more than a few more minutes in the spotlight. A handful of "Get Well Soon" cards at the hospital, a little more attention from loved ones. Killers are a rare breed. Charles Manson, the true American hero. He didn�t maim people for attention. He slaughtered because he saw every last human being as a simple maggot. Depression, the virus every teenager suffers from, but no one has a cure for. Very few know true depression. Precious few know what it�s like to long for release. Do you know what it�s like to slip into a six-month depression, and suddenly realize you have no idea what happened between September and February? I do. I know all too well. Swallow your pills, draw bloody lines across your frail, frail wrists. In the end, the truly disturbed ones are always revealed. Nomad knows what it�s like to be insane. What it�s like to fall over the edge. What it�s like to be one of the genuine, clean-cut, all-American psychopaths. Thurston Howell? He�s just a pussy. He�s one of the kids who would swallow a bottle of Aspirin, then make himself puke for the rest of the night. What�s the difference between Nomad and Thurston Howell? Balls. -=- Nomad pulls his BMW Z3 Roadster into the hotel parking garage. He gets out wearing a black Perfect Circle t-shirt, black Caffiene cargo shorts, and his black paratrooper-issue stomping boots. His dirty-blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, with two strands hanging down over his Swiss Army sunglasses. He locks up his car, and heads for Thurston Howell�s hotel room -=- When he was a child, Nomad was shunned by the others. He was forced to occupy his time by himself. Rather than play with blocks or toy cars, Nomad imagined how fun it would be to simply KILL PEOPLE. All the classmates, one by one, met their death in Nomad�s head. When Thurston Howell was a child, he rode around in limos, he was spoon-fed caviar. The children loved him, if for no other reason than for his money. Still, it mattered not to Howell. He had his friends, his money, and his comfort. Nomad had nothing. Hardly a fair comparison. How is it, then, that Thurston Howell finds himself trying to emulate Nomad? Trying to be like Nomad? Why is he claiming to be "psycho," when everyone knows it�s just a sham? Simple. Thurston Howell wants the EWA International Title. And what surer way to get it than to follow the already proven formula for success? -=- Nomad knocks on the door of Thurston Howell�s hotel room. Once. Twice. Three times. Still no answer. Nomad prepares to knock a fourth time, when Howell says from inside "Who is it?!" A satisfied smile creeps across Nomad�s face -=- Nomad: Cleaning and maintenance....I�m here to take care of your room. Howell: Aren�t you just a tad bit early? Nomad: HELL NO. Um, well, we have to have the rooms done early today because of a....a company meeting. Howell: Jesus. Alright, hold on, damnit. -=- Just as Howell opens the door, Nomad nails a knee lift into his jaw. Howell flies backwards, reeling, as Nomad hits a series of quick and precise kicks to the back and kidneys. Howell spins around, trying to mount an offense with a right hook, but Nomad blocks it and hyperextends his arm with a quick palm strike. Howell cries in pain, and Nomad kicks him square in the nuts. Nomad sets him up, and delivers the Wandering right through a room service cart. Howell pulls himself to his feet using the nearby bed, and stumbles around for a moment. Nomad capitalizes, getting him in a rear waistlock. Nomad spins around 180 degrees, his back now to the expansive window, and executes an overhead release German suplex....sending Howell right through the window. Below, he splashes into a freezing cold in-ground swimming pool -=- Nomad: I hope you enjoy your dip, Thurston. And I�ll see your sorry ass tomorrow night. -=- Nomad leaves the room, politely closing the door behind him -=- Is there anything one man can�t accomplish? Is there anything one man, against all odds, can�t do? You�re damn right. Nomad can�t regain control. 
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