As the clock ticks closer to the start of the press conference, the hotel conference room begins to fill up with sports journalists from all over the globe. The air is filled with a buzz of excitement, members of the media all wondering what the Important Announcement will be.
As people take their seats, the chatter grows louder and louder. Some of the journalists tap away on their laptops, eager to begin typing up the latest scoop and get those tasty clicks. Others take the opportunity to network, chatting to their peers and sharing insider tips.
Suddenly, the door at the back of the room bursts open and a broad figure lumbers in, flanked by two others.
STROnk takes his seat at the head of the table as the room falls silent.
Everyone’s eyes are on him, taking in his outfit:
He’s wearing a pair of garish sunglasses more ridiculous than anything that has been worn by a human before, a red speedo that leaves little to the imagination, and a white fur coat that must have cost a fortune, likely purchased as a gift by the generous Papa Best. And if that’s not enough, he’s topped it all off with his Final Alliance letterman jacket, worn over the fur coat for no apparent reason.
Michael Oliver Best and Steve Solex sit on either side of him. They’re both wearing tracksuits with Final Alliance emblazoned across the back in glittering letters; Solex has a white towel around his neck and his camo tracksuit is stretched to its limits as his biceps and chest push the nylon to its limits.
The journalists start to whisper amongst themselves.
As the room settles down, one brave journalist raises their hand, prompting STROnk to nod in their direction.
Journalist #1: “Donald Stewart, Ringside Exclusives. So, STROnk, we’ve heard rumors that you’ve been training with a gorilla with a mood disorder at the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. Can you confirm or deny this?”
Before STROnk can comment, MOB leans into the microphone in front of him.
MOB: “We will not comment on Mister Godson’s training, whether it be with humans or primates. Just know that Mister Godson’s training regiment is exactly what it needs to be to best prepare him for War Games.”
STROnk glances down at his left hand, which is resting on his thigh under the table—in it, a large tuft of grayish black fur. He opens his hand and lets the fur float to the floor beneath him. He smells his hand and subtly recoils.
The journalists type down Michael Oliver Best’s words furiously.
Journalist #2: “Hi, STROnk, Tod Williams, editor-in-chief, Wrestling News Bukkake. Thank you for your time today. Have you heard any rumblings about if, and when, your proposed barbed wire ladder match with Jace Parker Davidson may take place?”
Once again, Michael Oliver Best jumps in to respond.
MOB: “You all saw what STROnk did to that man the last time he got his hands on him. Are you all so disgustingly bloodthirsty that you cannot wait to see a HOW Hall Of Famer get ripped to shreds on national television or global pay-per-view? A date has yet to be set for that encounter, but rest assured, we look forward to subjecting the King of Absolutely Nothing At All to the most violent and depraved thrashing he’s ever experienced. But it will need to wait. At present, we are centrally focused on War Games and ensuring that, one way or another, the HOW Championship remains with the Final Alliance.”
Solex: “Jace may be a champion, but he knows who the money fight is. STROnk gave him a taste of what’s to come. And he’ll get a chance to help himself to a second helping when he steps into the cage with him at War Games.”
Another journalist raises their hand.
Journalist #3: “Stefan Donahue with Chicago Grappling. A bit off topic, but there are reports of a dangerous super virus that has been discovered in meat samples taken from one of the STRONKUMMS LLC facilities. Are you able to comment at this time?”
Before MOB can jump in, STROnk speaks.
STROnk: “A VIruS Is SmaLL. OnLY SMAll FrAIL HumANS nEED to WoRRY.”
STROnk takes a moment to scan the audience of journalists in the conference room.
STROnk: “YeS. YOu shOULd aLL bE WoRRied.”
Just as another member of the media stands up to ask a question, Solex waves his hand.
Solex: “Sit the fuck down!”
Solex’s voice booms through the room.
Solex: “That’s enough questions. We didn’t call this press conference to answer questions about gorillas, viruses, or that pissant Jace Parker Davidson.”
MOB: “That’s right. Thank you, Mister Solex. We asked you all here to announce a landmark event in human history. Mister Godson, would you please?”
STROnk stands up, shedding his fur coat and Final Alliance jacket and placing them on the table. He walks over to a large object covered by a thin black sheet.
He pulls the sheet off to reveal a digital weigh-in scale.
Both MOB and Solex get up from the table and walk over to him, holding the previously discarded black sheet across STROnk’s lower half, allowing him to remove his red speedo.
He steps up onto the scale.p
A large screen behind the conference room table sparks to life.
“0.0” blinks for a few moments until, finally…
STROnk flexes his trademark STROnk Pose, then slips back on his still-very-revealing underwear.
MOB turns to face the journalists, mic in hand.
MOB: “That’s right! We are very close to hitting the three hundred pound mark! STROnk is now… STRONk! One letter better!”
Solex golf claps while simultaneously flexing and staring at his own biceps. He shakes off his trance and then points at the massive number on the screen behind and above them.
STRONk flexes again, only this time he appears… even bigger than before. More confident. More dangerous.
MOB: “Come War Games, Mister Godson will be at full strength! Which, in turn, means Team SWOLEX will be at full strength! Which, in turn, means Team SWOLEX will win War Games! Which, in turn, means that either the legendary Steve Solex OR my client Mister Godson will walk out as champion!”
As the crowd of journalists begin talking over one another, trying to get one final question in, MOB, Solex, and the 299-pound STRONk turn and make their exit.