Visiting Hours Aren't My Style

-=- It’s 11:00 PM, Pacific time. At Palm Springs General Hospital in Palm Springs, California, Flex Kavana is lying in a bed with a nurse attending him. She goes through some standard medical practices such as taking his temperature and blood pressure, packs up her things, and leaves. On her way out, she flips the lightswitch. The lights shut off, leaving only the cast light from the hallway washing over Flex Kavana’s bed, dimly illuminating his face. When the door swings closed and clicks shut, all light is removed. Flex lies motionless in the dark, by no choice of his own. Due to the actions of Nomad and Chandler on last week’s Tuesday Night Heat, he’s paralyzed from the neck down. A grim fate, to be sure -=-

R R R R I P
-=- Flex Kavana’s eyes go wide as a length of duct tape torn from an unseen roll stretches across his face, sealing his mouth shut. He tries to speak, but little sound can escape. He hears hard, heavy footsteps pacing around to the end of his bed. He hears the wheeled table his meals are served on gliding across the floor. Nothing can be seen in the darkness. He hears flowing fabric, then feels someone jump onto the foot of his bed. He only knows because his pillow moves, as well. The rest of his body is completely devoid of feeling. A few agonizing seconds go by. Silence. Flex Kavana can almost pretend that no one’s there; That nothing is happening. His illusion of security is soon shattered -=-

Oh, how the not-so-mighty have fallen. Hello, Flex.

-=- As the familiar voice speaks, Flex does everything in his power to squirm. His body does not respond. A sharp, quick grinding is heard as a lighter is flicked on. A Zippo. The light, although dim, shows the identity of Flex’s visitor with terrifying clarity. At the foot of the bed, perched on the footboard, is Nomad -=-

I see you’re doing well. I know, I know, you think it sucks that you’ll never walk again. Never feel the sun wash over your body at the beach. Never enjoy the pleasures of a woman. But hey, you’re still breathing. Imagine how Triston Hawk feels. Poor bastard’s dead. And his family doesn’t even have the body. I mean, they WOULD if they would bother to look in the New York City landfill. But there are stranger things there than bodies, so I don’t really blame them for skipping over it. Anyways, that’s beside the point. I came here to send a message. To make a statement. I know, I know, I already did that when I broke your skinny little neck like a dried-out popsicle stick. But I want to make sure everyone....EVERYONE....knows that they’re not safe. They’re never safe.

-=- Nomad reaches over and places his still-lit jet black Zippo lighter on the wheeled table that has been placed next to the bed. Although the lighting shifts a little, it doesn’t get any less eerie -=-

You were a virus, Flex. One of many contributing to the fall of an empire. The EWA is my Rome. And you were trying to kill it. Looks like I beat you to the punch, didn’t I? But don’t feel pity for yourself. You are not alone. Triston Hawk is dead. Ryan Maher, Jay Flash, and Jay Schettino all share your fate as well. And by the time we are through with our quest, you will all have roommates in the hospital beds beside you. There are others, many others who must be removed. It’s not just the freshest faces. It’s anyone who wasn’t around to put blood, sweat, and tears into the construction of the EWA. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate its grand legacy. MY grand legacy.

-=- Nomad flashes a quick, sinister grin -=-

Ha. Legacy. You walk all over it like a welcome mat. Well, you WOULD walk all over it, if I hadn’t robbed you of your independent mobility. But the ideals are still there. You ignore our sacrifices, traipse all over our memories. And to what end? To steal our spotlight. To push us into obscurity. I WILL NOT BE PUSHED, FLEX. I’m pushing back, and I’m pushing harder than anyone of your weak breed has the balls to. I didn’t get to where I am today by reciting ancient Mexican history, or holding talk shows and marriages that waste valuable TV time. I am a man of action. I don’t like speech. It’s thin, it has no substance. It’s far too easy to LIE. Actions....actions are the physical representations of our convictions. If you lie with your actions, then you are lying to yourself. And I deal heavily in truth. You. You and all the others like you, you’re all the same. You don’t do what you do because you believe in it. You believe in the money, nothing more. You want the spotlight because your t-shirt sales will increase, not because it MEANS something to you. That, my friend, is the difference that makes you the enemy. Something with no meaning to a man can be easily betrayed, easily forgotten, easily abandoned. You’re all the same. You’re all one enemy taking many different forms. You may be Flex Kavana, but you could just as well be Sid Luscious, Dirk Dagger, Sakyo Kyuma, The Truth....the list is endless. When I hurt one of you, it’s not personal. I simply see it as a means to an end.

-=- Nomad reaches under his trenchcoat, and pulls out a glistening, razor-sharp icepick. Flex screams as hard as he can, but it sounds like little more than a moan under the duct tape. Nomad speaks forcefully, his words escaping his mouth in a harsh whisper -=-

You feel nothing for the EWA. Therefore I feel nothing for you.

-=- Nomad slams the icepick down hard, driving it a quarter inch into the bone of Flex Kavana’s leg. He screams out of terror, but is even more scared when he doesn’t feel a thing. Again the icepick comes down, this time deep into his thigh. His mutilation is without pain. The real damage being done is to his mind. Nomad brings his arm up again, then slams it down. The icepick slides effortlessly into the flesh of his upper thigh, where the leg meets the torso. Blood stains the cheap hospital blanket, and Flex’s eyes send tears down his cheeks -=-

You feel nothing, I feel nothing. I wonder, Flex. Since you can’t feel a thing, could I take out your heart and show it to you while it beats its last? Could you endure that terrible, painless trauma?

-=- Nomad raises his arm once more, and Flex’s eyes widen. Suddenly, they close. The EEG next to his bed changes from a rapidly increasing “beep” indicating his heartbeat to a flat, steady tone. His heart has stopped. In just a few seconds, nurses alerted to his flatlined heartbeat burst through the door. They can’t believe their eyes. Flex Kavana is lying in his bed, mouth taped shut, with blood stains all over the blanket covering his legs. An icepick is driven all the way into his abdomen, pinning a note to his body. The nurses immediately go to work. One calls several doctors, one shuts the curiously open window, and several attempt to revive him. One nurse pulls the note free, and reads it -=-

I feel nothing.