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04.28.21 1230 Hours Odessa-Midland, TX
Rain pounded down on the rooftop of the Trail West Lodge where Sil Frigida lay. His hulking frame ached as it was sprawled across an aged, flimsy cot. His mind aimlessly wandering in thought. He wanted to remain focused on the water that dripped from the ceiling, leaving a giant watermark in the floor beside where he lay. He wanted to think about the re-run of Total Recall that has been playing on repeat all morning long on one of only five channels the motel gets. He wanted to think about the NFL Draft tomorrow, or that sexy piece of Latin ass Monica that he met up at the Metro-Fit expo in Sacramento two weeks ago. But for the last three days, he hasn’t been able to clear his retrospection. Wasn’t able to sleep. A slave of his own mind. Every slight movement made his shin’s scream in pain. Being a three-hundred and fifteen pound man, doing a Superman dive into a Peterbilt 379 won’t lead to satisfying results.
And it reminded him. Reminded him of that right hand he ate square on the chin, and what came after; slamming that pog onto the cement with so much force that he heard the unforgiving thud of his skull crack.
And the sound of guns loading... and firing.
Firing, at him…
He couldn’t erase it from his hindsight. It all happened so quickly, yet it remained so… vivid in his mind. For the handful of hours that he could muster up some sleep, his dreams replayed that grim day in Las Vegas. All that shit that happened beforehand with his car was a vague memory. He laid on the cot, listening to the feint thud of water hit the mildewed carpet. The rumble of thunder outside the door. Each drop amplified in his eardrums the longer he lay there, and wandered in his thoughts. Being on the run isn’t as easy as they play it out to be on the big screen. You’ve got to improvise. Lay low. Avoid the main highways, and towns. When you’re moving around in a clunk of steel that’s over seventy feet long, and riddled with bullet-holes, it makes it that much harder to stay under the radar. He’s avoided changing the channel for the past two days. Perhaps being a mid-level celebrity is enough to have your face plastered all over the national news outlets when you’re involved in a crime.
“You’d swear I was OJ Simpson…” he said to himself. All he was trying to do that day was stay alive. Fight back. Sure, he could turn himself in, and possibly be released with no affair. But there’s too much at stake for him to turn back now, and take that chance.
The Battle Royale.
The Universal Championship.
He didn’t come back to “the business”, just to throw his opportunity away overnight. All of this work just to lose it by sitting in the slammer over the weekend was not in his agenda.
“They can deal with me when I finish taking out the trash.” again, he muttered to himself. He rose off the cot, sitting at the end of the cheap, tacky mattress. Looked like the shit was at least fifteen years old. As stiff as cardboard. Felt like it too. Every action over the course of three days had his back, shins, forearms feel like they’d all been battered with baseball bats.
“Not gonna be one hundred percent for Saturday, that’s for sure.” he rubbed at his shoulders, trying to massage out the pain that wouldn’t go away. Either way, he had to get it together. Both physically and mentally. Being reclusive and introverted was eating at his core. He was highly gregarious. It’s what got him this far in life was being the life of the party, no matter where he went. He left his cell phone at the crime scene, and was living life like he was a drug dealer in the trap by using throw-away phones when he needed to get in contact with anybody important. Had to stay out of the public eye. From what he’s seen on the news nobody identified Big J or his truck, but how many tractor-trailers are on the road looking like they’ve been driven around Afghanistan? The Department of Transportation has scale houses set-up up and down the United States, and police don’t have to have probable cause to pull a truck over. All it takes is one cop to conduct a traffic stop, and it was game over. They managed to get out of Las Vegas unscathed, and made it to west Texas, where they laid low since yesterday evening.
The door to the room opened, as a gray ray of light beamed in on Sil’s features, making him squint. Big J hustled into the room, drenched from head to toe in rainwater.
“Gawddamn, it’s pissin’ the rain!” he shouted out. His Peterbilt hat was dripping water at the brim, and his clothes looked like he had jumped in a swimming pool. In his hands he had a plastic bag that read “Thank You! Come Again!” on the front, with a smiley face at the bottom.
“Jesus, Big J… way to scare the shit outta me brotha...” a startled Sil said with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Aww hell… sorry big dog. Forgot we was incognito there for a sec… Here… I brought back some Chinese.” He raised the bag in his hand, and placed it on the cheap, frail table that looked to be on it’s last leg. “Total Recall, again…” Big J shook his head as he eyed the outdated, RCA television. He picked the remote off the table, and clicked it back to the news. There, meteorologist Dan Gilbert had his hand over a large green blob that covered all of Odessa-Midland. “Looks like this shit ain’t lettin’ up anytime soon.”
“Fuck that, I'm not watchin' the news.” Sil protested, reaching for the remote, and switching it to the next channel which was airing a Mexican soap opera. “Ah, you know what… fuck it.” he failed to control his frustration, pounding his fist onto the table, causing one of the legs to give out, with the bag of Chinese food to falling to the ground. Various Tupperware containers scattered across the carpet.
“DAMN Dude! Relax!” Big J let out a heavy sigh, as he picked up the bag from the ground. Fortunately, everything was sealed tight enough to not spill, and become a waste of twenty dollars. “You’re a real asshole when you don’t eat, aren’t you?”
Sil gave him a sly grin, before responding. “My bad, brotha… it’s just… this shit’s getting to me.” he wiped at his hair, grabbing the bag. “You got the shrimp lo-mein?”
“Yup… two orders of it.” he reached out to hand Sil some crumbled up dollar bills. “Here’s your change.”
“Keep it.” he waved off the cash.
“That’s what got us in this mess in the first place.”
“Oh, way to remind me, dick.” Sil snickered, before giving Big J a slight nudge on his shoulder. He grabbed the contents out of the bag, and plopped back down on the cot. “We gotta get a move on it, man. Florida’s at least two days out.”
“YOU gotta get a move on it. I gotta find a way to get these bullet-holes covered up on my truck, and get back on the road.”
“Yeah? So you’re just gonna leave me to fend for myself, Big J? I’ve got to get to this event before Saturday.”
Big J took a moment, pondering over his thoughts. He didn’t feel like becoming an accomplice to a crime, but helping out Sil up to this point had already put him in a shitstorm. Letting out a sigh, Big J looked for a conclusion to help his newfound friend.
“There’s a few rental car companies we can hit up, but that’s all I can do to help you, boss.”
“That’ll be enough, brotha. You’re doin’ this for a good cause.”
“Yeah, don’t call on me if you break down and get stranded again, mudderfucker. STAY FAR. AWAY. FROM ME!”
The two shared a sheepish, yet sincere laugh.
“So… What are you gonna do after you get in the arena? The Marshall's are gonna be all over that bitch like flies on shit.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there…” Sil shrugged. Doubt clung to his words, and he wanted to brush it to the back of his mind. He rose to his feet, food in hand as he walked towards the front of the room, peeling back the blinds to look outside. It’s the first time he’d eyed the outer world in over a day. The parking lot was blank. Empty. Other than the desk agent’s ‘98 Ford Taurus that was parked at the front. Big J managed to find a good spot behind some brush to hide his tractor trailer. For now, this was the perfect setup to stay off the grid. Before he could speak again, a cheap, audible ring came from the nightstand by the bed. Sil shuffled his body towards the back of the cot, picking up a flip phone.
“What’s up?” Sil said. Not the usual, laid back and casual tone he uses. This was a prompt, serious Sil.
“I WU’ed you five G’s.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh yeah, and one more thing…” the person on the other line said with his slimy, New Jersean accent.
“...What’s that?”
“Fuck you.”
And just like that, the line was dead. Sil let out a chuckle, snapping the phone in half with as much force as it takes to break a toothpick, and returned to his meal.
“Fuck you too, Puss…”
.::// VLOG \\::.
I know each of you have seen my face plastered all over the news. I’m a wanted man. On the run. Fugitive at large. You may think I will be mentally and physically defeated before I even step foot in the ring, if I even make it there, and I respect that assumption. I really do. But NOTHING will stop me from achieving what I set foot in this business to do, and that is to become Universal Champion. Heir to throne. Become the Greatest to ever do it. Wherever each of you are this evening, whether you’re with your families, or by your lonesome mentally preparing yourself to engage in WAR this weekend, I want you to know this...
I’m still comin’ for you.
04.29.21 0430 Hours Somewhere in Louisiana
Wherever he went, the rain followed. In midst of driving through severe thunderstorms across Interstate 10 for more than five hundred miles, he made the Bayou’s of Louisiana his stopping point for the night. In dire situations where networking pays dividends, a small town in Louisiana was Sil’s golden ticket to rest his aching bones, and train. An elderly man by the name of Martin Reese owned a boxing gym that he had operated since the sixties. It was a place where ego’s were shattered. The most confident left broken. Small-town hopes turned into big city dreams. Martin never gave his students an easy way out. There wasn’t a place for the word “easy” in his gym. Any success gained was carved out from hard work, dedication, blood, sweat, and tears.
Sil was a student of Martin’s nearly thirty years ago. Til this day, he doesn’t know the reason behind why his parents shipped him off to Louisiana when he was a rebellious, germinating teenager with raging hormones. Whatever the purpose, it was for the better. Martin could give a shit less if you came from the plush, upscale ways of Los Angeles, or if you were a rugged, carved out country boy. Those who entered his gym, left with their frail egos broken, and the stench of their sweat still haunted the sixty year old atrium.
“Hsss!” the exhale of oxygen being released from lungs was heard, followed by the sweet tell-tale sound of leather-on-leather. The chain’s that clung to the ceiling, upholding the aged, worn Everlast heavybag rattled violently on their hinges with every punch that landed. The single lamp that shone overhead displayed years of dust, and grime flying into the air.
“While the enemy sleeps...” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “I’m hard at work…” he said in between combos that concealed the muscles beneath his skin. A jab. Body. Body. Every punch thrown on the bag was placed with precise accuracy; perfect form. “They say the bag…” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “doesn’t hit back.” *Hsss! “But whoever said that shit is a fool.”
He stepped back, side-stepped, and threw a left hook into the cracked leather. His shirtless, massive frame that resembled a Gladiator imprinted in a myriad of tattoo’s dripped heavily of perspiration. Every hook threw droplets of sweat across the gym. “Gotta…” *Hsss! “Keep…” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “Going…” *Hsss! *Hsss! “Until my body...” *Hsss! *Hsss! “Can’t go…” *Hsss! *Hsss! “Any further!”
His face was flushed, and he panted heavily as the timer in the gym made it’s rhythmic chime. He had no air conditioning to cool his overheating figure. Just the thick, humid air of the swampland to cover his skin in a thick coat of grime. Unstrapping his sixteen ounce Adidas boxing mitts, he walked over to the ring that was erected in the center of the gym, popping a squat onto the aged canvas that was caked with years of sweat, and blood.
“Mental preparation can play tricks on you…” he said in between controlled breaths, grabbing a lukewarm bottle of water off the floor. He cracked it open, taking a hefty swig that partially quenched his thirst. “You’ve come this far... trained every day... spent countless hours in the film room scouting your adversaries just to show up and fall on your ass when you get to the big dance. Maybe you don’t have your feet under you. Maybe you second guessed your opponent. You thought you had it all under control, right?”
He scrounged up a damp towel off the floor, and wiped his face with it. Was it his? Hard to tell. He had sat it beside another towel that gave off the same texture, and stench of sweat. “That’s what they tell themselves. It’s what they repeat, every time they get on the airwaves. They regurgitate the same shit, every-damn-time. Underestimation is a form of denial, and denial will only get you as far as you let it. You don’t have to tell me that my physique is what I cling on to for hope, ladies. I walk around in this body everyday. I know it’s capabilities. It’s liabilities. It’s advantages, and disadvantages. I know what I can get away with, and what I cannot. If any of you broads held any sort of intelligence in your peanut sized heads, you’d have been wise enough to not tell me what you plan to do when you get in the ring.” he shook his head as a sneer grin showcased his pearly whites, before taking another swig of good ol’ h2o.
“I shouldn’t expect much from Miss Babble-Mouth Five-Thousand, and the inbred spawn of Satan. All that talk, but I can see that neither of you have a single clue what the fuck you’re talking about. You just babble the same ole incessant song every time you hop on screen. I tell you what, why don’t you leave the small-talk to the only two men in this fight. At least Robert Main has a backbone when he talks his shit. Neither of you should be granted the privilege to shoot a promo if all you’re gonna do is yap about completely nothing like some teenage kids. You can “cash me outside” if you don’t like that noise, and we’ll see how that goes for ya.”
He stands up, and enters the ring before the timer sounds off again. He sets up in a southpaw stance, throwing out feints, then a jab, followed by a shoot. Every motion he practices looks to be on point, and fluid only days out from his fight.
“How bad do you want it? How hard are you trying? What more do you have to bring to the table than the same ole rhetoric that we hear out of you every week? Perhaps you could get away with that gossip girl BS with everybody else in this business, but now you’re facing a different beast…” He shoots for a takedown, again, quickly pacing to his side as if he’s wrestling with the Invisible Man. “...I respect your confidence. It brings a smile to my face. Everyone believes that I’m no more than a tall tale. An optical illusion. I hear it everyday in training camp. In the ring. On social media. In the streets. I don’t want to come off like a broken record, but my talent speaks for itself. I’ve been in the combat world for more than twenty years. I’ve forgotten more about the Art of War than any of you know. To maintain the mentality that I am just some rubbish throwaway athlete that can’t hold a candle to someone I more than double over is absolutely blasphemous. The only woman that seems to have her head on straight, and understands that is the one that makes the least sense, Betsy Granger. I’ll admit, she’s hovered under the radar, no pun intended, and she’s crafty at it. But, let’s face it, no matter the circumstance an ELITE athlete such as myself who’s carved from the school of Hard-Knocks will NEVER let a woman get the best of me. It’s the ALPHA mentality that flows through my spirit. I am too damn good to be taken out by someone visually and aesthetically inferior to me. Don’t wanna hear it? Deal with it.”
He throws a one-two, followed by a question-mark kick. He wipes at the sweat on his forehead with the hand-wraps that cover his sledgehammer-sized fists, before side-stepping around his imaginary opponent. “Exhaustion… digs deep. You can hear the fizzle of my body burning out, can’t you? It’s what you hope. Beat me while I’m down. That’s your one and only chance of taking me out. Yeah, I’m on the run from the law. Running off adrenaline, caffeine, and Adderall just to maintain my sanity. Sleep deprivation takes it’s toll. Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes turn to hours. Hours turn to days. You become so zombified to the point that your body goes numb. Maybe this was all a grand scheme to take me off my game. I can see Miss Fury twiddling her thumbs like some super-villian, co-conspiring a ploy with Lycana to take me out before I even touch down into Florida. Maybe that’s where the turning point is drawn. Have a broken Sil Frigida trample into the ring so you can pounce on me, and leave some bum like Mickey Kinkade to throw me out of the ring. Oh, that would make your ladies day, wouldn’t it?” He grinned in between bobbing, and weaving his head; throwing a combination of uppercuts. The ferocity, and speed of his fists display pent up rage and frustration.
“I can’t let mind tricks get in my way. It’s not like women of your caliber carry an ounce of intelligence in your lizard brains. Can’t expect someone that spent the time, money, and effort to go to Bolivia to find a backdrop in some refugee camp to shoot their promo to be that smart. How much did you pay a Bolivian to point the camera at your meth-pocked face for twenty minutes? Five dollars? A McChicken? Or did you let that mouth do the work for you? I think it’s pretty fucking obvious that the lack of chromosomes between each member of the BoB is apparent. Not only can Miss Bat-Shit not talk her way out of a paper bag, she can’t fight for shit either. Isn’t it ironic that you have the most trash to spew out? You believe I’m not an athlete, right? Google has been in existence for over twenty years. Maybe you should’ve ran to Them Slow Ass Bastards to help you use it for five minutes so you could do some extensive research before you ran your pole-smoker.”
He leans on the ropes, eyeing his reflection in the mirror across the room on the wall. He eyes his sweaty physique in the mirror, momentarily admiring his blurry doppelganger. “Talk is cheap. I shouldn’t embark in exchanging words with people that are below me, but dammit, it’s so hard to resist. I’ve made a living bouncing heads off the canvas. Fury and Lycana wanna babble about how I’m just another stiff bodybuilder, I’m no more than a side-show, but I’d love to see their reaction when they get ankle picked. You ladies want equal rights? Well prepare to face some equal lefts, if it comes to it. There’s an old saying that if you wanna act like a man, you can get treated like one, and if you’ve been around long enough to endure the pain that this business will afflict on you, then you’re aware that this is the land of the heartless. Anything fucking goes once that bell rings.”
Thunder strikes, with a beam of lightning illuminating the hallows of the gym, causing the fringe amount of light in the building to flicker. The lightning shutters across his body, creating a visual that resembles a gargoyle. His lats cue as wings across his hulking frame. The sound of the thunder fueled with the sweat, exhaustion and adrenaline fueled his appetite.
“I know what you think, Robert Main. You’ve written me off just like everybody else in this company has. You’ve sat on your high-horse long enough that being granted a title shot for you is a foregone conclusion, whether you take a PTO for a few months, or years. Just fuck it, right? You can show up whenever you damn well please, and everything’s supposed to be dropped into your hands because you want a little attention. You feel as if you have nothing to prove in this business, therefore you’ve grown complacent and stuck in your ways. That, my friend, is your absolute downfall. That is when you come across your darkest hour. You’ve glanced at the slate this week, and thought you had easy pickins’ ahead of you, but that one guy you failed to bother with is the one that will pull the chair right out from under your ass, brotha. I’ve done my fair share of research on you, and I know your capabilities and strong-points. I know where you’re lacking; your weaknesses in the ring. You’re not a scrapper. You’re a technician. You’re methodical in your approach, but you lack the wittiness, speed, athleticism, and the brawn to get the job done when the going gets tough. You let distractions phase you, and that is a rookie mistake being made by one that’s supposed to be a seasoned veteran in the game. While your mind is already made up, and you’re looking forward to facing your clone, your attention should be set on the obstacle that lies ahead of you this Saturday. Sure, I can see it. You can walk all over these women, and these other “men”, but then…. You meet me, and your whole world changes.”
“And besides, you really think that the XWF wants another re-run between you and Page?”
“Watching the two of you fight is like watching a cheesy B-Movie remake of Face-Off. Chris Page is Robert Main. Robert Main is Chris Page. When I first got here I was scratching my head, trying to wrap my mind around everything by playing a game of Who’s Who, and which one of you was the champion. If you really care for the culture of this company then you’d realize how much of a clusterfuck this soap opera between the two of you is killing the XWF, and how dragging it out is only hurting you, rather than helping. For weeks the ratings have dropped across the board, but day in and day out you insist on reminding us that “I’m Robert Main, and I rose from the dead” as if you’re the second coming of Christ, and we should all feel enlightened to be in your presence. Is this a last ditch effort for pity?”
He turned to toe the line in the center of the ring, his restless hands throwing out a jab, followed by a left hook. Maybe he was imagining it was Robert Main in front of him. Maybe it was all muscle-memory, and he was trying to stay warmed up, and not get lost in thought.
“Heh, imagine that, the guy who’s supposed to be the toughest man on the roster doesn’t feel accepted, so he has to embark on an hour long reminder that day in, and day out he woke up from a coma. Good for you, brotha. Congratulations. Maybe it’s a pat on the back, a bro hug, or an ounce of camaraderie that you’re lookin’ for. Maybe that will motivate you to muster up some originality the next time you have the privilege to grace our television screens, instead of giving us the same ol’ bullshit you’ve been putting out for the last ten years. I’ll give you this though, you do a good job at masking intimidation. Cultivating your bravado in an attempt for everyone to buy into you being the best wrestler in the XWF. The whole “I’m in the ring with nobodies who don’t deserve my airtime” mantra is a classic, macho attempt at trying to sound like a total badass. Gas yourself up. I can dig it. We may be very different, yet in hindsight we are somewhat alike. We wear our feelings on our sleeve. We like to do things our way. These fans, these guys in the back, they know that when you get into the DNA of this Battle Royale, and peel back the layers that Frigida and Main are the two everyone is tuning in to see. Fuck everyone else. Me and you going toe to toe is what the future holds for the forefront of XWF, and though you can deny that on video you know that is the very thing that lies ahead.”
He squares up once more, moving his head. Jab. Jab. Side-step. Hook. Sprawl. He rises up, stands crouched in karate stance, eyes darting forward with focus as if he’s eyeing his imaginary opponent in the face. He throws a front kick, showing his freakish flexibility for his size, and age, following up with a spinning elbow.
“This shit’s like chess. Y’all are playing checkers. So consumed in your inflated ego’s that you’d rather focus more on being the A-Side than the actual fight ahead. Considering the fact that weight classes are established to keep people from being put at a disadvantage, women such as Lycana and Fury should put that into consideration the next time they wanna open their trap about me. You’re expecting the other person to help you dispatch me, because I’m the bigger man? This is why you should stick to the kitchen, rather than the ring. How foolish for you to roll out your game plan to the enemy, and for any of you to expect me to be a sitting duck. It’s amateur to just look past the fact that I’m levels ahead of you in terms of strength, power, athleticism, and speed. All I hear is gums bumpin, but nothing is put in behind the scenes. Where’s the roadwork? The long hours of strength and endurance training? That’s what separates the boys from men. Or the women, per say. If I wish, I could leave the ring a decrepit pit of broken bodies. Careers altered forever. Robert Main’s coming off of a layoff. He’s cold. Rusty. Thrown back into the fire within his first affair in the ring, yet he still believes this is an easy path to another title shot. Miss Fury is in over her head, overconfident, but lackadaisical in every aspect. Just a gimmick. Betsy is mentally defeated, and checked out of this fight long before it started. Lycana is too focused on her latest satanic ritual than her in-ring performance. I’ll let each of you cling onto your gilded memories. You think just because I’m a fresh face, and you’ve got experience with each other in your repertoire that you’re simply going to show me up? Keep clinging onto that pipe-dream.”
He slid thru the ropes; exiting the ring, closing his eyes. Letting the ambiance of rainfall flow through his eardrums, and set him at ease. Thunder rumbled through the Bayou, again, making him feel as if he was absorbing the power from the God’s. He dropped his head, letting his perspiration drip off the tip of his nose as he remained locked into his meditation. Taking in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before raising his eye-lids, he carried on with his regiment; grabbing the gloves off the ground, and strapping them back on his fists.
“You don’t respect me?” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “Cool story.” *Hsss! *Hsss! “Maybe it’s a frail attempt to assert dominance.” Hsss! “Maybe you wanna feed the fans a false sense of hierarchy.” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “I understand…” *Hsss! “Can’t let the enemy…” *Hsss! *Hsss! *Hsss! “Sense weakness...” *Hsss! “But me? I don’t give a shit.” *Hsss! *Hsss!
He maintained his poker face, eyes watching the heavy-bag sway back, and forth as he let his energy dwell.
“All this blasé, blasé bullshit gets thrown out the window when we’re all looking across the ring from one another. That careless, jaded mindset where you separate your dreams from reality soon fade to nothing but ashes when you’re eyes lock with a mutant such as myself. We are not alike. As far as any of you are concerned, I am NOT human. I am out of this world. A physical phenomenon. To serve punishment and afflict excessive damage to my opposition brings me the satisfaction I yearn for. To cause permanent psychological damage is what makes me live and DIE for this shit. I WANT you to remember this day for the rest of your life. I WANT you to cringe in fear anytime we cross paths. Outside of the ring, behind the scenes, you can badmouth me, and talk all the shit you wish… that’s what makes breaking people so much fucking fun is listening to your underestimation. I find all that shit hilarious… But when I step in that ring, it’s MY time. When my music is cued, and I feel that crowd cheer or boo me is what feeds my hunger. The moment that bell rings, that is when I am promoted to a fucking God. You pissin’ yourselves yet? Don’t worry, soon you will be.”
He throws another hook into the bag. A left. A right, before rearing back his hip and throwing a left haymaker into the leather that rocks the bag off of it’s hinges, catapulting into a weight bench. The whip-crack of the chain collapsing from the ceiling which resonates like buckshot. Sil stands there, eyeing his fallen leather adversary as it rolls across the cold concrete.
“This is it…” Sil said, his voice cold, prompt, and hard. “You want to be the best? You want to be the A-Side? You wanna be main event material? The top dog....”
He turned his head, back still facing the feed, as a ray of lightning gleams into the gym giving his frame that freakish, gargoyle resemblance of a ghoul.
“One day… you may.”
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