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Sil · (04-08-2021)

.::// Prologue \\::.
04.07.21
1145 Hours
West Hollywood, California

XWF, welcome to New Beginnings. Welcome to a New Era. Now wait, what the fuck are we talking about when right off the rip we say the words, “New Beginnings” and “New Era”? Seems like every face that comes through the door wants to claim themselves as “The Next Big Thing”. Seems like every week we get a new guy that claims he is the Messiah, or the “One to Beat”. Yeah, you could be assuming that I’m just blowing smoke up your ass, and for the most part, I wouldn’t blame you. That's based on how many clowns step foot in this business looking to set the world on fire. Only then do they fall flat on their ass on their first night out on the job. But see, the Xtreme Wrestling Federation has came across a formidable prospect. Don’t believe me? Just look for yourself.

Lets start off in West Hollywood, California. It’s a sunny day, and from the view of a drone we come across a plentifully large house that looks to sit at about five thousand square feet on a slightly elevated slope at the end of a cul de sac. It’s luxurious in size, and from what the view gives off we can see about six vehicles that are barely visible parked in a large driveway. The feed transitions to what looks like the kitchen. The lights are off in most of the house that we are visible to. We can hear the muffled voice of a character speaking from a pretty kick ass audio system a few rooms away. Sounds like… Al Pacino? Whoever this character is, he sounds like he is talking to somebody else convincingly, as if he’s trying to get them to buy in to whatever he’s selling. The bass of his New Yorkian accent thuds over the high quality of the stereo system. This isn’t some cheap rip off you pick up for fifty dollars at your neighborhood Wal-Mart.

Panning into the living room, we see the an eighty inch television staged on the back wall. It looks quite spacious, as if it could seat an entire football team. The walls are an off-white spackle. The furniture is up to date, and plopped into the middle of a large white sectional is a wide framed man; wide framed as in aesthetically he is almost as wide as the one hundred gallon aquarium full of African cichlids behind him. His body is chiseled and covered in a myriad of tattoos as he is dressed in a white tanktop, with black basketball shorts to match. The words embroidered over his shorts read “SELF MADE”. His Incredible Hulk frame has his feet on a large ottoman, where his size fourteen feet sport some black and white Adidas socks. He’s got a Tupperware of chicken and rice rested on his lap as his eyes scan the television in front of him as he scoops a combination of the meal into his mouth. The film that has his attention appears to be Glengarry Glen Ross. A classic.

“You, Williamson I’m talkin’ to you shithead. You just cost me six thousand dollars. SIX. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. And one Cadillac... That’s right! What are you gonna do about it? What are you gonna do about it… asshole?” Pacino’s chararacter, Richard Roma asks John Williamson; played by Kevin Spacey.

“This is the best part.” the man on the couch says while grabbing a fork full chicken and rice.

“You’re fuckin’ shit! Where did you learn your TRADE you stupid fuckin’ cunt, you idiot!? Who ever told you that you could work with men!?” Pacino barks at Spacey.

“That motherfucker speaks the truth.” he says in response to Richard Roma. Nodding his head in agreement. As the rest of the movie plays in the background, he reaches for a remote, turning the volume down a few clicks before turning his head towards whom is filming him.

“Whoever told some of you shrimps that you could come into the ring and be worthwhile of putting on a show? I turned on my TV last week, spent sixty dollars on some deplorable excuse of a PPV, and by the third match I was already starting to nod off. THIS is supposed to be my competition?”

The man shakes his head, seemingly disappointed by the thoughts running through his head.

“You got half of what’s supposed to be the top dogs in the business running into the arms of some Great Value version of Jax Teller, with a dad bod to boot. THEN you got the other half of the roster that dress up like they are going to a brokeback version of a Comic Con event… What in the actual FUCK did I get myself into when I signed that contract?” He asks himself, before placing the empty Tupperware beside him.

“Then again, maybe I’m just as much of a freak myself… I mean, take one look at me.” he says before showing off a single bicep with a measly flex of the arm. His bicep and tricep appear as large as a medicine ball.“Imagine the G-Force off of a clothesline from this arm at half of a flex. Imagine the sound of two baseball bats smacking together. That would be my bicep brachii all the way to my Coracobrachialis connecting flush with your face.” he says while keeping the same flex of his arm. He eyes his arm as if it is prized possession. Like an old man eyeing his golf club collection. He sets it behind his head in a reclining state.

“Now I know what each and every one of you are wondering in your feeble little minds right now… who… THE FUCK… are YOU?”

He sports a cheap grin, as cheap as the man he calls the “Great Value version of Jax Teller”, whom also appears to be the world champion of XWF. Boy, does this guy know how to ‘aim high’.

“Sometimes, I have to ask myself that very same question. Who am I? A bodybuilder? A boxer? A wrestler? Shit, I’ve done it all. In the end, when they throw my ass in a double-wide casket and bury me six feet deep I can leave this world knowing that I’ve accomplished more than the average man. How many of you can say that? I know.. I know.. you can always retort back with the answer of ‘well I’m a five time X-treme Champion’… or whatever the fuck these mid carders are gloating for in this company… but, how many of you can go into a locker room this Saturday night, look every man dead in the eye and say that you can knock out every single one of those motherfuckers in that building? Can Slash Hopkins or Sky Edwards really tell us that they can come in here and win gold in their first month with the company? Can they even look me in the eye and say they can pin me for a three count? Am I supposed to believe people of their caliber have what it takes to become SOMEONE?”

He shakes his head, veering off at the television that is now playing through the credits of his film. He then reaches down and picks up a gallon jug off the floor. It has the words “ELITE” printed on the side of it, and has a dark green substance in it. He begins chugging it, before setting it by his waist.

“Gotta get my BCAA’s. I treat the body like a machine. Feed the muscles... ALL. DAY. LONG! Because at the end of the day, I AM A MACHINE. You see, I run a supplement brand on top of coming into this business to show you wide-eyed bozos just how to be the ultimate fighter. I never stop going, because outside of the ring I don’t pretend that life is a fantasy. Or… am I supposed to believe that some of you ride on fire breathing horses in the night, or whatever fairy tale agenda that you try to push on us? All bullshit aside, when you do your research on a man named Sil Frigida, you’ll see what I’m about. There are no gimmicks, just a man that loves to knock people the fuck out, and make his money, right babe?”

He takes another swig of his supplement-laced beverage before a feminine voice is heard behind the camera.

“Yup.”

The answer forces him to sport another one of what is now becoming his signature grin.

“I looked at the slate for next weekend. I know what lies ahead, and to be honest… I could care less about either man and what they may have to say. Everyone has some choice words for me when they are behind the camera, but like I just got finished saying, NONE of you have that energy to say SHIT to my face. My talent speaks for itself, and neither man can say that they have toed the line with a specimen of my caliber. Take a minute to think about it, guys… Your first match in the XWF, and you do your research to find yourself looking at ME. I’d shit my pants and call up my agent to tell him to breach the fucking contract and get me the fuck out of this company if I was on the other side… YOUR side, to be brutally honest. I’m sure the thought has crossed both of your minds to try and take me out first, and if I were you… I most certainly would try to. But see... the problem with this entire situation is that ANYTHING FUCKING GOES, GODDAMMIT! That means that if I see both of you event ATTEMPT to jump my ass, I am SWINGING for the MOTHERFUCKING FENCES! You see me and my side-piece that sits out in my garage, Betsy, which happens to be nearly a centimeter thick lead pipe have a thing going on. That thing is... if ANY MOTHERFUCKER wants to come at me sideways, they are getting their face CAVED IN! TRY. IT. IF. YOU. WANT!”

He lets out a sinister cackle. For one instance, it seems as if any of the remaining sanity that he may have had has been thrown out the window. He looks as if he’s about to speak again, when…

X GON GIVE IT TO YA!
FUCK WAITIN FOR YOU TO GET IT ON YOUR OWN! X GON DELIVER TO YA!
KNOCK KNOCK, OPEN UP THE DOOR, IT’S REAL!
WITH THE NON-STOP, POP-POP OF STAINLESS STEEL!

Sil reaches for his iPhone 12 to his side, as DMX barks his lines of "X Gon Give It To Ya" to break the silence.

“WHAT’S UUUUUUUUP, BROTHA!?” Sil bellows, as he hit’s "speaker" on his phone, putting it up to his face.

“Sil, Where you at?” the person on the other line asks. He sounds like a stereotypical person from New Jersey, with a rusty accent.

“At the MOTHAFUCKIN CRIB, GODDAMMIT!” Sil happily answers.

“Look, I need you to come by the gym. I got a business on the table, and I’m runnin’ on borrowed time here. I got a flight back to Jersey in four hours.”

“You know I don’t like surprises, Puss!”

“It’s not a surprise, I just… I got a fighter I’m looking to sign and I need to find out where he is… y’know? Skill-wise, and all of that.”

“Ahhhh… Pus… why don’t you go get Watts or Stevenson to dry out your laundry? I’ve got a busy week ahead of me and I don’t feel like throwing out your garbage.”

“Sil, I don’t got time for this! I gotta figure out whether this guy sinks or swims, and I ain’t got the muddafuckin time for you to be a chiacchierone about it! Come heavy!” The man on the other end says hastily before hanging up the phone.

“Asshole.” Sil says below his breath, as he looks back at the camera.

“LOOKS LIKE WE’RE GOING FOR A LIL SPIN, GODDAMMIT!” he says before rising off of the couch. The camera feed fades to a black transition, before cutting back at the front of Sil’s house. Here we see the solid oak doors nearly as wide as barn doors open up. The man of the hour walks sideways through the doors as he now has a black gym bag with the words “ELITE” imprinted on the side over his shoulder.

“WELCOME TO THE WONDERFUL LIFE OF SIL FRIGIDA!” he says with his heavy voice before grinning once more, showcasing his pearly whites. “As you can see, I have over six cars in my big ass driveway… the problem is, they’re all almost fucked up!” He laughs to himself. The person holding the camera, apparently his mistress pans the camera around the spacious driveway. From the view given, there is numerous luxury vehicles scattered across it. The one nearest to Sil is a black Mercedes S500, then behind it a sky blue Maserati Gran Tourismo. Across from the two vehicles are a black Lexus LS 460, a Brandy-wine BMW 650i, and a lifted black Ford Excursion with the words “ELITE” on the side in large lettering. Each car has their own unique look, as they all have aftermarket rims, and custom paint jobs. The size of the Excursion blocks the view of the last car in driveway, as all the can be seen from the view is it’s shadow.

“From flat tires, to blown transmissions, I have a lot-full of cars that I can’t even drive! Don’t judge me, GODDAMMIT!” he says before beginning his trot. “So...” Sil begins walking through the spaces between the cars, as he makes his way around the Excursion. “THIS is what we are left with, an all stock LINCOLN TOWN CAR… YEEYUH!”

________________________________________

.::// Chapter 001 \\::.
04.07.21
1335 Hours
Tiger Boxing Gym
Los Angeles, California

Tito Gonzales felt like he could take on the world today. He felt like a prime Mike Tyson. Born and raised in Compton, California he lived a life full of gang related activity, and fighting. So to say that he was going down the wrong path was a sheer understatement. When his uncle, and trainer Fernando “Chuy” Villa brought along the idea of boxing, it was an overhaul to his life. Still in his early twenties, the man that goes by “Two Gunz” in the ring was confident that he was about to catch that break on becoming a major star in the fight business. He only needed someone to take notice.

Enter Sal “Big Pussy” Malenga. He was a lead agent with ELITE Sports and Nutrition, which was operated and founded by Sil Frigida. He always had an eye for fighters that had high knockout ratios, and their only motive in a fight was to beat their opponent senseless. Puss swore up and down in his mind that Tito was “The Next Big Thing” in boxing, and he was willing to pay the kid big money to keep him tied with ELITE. But, he had to make sure… he had to make sure this kid was the real deal, and not some spade.

See, in the fight business anybody can pad their record. You can knockout ice cream truck drivers, and mothafuckas that go to Planet Fitness for a thirty minutes out of the day, and claim an undefeated record on paper. They hand out boxing licenses like they are prostitutes lined up on the Vegas strip, and contrary to what Tito wanted everyone to believe there was some gaps in his fight record. In person, the man looked like a typical bad motherfucka. From his chest down he was covered in tattoo’s, and carried a pretty good looking physique, but looks can always be deceiving.

“Where is this puto?” Tito said as he was leaning over the ropes, eyeing “Big Pussy”. The gym, known as Tiger Boxing Gym was pretty busy, and the telltale stench of sweat, and B.O was thick on the nostrils. There was very little that the large box fan at the entrance of the gym could do to take away the humidity, and stench, but that’s what made a boxing gym a boxing gym.

“Heyyy… Heyyyy…. That’s my nephew you’re talkin’ about there, papa.” Puss exclaimed. “AND he’s your boss! You want this contract, right ?”

“Yeah… Owner or not, I’m ready to handle business! He's taking forever!”

The sound of a speedbag beating a repeated rhythm against wood can be heard in the background, as well as a gloves smashing against a heavybag.

“Hsss…. Hsss… Hsss…” A teenage African American male in a sauna suit strung together combinations on a Everlast heavybag.

“Keep it up, Junior! I wanna see you knock that mamaluke out in the first round!” Puss shouted in approval to the kid, and then proceeded to look down at his Smartwatch.

“Sil ya maddfuckin’ cafone… get a fuckin’ move on it…” Pussy said underneath his breath. He took another look into the ring, and could see Tito beginning to shadowbox. It was apparent the kid was growing frustrated waiting too, as he began swinging wide haymakers in between jabs. "Heyyy papa, tighten up those hooks!” Sal shouted into the ring, and in that very moment the door to the gym creaked open, bringing in a ray of sunlight.

“WHAT’S UUUUUUUUUP!” The always enthused Sil shouted to the gym, his arms out wide. As most of the room began to stop in their tracks to the presence of Sil, there was a loud disruption from the ring.

“You Sil Frigida, right?” Tito prominently asked, causing the commotion in the room to go silent.

“Yeaaaaah brotha, that’s me!” Sil happily, yet sarcastically answered.

“Get your ass in this ring so I can show your old ass up, and knock you the fuck out!” Tito said with a look of fire in his eyes.

T.B.C

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