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A Return to Convention -=- The setting is Fifth Avenue in New York City. The car screaming in our direction is a jet black 2002 BMW M Series Roadster. As it approaches, the license plate clearly reads �NOMAD�. It cuts in and out of traffic, deftly maneuvering past cars in such a fashion as to cause taxi drivers to envy the wheelman�s skill. The car screams around a corner, leaving a thick black calling card glued to the street. The eighth-inch of rubber will stay for weeks. The car flies down streets with seeming reckless abandon, until it reaches a parking garage entrance. It cuts across the left lane with a few feet to spare before slamming into oncoming traffic, enters the parking garage, and slams to a stop in a parking space. The door opens, and one black buckle-up steel-toed combat boot hits the pavement. The stereo shuts off, bringing a halt to �Jerk-Off� by Tool, and a man steps out -=- -=- Nomad is dressed head-to-toe in black. Black long-sleeve Henley shirt, black jeans tucked into the aforementioned black buckle-up steel-toe combat boots, and to top it all off....a heavily torn black trenchcoat. Nomad�s dirty-blonde hair is mid-length, hanging down over his face, and his eyes are shrouded behind a pair of Oakley X-Metal Juliet shades with ruby-colored lenses. As he shuts his door and locks his car, a New York City police car pulls into the garage with lights flashing and siren blaring. It comes to a stop behind Nomad�s car, and the siren shuts off. A young, determined officer emerges from the car, gun pointed directly at Nomad�s face -=- Officer: FREEZE!!! You�re under arrest for reckless driving, reckless endangerment, excessive speeding in a low-speed zone, turning without signaling, making an illegal left-hand turn, and attempted manslaughter!!! Nomad: Actually, I think I�ll charge you with being full of shit. Officer: Excuse me?! Nomad: You�re new, I can tell. Let me show you the way things work around here. This is my car....and I like to drive it the way it was meant to be driven. Not twenty miles an hour through stoplights and crosswalks. Me and the officers of this city, we....have an understanding. Officer: Yeah, and what�s that, asshole? Nomad: We�ve decided that our minor differences in opinion can easily be forgotten when distracted by some dead political figures. -=- Nomad pulls out his wallet so fast the officer doesn�t have time to warn him not to pull a weapon -=- Officer: Sorry, big shot, but I don�t accept bribes. I�m the �clean cop� in town. All the money in the world won�t get to me. Nomad: My my my, how romantic your notions are. All for naught in the end, I�m afraid. You see, you�re a cop in New York City. The second you picked up that badge, your whole life became a bit more....shady. Now then.... -=- Nomad produces several bills from his wallet, counts them off, and hands them to the officer. The officer lets his guard down long enough to count the green stack of paper in his hands, and looks up -=- Officer: Six....thousand? Six THOUSAND dollars?!?!?! Nomad: It�s all I have on me. If it�s not enough, I have a checkbook in the glove compartment. Officer: No, no....it�s....I....alright. You....you can go. Consider this a verbal warning. Nomad: I always do, officer. I always do. -=- Nomad grins as he walks to an elevator and steps in -=- $6,000. A year�s savings for some. For Nomad, it�s merely a few months of t-shirt sales. -=- Nomad steps out of the elevator, crosses the hall, and opens the door to his penthouse apartment. He walks in, slips off his trenchcoat, and drapes it across the back of a chair. He enters his bedroom, takes off his shades, pulls his hair back into a short ponytail, and changes into a black Nonpoint t-shirt. He slips off his boots, puts on a pair of Vans, and heads into the living room. Stacked across the coffee table are piles of tapes, each labeled with a different name....each indicative of a different member of the HIW roster. Nomad ejects a tape labeled �OX�, laughs at it, and hucks it onto the table. He then proceeds to slip in a tape labeled �SERIAL THRYLLA: VOLUME 8� for the 12th time that week -=- Obsession isn�t a fragrance by a rich Los Angeles designer. It�s the focus of one man�s life. It�s the fire that fuels Nomad�s furnace. -=- Nomad reaches over and taps the button labeled �Snooze� on his alarm clock. He climbs out of bed, and gets into the shower. He gets out, dries off, shaves, and completes the rest of his morning routine. He stares at his face in the mirror. His eyes are firey and cold at the same time. The lines of his face are hard-edged and fierce. And the expression on his face is a perfect window to his soul. Hatred. With only a few hours left to get to the arena, Nomad begins to get dressed -=- 
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