(FADE IN: The back hallways of the DeanDome, under low lighting.) You can’t hear the crowd but if you could it might not matter because the CSWA’s target fanbase probably isn’t that familiar with NOVA. Clad in blue jeans and a sleeveless black NFW t-shirt, he stands in front of a glassed-in shrine to some of the C-S-Dub’s finest moments, captured in blown-up photographs and random pieces of memorabilia…a blood-stained cut-out from the ring mat of one of Eli Flair’s battles…a strip of wax still clinging defiantly to a strip of Joey Melton’s oppressed chest hair…all kinds of things.

Nova takes a drag of his cigarette and peers pensively at the display.)

NOVA: So many great moments, it’s overwhelming…(looking around at the ceiling and walls)…and yet, I can feel the sickness in this place. I can feel the age and the fatigue in these empty halls, the weight of what has come before and the cost shouldered by that legacy. I hear the wheeze in the lungs of this old man still trying to climb a flight of stairs…

(The Inter-Galactic Greensboro Greenhorn falls to his knees, placing one hand on the glass (creating an unsightly smudge) and the other on the tiled floor of the hallway. His cigarette falls thoughtlessly out of his mouth, and his breaths come heavy.)

NOVA: But the wheeze itself is a sign of life. He’s still breathing. And I can hear the pulse, beating, beating…maybe it’s the mushrooms, I don’t know. I don’t think it really matters. I can hear the beat of life in this place…

(He draws his head down to the floor, long mane of blonde hair falling over his face, until his ear is pressed to the ground. )

NOVA: (Laughing) …more beautiful than a Butch Trucks drum solo. BREATHE, you mastodon! You looming, lording, monolithic monument! BREATHE, you desolate desperate esoteric establishment!

Nova throws his head back, eyes wide (and dilated) as his hands rip his shirt down the middle from the neck.

NOVA: BREATHE!!!

(FTB)