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04.25.21 1115 Hours NV-318
There was nothing but the open road in front of him. Lonesome, desolate, and empty. Today, the steering wheel played the role of his lariat. The leather seat of his AMG Mercedes-Benz S-Class was his saddle and the chassis as his horse. The Asphalt Cowboy. The primal roar of the six-liter V8 engine echoed through the panorama of the Montezuma landscape. The blistering heat pounding off the asphalt, creating refraction that blurred his field of vision. The power. The speed. The white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel from fast, deadly, and felonious speeds. Everything categorized together was an absolute adrenaline rush.
“GOOD FUCKIN’ MORNING, GODDAMMIT!” he pompously opened with, talking toward the phone mounted on the dashboard with his telltale catchphrase.
“WE ARE IN THE MOTHAFUCKIN DESERT! YEEYUH!” he shouted with a hint of glee. His freakish, tattooed physique was visible as he sported a black tank-top; the usual. Block-shaped Gucci shades covered his eyes like a shield from the sunlight that beamed through the low-grade tint of the glass.
“So... I’m gonna cut straight to the chase...” he said with an exulting grin crossing his lips. “All week long my phones been blowing up. People telling me “Sil, this weird bitch in a bat suit has been talkin’ MAD shit about you.” Throwing my name around like it’s going out of style. I’ve seen the tapes. I know the shit that’s been said behind my back. I’ve gone all week listening to this asshat feed off their ego about how I’m nobody. I’m show. I’m mentally weak... I get it. You see my physique, and immediately you retort that I’m insecure.”
The disputatious thoughts cloud his mind as his grin shifts to grimace. His anger and mania were made completely visible as if the sunglasses he wore couldn’t mask his demeanor. He drops more pressure from his foot onto the throttle, increasing speed. 110. 120. 130 miles per hour.
“I think it’s safe to say that you’ve said more than your fair share of words, sweetie, and now it’s MY time to unleash MY thoughts. Feed MY rhetoric. It’s funny how someone can say so much, yet say so little. Empty words. All filler. It’s funny how I live rent-free in your head, yet I literally JUST found out about you. It’s funny how you can spend twenty-five documented minutes talking about my physique, and carry on as if you’re speaking words of wisdom. As if I didn’t hear this same bullshit last week from Sky Edwards. Yet... here you are, wanting to go out and spew that fed-up line of rhetoric, and try to brainwash everyone into believing I am nothing. I know you’re beggin’ me to do a name drop and tear you to pieces, but in my eyes, you don’t deserve the clout that you beg oh so dearly for. You don’t deserve an ounce of MY respect. You’re nothing but a walking cliché in this company that they call the XWF. You surround yourself with yes-men, thinking that is what will catapult your career to success, but all-in-all I see through your amateur bullshit.”
Trying to inconceivably manage his anger, he drops the speed back down to a more tolerable clip. His head tilts to the right, and to the left as he scans the horizon; not a carebear, or vehicle in sight. He reclines back in the soft leather; putting his monstrous right arm on the headrest of the empty passenger seat.
“That’s right. Nobody around you will say it, because you’ve blown every male figure in this company. From the JOB squad to the main eventers, you’ve made being a knob polisher a perfect side job! You were too afraid to look adversity in the face, and take on the challenge that comes with competing. You clique up with half of the roster and think that makes you an alpha because someone is always there to have your back when the going gets tough. You want to believe that we can just badmouth each other like five-year-olds, and claim that we suck and ‘ain’t shit’ over and over. All of that typical small-talk from the nineties doesn’t get you anywhere in this business though. You got to go out there and dig deep. Nobody to ensure your safety. No one there to back you up, no one to walk up to backstage and fluff you up, and boost your ego. It’s me. The lone wolf. When you’ve been competing your entire life, I suppose reverse psychology plays some sort of role in this line of work. I guess being spoiled all this time, you wouldn’t know anything about it.”
Through his peripheral field of vision he spots a red object veering closer in his side-view mirror. While he’s going a steady ninety miles per hour, the vehicle passing by makes up ground at an inconceivable rate, zipping past Sil within a mere second. It’s a red Ferrari Tesatorra. Sil raises a brow before he hears the wail of sirens from a trailing Nevada State Police squad car struggling to make up ground to the Ferrari. It flies by Sil, minding no attention to his speed.
“Shit...” Sil murmured to himself, before proceeding back to minding his business, and dropping down to the speed limit like a model American citizen. “I get it, I really do. You can have all the people in the world talk shit for you, but when it comes down to facing your problems in the flesh, you have nobody but yourself to fight your fight. Everyone repeats the same “All Show” mantra that my first opponent talked about, but everything hits different when you’re all of a sudden face-to-face with that “show”. I am not just a statistic; a guess. I surely am not here to be buddy-buddy with everybody in the locker room, and kiss ass to get my way to the top. I am here for making my statement clear. Being this brick shithouse of a man that is the highest prestige above everyone else. And oh boy, once we finally cross paths you will be shown just exactly what I mean by how there are levels to this shit. Because honestly, you are nothing to this company. All you are doing is putting out like some typical slut. Putting out for the bWo, and this company with a fringe amount of talent. Just hype, just another mark that uses your connections to succeed. Once you step in the ring with the unknown, you will know soon enough that I am more than just show. I AM THE SHOW. I am here to make you look like nothing more than Busch League material. I know, you can’t stand being put down, can you? I’ve ran through competition like you on a daily basis, Super Slut... or is it, Miss Fury? Ah, you got me to say it! Nothing to it. You think you are some hot commodity? You can’t see that you’ve been babied and nurtured to the aspect of reality? They haven’t shown you the dark side. They have sheltered you from the ashes of reality in this business..”
He pulls the Benz off of the weathered, cracked and aged asphalt, and onto the terrain. Reaching for a gallon jug that sits on the lonely passenger seat, he pops off the cap, and takes a sip.
“It doesn’t take much to see that I am the outcast. They fear change. They fear a new face. Robert Main, he can ignore me all that he wants. Pretend I’m nonexistent. I can’t expect much from a man that has to change gimmicks every five minutes, and commit pseudocide in hopes that someone will notice so that he can stay relevant. What more can I say? The man is a snooze-fest. A carbon copy of the Universal Champion, whom I’d assume is praying every night that he never crosses paths with me. All of this man’s career has been based around politics, being the champs lackey, and getting an unlimited amount of title shots because he’s been hovering around the spotlight here since the stone ages. Why? Because oh my God, it’s Robert Fucking Main! The man who never drew a dime in this business, yet is given so much credit for doing absolutely jackshit outside of XWF. His played out, boring style that he conjures up is saluted, and approved by the “system”. Why leave? He can get whatever he wants here. But when you put him in the ring with someone he’s never come across; someone bigger, faster, stronger, more elite… he folds. He’s out of his element. Robert Main, you’ll soon find out why you should’ve stayed dead, brotha, because when you cross paths with a beast such as me your career will never be how it once was. People leave that ring a shell of themselves once they feel the power I possess. They leave broken. Robert Main, prepare to leave a part of yourself in the ring Saturday Night. Prepare to be shown that you are a shell of your former self. I’ll show you exactly why you are the Omega, and I am the Alpha.”
He peers out the window, shaded eyes peering onto the backdrop of the horizon, before shaking his head. “What the fuck happened to professional wrestling? It’s become nothing more than a pussified sideshow of mid-card material teaming up to collect every belt. You scratch my back. I’ll scratch yours. If you want to win gold, just join up with the group that houses half of the roster. That’s all you gotta do. You don’t have to look hard to see how the XWF does things around here. It’s a good ole boy system. Everybody knows everybody, and if you’re someone that goes against the grain of their system, and against how they operate they will try to decapitate your run to the top before it starts. Buried. I’ve only been in the XWF for a handful of weeks, and already I can see the charade that’s being played out in front of me. Chivalry is dead. At least here, it is. They treat you like the dark horse if you’re not like them, and I fit that description hand-in-hand…”
He peers at his side-view mirror, looking at absolutely nothing. After taking another sip from his jug, he returns his attention to his phone.
“I don’t care though. Whatever happens, happens. You may think I’m a fraud, a shitty wrestler, and whatever your opinion is, I really don’t give a shit. I’d imagine when I win this Battle Royale, everyone will assume that it was a fluke. Because Sil Frigida… well… we don’t know anything about this Sil Frigida guy. He can’t be that good, can he? He doesn’t walk like us, talk like us, and he damn sure doesn’t act like us. He just showed up one day, got in the ring, and got his shot at Universal gold. I know it makes each of you sick to your stomach. You despise me more that I am becoming the face of this company overnight, and to be honest, I fucking love that shit. I love the hate. It’s what motivates me. Keeps me going. The fact that people want to see you fail, that’s the lifeblood that keeps a motherfucker like me chugging along. Each of you tries so hard to pretend that I don’t exist, that I find it absolutely hilarious.”
He grabs the shades off of his tanned face, revealing dark, gray, soulless eyes. “Think what you want, Goddammit! It makes it easier to stuff the hate back down your throats when I kick your asses all over the ring. Apparently, almost everyone in this business turns mute when my name gets brought up. I wonder why. And when my name does get dropped everyone seems to fumble over their words. Imagine picking at straws to attack your opponent, only to come up with the same ole shit that a one-n-done wrestler that calls himself The Predator babbled out. Oh, you’re supposed to be main event material, correct? What I find more hilarious is when I look at Lycana, it’s like looking in the mirror at Sky Edwards. I get it, bitch, you think my physique is my downfall, you worship the Devil and can spin your head around backward. Same… ole… shit. What is it with everybody wanting to be like everyone else in this business? Be yourself. Be original.”
He takes another glance back at the open road. Once again, it’s Quiet. Dormant. “If these roads could talk, I wonder the stories they would tell. High-speed chases? Joy-rides? What about the number of lost souls that are buried in the desert? That’s what you get when you come face to face with me, mystery. The unknown. Everything that has been jawed about me has been opinionated rubbish. You THINK I’m slow. You THINK I’m nothing more than a sideshow. You THINK that I can’t break you with minimal effort. That’s what you say, but I can see through the incessant lies, and bullshit… you’re scared. Intimidated. You know I’m everything that I say I am, a MACHINE. You see a phenomenon that you believe your mind is deceiving you, but all of that deception turns into actuality when it’s fight night. You twiddle your thumbs. Begin to tremor. Swallow your pride. Fear sets in. As the clock ticks down, I get impatient. I’m ready to break you. I’m ready to destroy each of you and show you what separates me from the XWF brass. You think it’s all a game until you’re getting slammed out of your shoes by a three hundred pound giant. You wanted to see if I was all show, right? Well now, you got it. Welcome to my world. Now get the fuck out!”
Sil clicks off on the feed of his phone. As he does this, he notices something on his instrument cluster that immediately grabs his attention.
The car is off, but he never killed the engine.
“Fuck…” Sil murmured. His frustration channeling, again. He just got the Benz out of the shop today for electrical issues, and took it to the desert for a test drive. He put the car back in park, pressing in the “START” button. Nothing. “Son of a bitch…” he said to himself. He took a glance at his phone, no signal.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” an enraged Sil pounded on the wood-grain steering wheel. Here he was, talkin’ tough, and now he holds no more weight than a wounded deer. Stranded in the middle of the desert. The last vehicle he saw was about thirty minutes ago during the high speed chase between the cop and the Ferrari. Putting on his shades, he kicked open the Benz door; rising out of the car, and into the blistering heat of the Mojave Desert. His eyes scanned the terrain that seemed to extend for miles, peering as far as his vision could see. Through the refraction that the heat from the pavement set, he could see a car swiveling into view. Unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him, he cupped his hand over his forehead, squinting his eyes as the object drove closer towards him. Sil waved his enormous arms in the air, his frame resembling an unreal, monstrous figure from the refraction caused by the heat.
It drew closer, zoning in at a high rate of speed. Sil made sure to make his presence known, stepping onto the right lane of the weathered road. In return, the vehicle changed over to the left lane and zipped past his silhouette. It was almost as if he was a rugged piece of debris hovering over the road, than a human.
“HEY!” Sil chased the car, his arms raised to where he resembled a madman. The driver made no effort whatsoever in slowing down, and he watched it veer off into the distance.
“Asshole…” he said, kicking a combination of sand and dirt in the air. He put his hands on his hip, shaking his head as he went back to his car, leaning against it. He pondered through his racing thoughts, as he looked up at the sky. In only a matter of minutes, a joyride turned into a dark hour. He walked back towards the cab of his Benz, pulling out the phone from the dashboard mount, and checked it once more for a signal. Nothing. Letting out a sigh, he walked towards the trunk; popping it open with his keys, and grabbed the last bottle out of a case of Dasani.
“Looks like I’m fucked.” Sil murmured to himself. “Maybe all that shit they said about me was right. All muscles. No brains.” He let out a rueful chuckle, taking a sip from the bottle of water. The liquid was lukewarm, but quenching as it rolled down his throat. He set his eyes upon the horizon once more, peering at nothing that was there, only hope. Only God knew how long it would be until the next car comes by if they even stop. The closest town was more than eighty miles away… but that was only a guesstimate. Whatever hope he held onto was basically gone. No one was stopping for him. He was a freak. Tall, built like a war machine straight out of the toy aisle of Wal-Mart, and covered from head to toe in tattoos.
“So, this is it…” he murmured the inevitable to himself. Maybe he underestimated nature. Maybe he wasn’t as macho as he once claimed he was. He lead himself into the middle of the desert, only to become stranded. Now, he’s alone as the road his ten toes stood helpless on. Survival was the primary instinct that kicked in, but when you break everything down, a human can only endure the radiant heat of the Mojave sun for a number of hours before giving out, even with water. With a dead battery, he was basically up shits creek without a paddle.
Wait…
The reecho of multiple wheels on asphalt could be heard rolling from a distance. It immediately caught Sil’s attention, as he scanned his right and the left. The loud whistle of a diesel engine resonated throughout the shallow depths of the desert, as from the oncoming lane of where his car was parked the silhouette of the bulky chassis of a semi-truck could be seen. The situation, for some reason or another, caused his pulse to race. Though he was still, at least a mile away he began waving his arms in the air as if he was drowning, doing anything that he could to get the trucker's attention.
It inched closer, making up ground by the second. The winding of the powerful engine became more prominent on the ears. He could now make out its appearance; long nose, smokestacks on both sides, and from what he could distinguish it was dark in color. Sil took advantage of his monstrous frame, as he stood in the middle of the road so that his mass covered both lanes. If the semi-truck was going to avoid Sil, he’d have to veer off the road in order to do so. The tractor-trailer had now cleared the slopes and was on the straightway; a quarter-mile from Sil’s position.
The driver grew closer to Sil, and it was apparent that he caught a glimpse of his silhouette. Going at least seventy-five miles per hour, the sound of his foot pumping on the brakes echoed through the badlands, as his tires began to skid on the asphalt. The combination of the chain reaction increased the drama, causing Sil to nervously brace himself to make a dive if the truck couldn’t stop in time. The truck’s trailer began to sway to the left; smoke from the drive and trailer tires plumed from the road as the truck drew closer, and closer to Sil.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiit…” Sil squalled, as the truck was now sliding towards him. For what seemed like a mile, the truck finally came to a complete stop, about fifty feet from where he was standing. The driver laid down on his horn, as Sil stopped waving his hands, and walked over to the driver's side of the cab. The driver gave him a smug, irritated, and nervous look, before rolling down his window.
“Gawddamn dude! I coulda squashed your big ass like a bug! The hell you doin out here!?” The trucker yelled over the rumble of his engine. Perhaps the sight of an unworldly sized man in the middle of the desert threw him off, and perhaps him standing in the road stopping him was making him even more frantic. Sil sported a sheepish, helpless grin. This was his only hope to get out of this dire situation.
“I broke down...” Sil said, arms out as if he was giving a peaceful signage, before reaching for his wallet. He flashed what looked to be a few hundred dollar bills. “I got five hundred dollars brotha. Just get me to the next town, and I’ll be out your way.”
The driver was still wary of the situation. He eyed Sil’s face. Then the bills. Then he pondered in his mind the risk of the situation. He needed the money. Donna was just laid off last week at Billy’s Bar & Grill, and the kids needed new clothes.
“But this meathead could break my neck with one flex of the arm, and take my truck. Then what the fuck are you gonna do?”
The driver gritted his teeth, looking at his passenger seat, and back at Sil before making a decision.
“Alright dude, get in.”
Sil let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He made his way to his car, popping open the trunk, yet again to pull out an all-black “ELITE” duffle bag. He manually locked all the doors to his car, before he walked towards the passenger side of the black Peterbilt 379, but not before scanning the truck. It was a beauty. Recently polished, jet black, chromed out. He knew the risk of hitching a ride off of a trucker. He’s seen the movies; heard the horror stories of serial killers who were truck drivers.
"But you’re Sil Frigida. Let him try something slick."
Sil popped open the passenger door, and grabbed ahold of the chrome handle on the side of the tractor, and hopped into the cab. Now that he could see Sil up close, his eyes grew wide, as he made it how apparent he was of Sil’s stature.
“Damn, you’re one big mudderfucker!” the trucker said before shifting his truck back into gear. He was a somewhat heavyset man, wearing a folded bill hat that had a Peterbilt logo on the front, with a black T-Shirt, some fitted blue jeans, and some boots. Sil chuckled at his remark.
“I worked hard for it, brotha.” he said with delight. “You’re a lifesaver. I thought I was gonna be stranded here forever.”
“Damn dude. How long you been out here?” the trucker said as his eyes peered on the road, up-shifting through gears, and back at Sil.
“Close to an hour. My battery died. I was starting to cook in that sun!” Sil said, whilst extending his hulking right arm out. “Names Sil.”
The trucker glanced at Sil’s tattooed arm, before reaching out and shaking his hand.
“Just call me Big J.” He said with his southern drawl, before whipping out a pack of Camel’s from a small bay above the radio. Sil absolutely hated cigarettes, and he instantly concluded that this was going to be a long trip…
________________________________________________________________
.::// Chapter 002 \\::.
“Breaker, breaker 19!” the grisly, southern drawl of a man echoed over the cab of the Peterbilt 379 from the CB radio.
“Viva Las Vegas, baby! Where them lot lizards at?” the voice of another male followed along.
“You can find them out at the Pilot by five-seventy-three.”
“Ten-four! I’m tryin’ to find me somewhere to poke my dipstick!” The man replied back. Sil cringed at the thought of some nasty, fat, horny trucker on the prowl.
“This guy can’t be serious.” Sil uncomfortably laughed in disbelief. Big J grinned, looking back at Sil.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You stay at one of these truck stops long enough, you’ll see some crazy shit… I don’t blame the mudderfucker though, life get’s old out here on the road for a good ole trucker.”
Sil laughed again. “You ever smashed a lot lizard?” He shot a glance at Big J, causing him to take a moment to think before answering.
“… Nawl.” He said, but couldn’t keep a straight face.
“Don’t lie motherfucker! You’ve had this cab slitherin’ with them things, haven’t you?” Sil said with a smirk, causing Big J to turn red with embarrassment.
“… Okay, there was this one time. But, I couldn’t resist dude. She was the sexiest lot lizard on the damn planet… I thought my eyes were deceivin’ me, or maybe she was a tranny… but she was the real deal Holyfield.”
“Ahh… you nasty mothafucka!” Sil burst with laughter. “I hope for your sake you strapped up.”
“Of course. I can’t take anything back to my wife.” Big J murmured, his words tainted with shame.
“Aww, damn… that’s cold brotha!” Sil said with a rueful grin. He’s had his share of moments of infidelity, but never could he think of messing with a prostitute. The thought of being with a woman that has been shared with multiple men in one day made him want to hurl. Either way, he didn’t look at Big J any different. He was the man that rescued him after his car broke down. In his book, Big J was a saint. “But you know what they say about Vegas…”
“Yeah, what happens here, stays here… but that happened in Georgia.”
“Oh shit, got you a Georgia peach, huh?” Sil asked as Big J chuckled.
“Oh yeah, you can say that. Big round booty, dark skin, she’s got a place in my heart forever.” Big J looked as if he was reminiscing in the thoughts as his face went blank. Sil shook his head, still sporting a cheap grin.
“You’re wild Big J…” he said, but the subject was making him somewhat uncomfortable, and he was eager to change it. “You know, I used to think y’all truckers were just mindless zombies. I’ve had my share of run-ins with them on the road. Just a few days ago I had this Swift driver back-up traffic in the hammer lane. Fuckin’ asshole, but ever since I hitched a ride off you I’ve got a newfound respect for truck drivers.”
“Well, that’s the problem, it was Swift!” Big J cackled as he was fumbling through his pack of filtered Camel’s. He rolled his window down with the touch of a button. Like a skilled magician he used his knees to steer the eighty thousand pound clunk of steel, as he lit the cigarette, and drew the smoke into his lungs. For a moment anxiety drew into Sil as he watched the guy carelessly steer the tractor-trailer with basically no more than his legs while lighting a cigarette, but reality quickly sunk in as he realized he was just as careless. “What about you? What do you do? Are you a soldier? Bodybuilder? Power-lifter? Superhero? Supervillain?”
Sil snickered at the question. His newfound friend had a way with his words. “Well… I know it would be hard for you to believe it, but you’re not too far off. I’m a pro wrestler.”
“No shit.” Big J’s eyes grew wide, as he coughed on a plume of smoke that got caught in his throat. “Like… wrestling-wrestling? Slam people around, hit people with chairs, and all that shit?”
Sil chuckled, again. “You could say that. I started doing it about twenty years ago, but I left back in o’-five. I literally just came back. I did bodybuilding, boxing, mixed martial arts. You can say I’ve done a bit of everything, but there’s something about this shit that brought me back, man. I guess it’s just the freedom of the business. Where I work, there’s nothing really holding you back from being who you want to be. Nobodies micromanaging you, or telling you how to walk, talk, eat, breathe, shit and sleep. But, there’s a lot of political heresy.”
“Politics? You don’t say.” Big J nodded his head, taking another drawl from his Camel.
“Yeah brotha, the longer I’m there, the more I see it. Everything almost revolves around one large clique. And they wonder why nobody wants to join the company. They wonder why ratings are dropping at a dramatic rate. Why join a place that makes it so apparent that you’ll only make it if you give in, and join the bOb? They act like this is ninety-six.” As Sil finished, the trucker’s jaw dropped, eyes growing wide yet again.
“Aww hell… you’re in the XWF!?”
“Yup…”
“Wait… you’re that new guy aren’t you? Sil Fregulla or somethin’ like that?” Sil mustered up a chuckle at J’s botched attempt at saying his name.
“Frigida, brotha. You were close though.”
“Yeah, dude. I knew I seen you somewhere. I was up in Oklahoma last week at a TA, and saw a glimpse of you on TV. You picked that methhead lookin sumbitch up on the top rope and slammed his ass on his head! Fuckin’ hell!”
Big J could barely hold in his excitement. He cheesed from ear to ear, feeling happier than he’d ever been. Meeting a celebrity can be a life altering experience to some, and to J, his dream was to always meet someone famous. This may have been his best moment, ever. Even better than the time he spent with that Georgia peach. He threw the cigarette out the window, and rolled up the window.
“You got that right. How often do you tune in?”
“Man, I ain’t paid too much attention lately. Like you said, that shit’s been getting too political. It’s boring. Same ole shit it seems for the past few years! You can pretty much pencil in how every week is gonna go; Robert Main can’t decide if he’s dead or alive, almost everybody is in the bWo, and Chris Page is gonna be spoonfed a bum so he can keep his Universal Title. Apparently the XWF thinks he should be the champ forever.”
“Well he won’t be for long, brotha. You got my word on that!” Sil interjected. “I can see how despised I am by everyone there, though. Ever since I got on the scene they’ve been trying to blacklist me. I guess they weren’t expecting me to come in, kick ass, and be this big of a draw, but I already got a Universal Title shot if I walk out of this Battle Royale this week. Yours truly, Robert Main is one of my opponents.”
“Well you better give that mudderfucker hell! I’m sick of seein’ the same ole bastards do the same ole shit every night. I’ve been waiting for someone to give me a reason to tune into wrestling again.”
“Oh yeah, you’ll see something new.”
“Hell yeah, brother. I’m in your corner!”
Big J made an exit at Lamb Boulevard. He steered the massive long-nose Pete through the narrow streets of Las Vegas, making a wide right turn about a half of a mile past the exit. “How often you come to Vegas?”
“It’s my home away from home, brotha! Love this place. I’ve fought at the MGM Grand, and a few of the small Casino’s in town.”
“I’ve blown through a grand up in Circus Circus. Sent my blood pressure through the roof!”
Sil gave him a sly grin, and shook his head, cringing at the thought of all that money thrown into some slot machine. Big J didn’t seem like a guy who made good life decisions, and Sil was ready to get the hell out of this truck. His clothes reeked of cigarette smoke, he was hungry, and a million other reasons crossed his mind as to why he wanted to go about his day. Big J took another right into the Pilot truck stop, where there were a slew of semi-trucks parked at the fuel islands, and across the lot. From here, J pulled in behind another trailer that read “J.B Hunt” on the rear doors. He popped the air brakes.
“Appreciate the ride, brotha.” Sil extended his arm once more at Big J, dapping him up before he opened the passenger door.
“You sure you got a ride back to LA?”
“Yeah, brotha. Don’t worry about it. You got my social media info. Hit me up sometime!” Sil, in a haste hopped out of the truck. About three hours ago he had notified Puss that he had broke down, and to pick him up in Vegas. Surveying the lot, he saw no sight of Pussy’s champagne colored Cadillac CTS.
“Late, as usual…” Sil murmured to himself, putting on a black ELITE mask as he trotted sideways thru the double glass doors of the truck stop. Upon entering, the ringing of slot machines caught his attention, along with the eyes that were instantly locked in his presence. Sil eyed the overweight trucker, who was in the process of purchasing fuel, and the cashier staring dead at him. Their eyes immediately shot away when his eyes darted towards theirs. He was getting that awkward feeling he usually does when he walks into an unfamiliar area.
Everyone seems to always have their attention set on his size as if he‘s some sort of freakshow that they’ve never seen before. He walked through the chips aisle, and over to the coolers, where he opened up the door that housed the bottled waters. There, he picked up a liter bottle of Evian, then made a step over to the dairy door to grab a shake. He spotted another stranger, who was bent over, peeping through magazines locked in a daze at his presence.
“What’s uuuuup, brotha?” Sil casually said, causing the person to flinch at the brawn tone of his voice. Sil snickered, shaking his head as he walked past him, and towards the register, where a slender Puerto Rican female was awaiting him, with a surreptitious glance.
“She knows who I am. She probably thinks if she tries hard enough to impress, maybe she has a shot.” Sil said to himself, before placing his massive arm on the counter to drop the water and shake.
“How you doin’ hon?” She said in a somewhat seductive manner, smacking on some chewing gum that made her mask move loosely on her face. She eyed him with her dark, beady eyes.
“Long day…” Sil shrugged, eyeing her name tag, which read ‘Julie’. “How about you, Julie?”
“Just the same ole shit.” She replied back. Ringing up his Muscle Milk, and water. “If I’m gonna be honest, I’m ready to clock out. Fuck this job…”
“Oh damn, why’s that?” Sil asked, trying to seem curious, eyes narrowing.
“All these creeps that come in here trying to hit on me. It just gets old…”
“Oh yeah, this is Las Vegas. I’m sure an attractive woman like you doesn’t have to look hard for another job.”
Julie visibly cheesed at Sil’s effortless approach. Her tanned skin tone turning a shade of red, as she looked at Sil with her beady eyes. “What are you saying? I should become a stripper or a porn star?”
Sil staggered into the counter with laughter, placing his hands up, apologetically. “Nahh! Absolutely not. Just saying your beauty speaks for itself. You could always be a supermodel, or an actor.”
“I was just messin’ with you.” she giggled at Sil’s remark. “Thanks for the compliment, though. Your total comes out to seven thirty-nine.”
Sil reached for his wallet, pulling out a twenty dollar bill, along with a business card. “You know what, I own a nutrition company out in LA. Why don’t you holler at me sometime, and we can work on getting you a REAL job.”
Julie’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, as she stared down at the business card. It was professional grade; luxurious, with a cream background, gold edges and the words “ELITE” embossed on the card in black and silver ink. The name “Sil Frigida” with “Owner” and his contact information stood out in block lettering. “Oh my God, are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his shake and water off the counter. “Just call me at that number. Anytime. Anyday.”
“Wow! I don't even know what to say... Thank you so much!” she said to a trailing Sil.
“Wait, Sil! Your change…”
“Keep it. It's on me.” he said, before walking out to the front of the store. He eyed the gas pumps and the parking lot. Still, no sight of Puss. Shaking his head, he screwed the cap off of his shake, guzzling down the chalky, vanilla-flavored contents in a haste, tossing it into the garbage can with the Pilot logo faded on the sides. Walking over to a weathered, cheap bench that was beside the door, he took a seat. Fumbling out his phone from his pocket, he scrolled through his contacts, selecting Pussy’s number. The phone rang once… then twice…
“Sil! How ya doin’?” the man on the other line answered.
“Where you at, Puss? I gotta get my car out of the dessert, and we ain’t got time to fuck around Goddammit!”
“I’m jammed up on the fifteen Sil. Traffic's backed up for miles.”
“Fuck…” Sil murmured. Before he could say anything else three cars; an ‘89 Cutlass, ‘64 Impala, and a ‘71 Lincoln Continental pulled up on a seated Sil. His eyes grew wide, caught off guard, as he dropped his phone and rose to his feet. By the time he was standing he was caught right on the jaw by a sucker punch from his right.
“You tryna’ get at my girl you hoe ass n***a!?” the man who punched him off guard shouted. Anyone who takes a punch unexpectedly can vouch that it’s always the one that you don’t see coming that can take you out. In this case, it stunned Sil, and sent him staggering into the ice machine next to the bench. The man who punched Sil was African American, stood at about six foot three, and looked stacked with muscle; probably close to two hundred and forty pounds. Granted, not as large as Sil, but a punch from a man of that stature is guaranteed to be destructive. Sil staggered back, and instantly lunged for a take down on his assailant. He shot for both of his legs, effortlessly lifting the man up, and slammed him head first on the concrete.
To say that the impact of a human’s skull connecting on concrete is tragic is an absolute understatement. It’s grim. Burdensome. Brutal. Guaranteed to cause a massive concussion, and in many cases, death. When a three hundred and fifteen pound man trained in Greco-Roman wrestling slams an untrained man hovering over two hundred and forty pounds, the results are sure to be catastrophic. The sound of the man’s skull cracking on the pavement echoed across the parking lot. His girlfriend, the cashier who rung up Sil’s order was trailing behind her boyfriend when the incident happened, and began to scream hysterically. Sil instantly rose up, the sound of car doors opening up, and the telltale click-clack of automatic guns was prominent on his ears. At this point, everything he was running on was muscle-memory, and instinct, he instantly did his best track-star impression as he darted to his right and around the side of the building.
“QUENTIIIIIIIN!” One of the men shrieked. His friend was on the ground convulsing; body seizing as his eyes rolled in the back of his head. He let the violent music of his Israeli uzi ring out. Bullets spit and tore into the bench, the ice machine, inside the store, as his friends followed with the clap of .45 caliber bullets from their Glock’s. Sil attempted to retreat, barreling through a Pilot employee who was frozen in shock, and fear with a shoulder block that sent the attendant flying through the air. With nowhere to run, his options to survive were dropping by the second.
Suddenly…
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!
Among the chaos of gunshots, screams, and the frantic cries of helpless civilians an airhorn as loud as a train wailed across the lot. On instinct alone he knew that it was his ticket to surviving today. Sil’s eyes darted towards the fuel island, where he spotted Big J’s black Peterbilt across the lot. He let down on his horn, again before accelerating towards a racing Sil, who was weaving in and out of semi trucks like a secret agent on a mission. Sil ran, ran as fast as he ever had towards the passenger door of the Pete; grabbing the railing, and jumping as high as he could into the cab. Fuck three points of contact, today.
“Fuckin punch it, Big J!” Sil screamed, ducking for cover between the sleeper berth, and cab. The thunderclap of multiple guns tore through the trailer of the semi, as a stray bullet hit the windshield. Like a seasoned Iraqi war veteran operating a tank, Big J whipped the seventy-foot-long machine into a U-Turn around two tractor-trailers and hi-tailed it out of the war-zone.
“… Jesus….” Sil gasped, breathing heavily as the shot of adrenaline made him feel every blood vessel and artery pump heavily through his frame. From where he lay, he turned his massive frame around to see Big J floating through gears facilely, scanning his mirrors as if this wasn’t his first rodeo.
“It’s clear, bossman!” Big J shouted from the front of the cab. He reached for a fresh pack of Camel’s he had just bought moments before the show went down. Flipping open his Zippo, he flicked the wheel once to ignite the square between his lips, blowing out an evermore relieving plume of smoke. “Hellfire, boy! You stirred up a hell of a hornets nest back there didn’t ya?”
Still in the process of gathering his thoughts, Sil slowly raised to his feet. At forty three years old, and the amount of bumps his body has taken in it’s lifetime, he had pushed his body the hardest it’s ever been pushed in the matter of minutes. With the adrenaline still flowing frantically through him, the pain had yet to fully set in, yet he still felt his shins crying out in pain from hitting the steel steps on the walkway of the Pete.
“…What… a fuckin’… day.”
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