- Event: War Games 2023
2023
SOMEWHERE IN CHICAGO
STRONK Godson occupies the central space within a television studio, a playground for a sports talk show that indulges in the triviality of games played with sticks and balls.
Amidst this peculiar realm, a makeup artist delicately applies a hint of powder to STRONK’s face, an aroma reminiscent of saccharine confectionery. She peers into his eyes.
“Mister STRONK,” she murmurs, “forgive me for saying, but… your eyes are truly… resplendent. They are, unquestionably, your most alluring attribute.”
STRONK diverts his gaze from her, directing it towards the mirror before him.
“THAT IS INCORRECT. STRONK’S BEST FEATURE IS STRONK’S LEFT BICEP. THAT IS KNOWN. YOU ARE WRONG.”
Silence pervades the remainder of their session. The makeup artist concludes her duties, scuttling away.
Moments later, STRONK finds himself propelled forward by the grip of his wrist, traversing into the primary filming domain. Jerseys dangle from the walls, footballs and hockey pucks, whether adorned with autographs or not, strewn about every available surface except the floor. At a desk, two men—the hosts—stand in poised fashion. He moves himself behind the desk, a few feet removed from the hosts, a conspicuous gap between interviewers and interviewee.
The director initiates a countdown from five.
STRONK stands in a haze of perplexity, an enigma wrapped in a shroud of incomprehension. A complete and utter void. Why does he find himself at this particular juncture? And who are these mortals ceaselessly smiling towards him?
The blonde-haired host directs his attention towards STRONK with an exaggeratedly chipper demeanor, as if he had just snorted a line of the finest cocaine backstage, while steadfastly locking eyes with the camera lens. “Ah, STRONK! Thank you for joining us! It is an absolute thrill to have you on the show! Now, High Octane Wrestling’s War Games PPV is only a few weeks away, and I have to say, personally, I can’t remember a time when the wrestling world was this exciting. Am I popping pills, Jed?”
Jed nods. “Oh yeah, Pete. I personally hadn’t watched any wrestling since probably, uhhh… the late 90s.”
“Same, same,” adds Pete.
“But this whole Christopher America reign, the Final Alliance, Jace Parker Davidson getting hurt constantly and forever, it really is… can’t-miss TV, am I right?”
“Absolutely,” Pete says, rhythmically tapping his pen on the sleek lucite desk, his unsettling gaze locked onto the camera. “It’s appointment viewing for me, no doubt. And I have to commend you, STRONK, you’re incredibly entertaining to watch. You possess a commanding presence despite not being, uhhh, particularly tall. And your ability to render opponents helpless is, in my opinion, the ultimate display of dominance over another man. It is powerful and erotic, whether you mean it to be or not.”
STRONK nods but has not been listening to anything the two hosts have said since his name was first spoken. That is, the very first word they said to him.
His brain feels like… two chainsaws fucking.
Hurts so bad.
According to Michael Oliver Best, the source of his headaches isn’t the super-secret growth serum coursing through his veins or the countless punches he endures during training sessions with his wrestling coach from Memphis. Instead, he attributes the pain to a lack of meat in his diet, of all things. Like, of all the shit it could possibly be, it’s a meat deficiency? STRONK is meat deficient.
Yes.
Big boys need big meat.
Pause.
Without hesitation, STRONK tears open a vacuum-sealed ribeye, devouring it with voracious bites that betray his insatiable appetite.
As the hosts observe this bewildering spectacle, their confusion renders them speechless, leaving the cameras rolling with an awkward silence hanging in the air.
Unaware of the freakshow he’s become, meat juices cascade down STRONK’s chin, staining his white ‘STRONKUMMS LLC’ tank top.
“Whoopsie, ha ha! You’ll definitely need some Tide To Go on that, ASAP,” Jed interjects, making a lighthearted remark. “And no, they’re not a sponsor,” he quickly adds.
Pete leans over and gives his co-host a friendly pat on the back.
STRONK gazes down at the stain on his cherished company-branded t-shirt, feeling a sense of disappointment. This particular shirt holds sentimental value, being a limited edition exclusively produced for the founders of STRONKUMMS LLC: STRONK, Jace Parker Davidson, and two unfamiliar individuals named Shelley Greene and Abdullah Choi. Their names ring no bells in STRONK’s memory, leading him to suspect they were silent partners or perhaps even fictional characters.
As for Jace Parker Davidson, he is the ultimate betrayer in STRONK’s eyes. STRONK passionately describes him as an evil, treacherous scumbag who conveniently denies his role in the killing of a defenseless and angelic bull—a creature that had captured the hearts and minds of wrestling fans worldwide. Not only that, but Jace Parker Davidson holds a championship belt that inadvertently promotes drug use among impressionable young kids. There is a vivid picture of the potential consequences, where a child watches a Jace Parker Davidson’s title defense, curiously searches for “LSD Champion” online, and proceeds to meticulously replicate the laboratory procedures required to create lysergic acid diethylamide. To STRONK, Jace Parker Davidson embodies betrayal of friends, online harassment towards women, and the dangerous promotion of potent hallucinogens to vulnerable children. He is unequivocally a morally reprehensible individual.
After a brief moment of silence, STRONK suddenly snaps back to reality, his determination resurfacing. He tears off the stained sleeveless t-shirt, then aggressively hurls it towards the studio audience, venting his frustration.
He will ask Uncle Oliver to do whatever needs to be done, regardless of the nefarious means required—be it political manipulation, blackmail, cross-border espionage, paid dinners, or even sharing tense warm beers on a drug plantation—to make the situation more comfortable for him. STRONK’s goal is clear: he demands a new STRONKUMMS LLC t-shirt that bears no connection to the despicable bull-killer.
Pete, sensing STRONK’s return to awareness, takes the opportunity to engage him in conversation. “STRONK, it’s been a while since you held a championship title since losing the LSD title to Jatt Starr last summer,” Pete acknowledges. “What does this upcoming War Games opportunity mean to you? Even if you don’t emerge as the HOW Champion, there’s a chance for you to claim the HOTv or LSD Championship,” he suggests.
Jed nods in agreement, chiming in, “Absolutely. It’s not a case of ‘all or nothing’.”
As STRONK Daddy processes Pete and Jed’s words, his mind experiences a momentary glitch, perhaps due to the stark contrast between their message and the narrative that MOB has tirelessly promoted, day after day, for over a month. Compounded by the effects of CTE, STRONK Daddy finds it challenging to keep up with the conversation or comprehend much of anything at all, ever.
“NO. STRONK HAS BEEN HOTv CHAMPION. STRONK HAS BEEN LSD CHAMPION. STRONK DOES NOT WANT TO BE EITHER OF THOSE THINGS. STRONK’S DESTINY IS TO BE H-O-W CHAMPION AND TO MAKE PAPA BEST PROUD. UNCLE OLIVER TELLS STRONK THERE IS NO SECOND BEST–THERE IS ONLY PAPA BEST. AND PAPA BEST REQUIRES STRONK TO WIN THE WAR GAMES AND THEN BE CHAMPION FOR A LONG TIME AND DESTROY EVERY CONTENDER THAT EXISTS OR ONE DAY WILL EXIST AND MAKE H-O-W THE BIGGEST COMPANY IN BOTH AMERICA AND NOT-AMERICA TOO. PAPA BEST AND THE FINAL ALLIANCE NEED STRONK TO WIN MATCHES AND TALK AND MAKE HOLLYWOOD MOVIES AND EARN MILITARY DEFENSE CONTRACTS. STRONK WILL OWN LAND AND THE LAND WILL STRETCH ON FOREVER AND THERE WILL BE TREES AND GROUND AND HOLES WHERE GROUND USED TO BE. AND BULLS LIKE MONGO WILL STOMP ABOUT STRONK’S LAND AND EAT STRONK’S GRASS AND STRONK WILL WATCH THEM CHEW AND FUCK FROM STRONK’S TALL HOME. THIS IS WHAT STRONK HAS BEEN PROMISED. STRONK JUST NEEDS TO WIN. AND YES STRONK WILL WIN. THERE IS STRONK AND THERE IS NOT STRONK. NO OTHER HUMAN IN THE WAR GAMES IS STRONK BUT STRONK. THIS IS A FACTUAL STATEMENT.”
Pete and Jed lean in toward one another, discussing something with their mics turned off. Pete turns back to STRONK, and asks, “So your goal is to usurp your fellow Final Alliance member and current HOW Champion Christopher America?”
STRONK wipes the sweat from his brow and armpits using a piece of paper MOB handed him earlier that day. On the piece of paper are the words: “Push WAR GAMES. Flex A LOT. Talk about INTEREST IN DOING MOVIES.” MOB wants to put it out in the ether that STRONK is ready and willing to accept a lucrative action movie star role (he’d settle for a B-movie, something straight-to-streaming), provided there is minimal dialogue and STRONK WINS AND GETS THE GIRL.
“STRONK RESPECTS FLAG MAN. FLAG MAN IS STRONK’S FAVORITE HUMAN WRESTLER. BUT STRONK HAS A NEW TEMPORARY FAMILY FOR THE WAR GAMES. STRONK’S BROTHER SWOLEX IS LEADER AND STRONK WILL DO WHAT IS NEEDED TO PROTECT TEAM SWOLEX AND DESTROY ALL OTHER OPPOSING HUMANS. FLAG MAN IS AN OPPOSING HUMAN. THIS IS UNFORTUNATE. UNCLE OLIVER SAYS THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED A LOGICAL ORDER TO HOW THE WAR GAMES WILL PLAY OUT. THERE ARE FINAL ALLIANCE AND THERE ARE NOT FINAL ALLIANCE. STRONK IS FINAL ALLIANCE. YES. STRONK WILL BE HOW WORLD CHAMPION. YES.”
“Look at that, folks–that’s a confident man right there!” Jed announces excitedly.
“Big STRONK knows what he wants and he ain’t afraid to say it,” Pete adds.
The voice of a man intensifies and becomes louder, gradually drawing nearer, echoing through the halls of the studio. Michael Oliver Best forcefully enters the studio, disregarding security, and strides towards the desk. His arrival captures attention as he positions himself directly in front of the camera, his presence impossible to ignore.
“Mister Godson,” MOB says, slightly out of breath. “Three minutes, seven seconds. That’s the precise amount of time we agreed upon, and I won’t grant them even a fraction of a hummingbird’s heartbeat beyond that. Let’s execute our plan flawlessly, leaving no room for deviation.”
STRONK abruptly rises from the table and swiftly circumvents it, circling around as he fixes his gaze on the camera. MOB instinctively reaches out, tugging at STRONK’s arm in an attempt to regain his attention and redirect his focus.
“THE WAR GAMES IS THE STRONK GAMES. SIX MONTHS OF PAIN AND SMALLNESS. STRONK WILL DESTROY. STRONK WILL TRY NOT TO BE POWERBOMBED BY CLAY BIRD THROUGH A TABLE. STRONK WILL BECOME H-O-W CHAMPION AND CONTINUE TO GET BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER AND ALWAYS.”
As the intensity builds, the show’s (off-screen, faceless) director makes a quick decision, cutting to an early commercial break to accommodate the charged atmosphere. Meanwhile, STRONK, with a face covered in sweat, presses himself against the camera’s lens, emanating a mix of snarls and grunts only possible if you mainline growth chemicals that glow in the dark and quantify meals in terms of ‘x number of x farm animal’.
“ALWAYS.”
–
“What are your thoughts, Mister Godson? How does this make you feel?” Michael Oliver Best asks, standing beside a red speedo-clad STRONK Godson. They both direct their attention towards a newly mounted PPV poster in the living room of STRONK’s extravagant sky house.
The poster portrays STRONK riding a shark on a big-ass wave; the show is aptly named 97RED.
“STRONK … HAS NO MEMORY OF RIDING A WATER BULL.”
Unperturbed by STRONK’s statement, MOB strokes his chin thoughtfully before responding, “That’s because this image has been manipulated using Photoshop. It combines a picture of you with that of a, uh, what looks to be, great white shark.”
STRONK’s blood-red eyes narrow, his focus unyielding as he continues to stare at the 97RED poster.
MOB watches from the side, noting the confusion in STRONK’s hanging chin and glossy eyes. “A COMPUTER made it, Mister Godson. A COMPUTER.”
STRONK turns and places his meaty hands on MOB’s shoulders. “STRONK WILL BE KING OF WATER BULLS.”
“It’s a shark, Mister Godson.”
“YES. STRONK WILL BE KING OF STALLIONS AND SHARKS. LAND AND NOT LAND.”
Michael Oliver Best guides STRONK into the dining room, motioning for him to take a seat at the table. As STRONK settles in, he notices a cup of tea steeping in front of MOB, who takes a sip before locking eyes with his client. Pointing towards the living room where the 97RED poster proudly hangs, MOB begins to speak.
“What you should be experiencing, Mister Godson, is a sense of pride,” MOB asserts, his voice filled with conviction. “My brother, although he cannot openly express it, truly believes in you. He must maintain impartiality, but by prominently featuring you on the center stage of the Summer PPV poster, he is sending a clear message. He wants and expects you to emerge victorious in War Games. He’s preparing the marketing machine for an extraordinary STRONK Godson push, a campaign that will propel you to incredible heights. Do you understand?”
The poster is an absolute masterpiece, mesmerizing STRONK Daddy with its twisted allure. Every aspect of it speaks to him. The deep crimson hues evoke memories of Jace Parker Davidson’s bloodied torso, torn apart by a barbed wire Body Dysmorphia—a truly delightful spectacle in STRONK’s eyes. He glances at his own reflection, appreciating what he sees, because, well, he’s STRONK, and he doesn’t miss his long black locks one bit. After all, it was Shelley Greene (he hadn’t randomly chosen to change his name by that point) whom convinced him to grow it, going as far as coating it in honey and almond milk and spending an hour each day meticulously combing it. STRONK would mentally check out, entering a sleep-like state, while Choi bombarded him with endless monologues on topics ranging from immigration policy to Power Ranger-themed porn, from the wonders of benzos to philosophical debates on whether water is simply wet air. Oh, and of course, Choi’s own grandiose aspirations and dreams were thrown into the mix as well. Quite the hair-care experience, to say the least.
In an effort to ignite his creative faculties, STRONK embarks on a mental exercise, attempting to conjure an image of himself perched atop the majestic water bull—correction, shark—with the illustrious HOW World Championship draped proudly across his broad shoulder. He envisions the scene with great gusto, picturing himself as a dominant force, an indomitable champion ruling the aquatic realm with unrivaled power.
“Oh, OH, Mister Godson!” MOB exclaims, springing to his feet and rushing over to STRONK. He hurriedly takes out a balled-up velvet pocket square and presses it against STRONK’s bloody nose.
“Tilt your head back,” MOB says. “Did you try to remember your childhood again? Mister Godson, you know better…”
“NO. STRONK WANTED TO MAKE… TO MAKE… TO MAKE PRETEND STRONK AS—”
As a sudden, searing headache grips STRONK, he bends forward at the waist, the agony causing him to wince.
“Mister Godson! Do you require medical assistance?” MOB shouts, concern etched on his face.
“GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” STRONK’s anguished cry fills the room, a manifestation of the intense pain being fuel-injected into his brain.
In a surge of frustration, STRONK springs to his feet, whirls around, and punches a massive hole in the drywall. The immediate release brings relief, leaving behind a lingering, uncomfortable throb.
“GOITER. THE GOITER MAN. A WRESTLER. A HERO,” STRONK mutters (loudly), his words laced with a mix of nostalgia and reverence.
He slowly catches his breath, heart still racing.
“What? What does any of that mean?” MOB pleads, but STRONK ignores him, walking around him en route to his bedroom.
Michael Oliver Best takes another sip of his now lukewarm tea.
“Goiter? What’s that supposed to be? Is that important? Should I… should I look into that? Yes? Hello!?
“Fuck.”
—
After days of relentless probing, immersive online reconnaissance, countless phone calls, a skillful display of detective prowess, discreetly exchanging favors, and promissory notes distributed like contraband, Michael Oliver Best, exuding an air of sartorial elegance and an aura of self-satisfaction, has managed to unearth the whereabouts of an obscure Minnesota wrestler from the 1980s and 90s, a man who had adopted the unusual moniker “GOITER.”
The rationale behind Best’s unwavering dedication to locating this enigmatic figure eludes him, yet he possesses a hardened conviction in his duty to produce said individual for his discerning clientele.
Within the sanctum of Lee Best’s private gym, Michael Oliver Best lingers on the periphery of the mat, an observer cloaked in anticipation. His client, the 307.1-pound, super serum-enhanced STRONK “King of Stallions and Sharks” Godson, engages in a final bout of grappling, locked in an intricate dance with his weathered, yet-to-be-named Memphis trainer. Each move and countermove paints a portrait of unyielding determination. Sweat pours from every pore on STRONK’s body; he has a serious case of swamp ass, but he can’t allow himself to be taken down again by his forty-five-year-old teacher.
As the bout reaches its culmination, STRONK finds himself ensnared in the clutches of a recurring nemesis, the formidable heel hook. The move is so… complicated. The twisting and the pulling. Like calculus. Not at all as simple and effective as the revered and supposedly banned Body Dysmorphia–which will undoubtedly make an appearance in the no-holds-barred War Games. But in a display of composure, all frustration is repelled, replaced instead by an eerie tranquility.
Standing up from the mat, STRONK lumbers towards his manager, leaving his wrestling mentor to escape to a much needed nicotine respite outside the gym.
“STRONK’S MEATY THIGHS CREATE MANY CHALLENGES.”
Michael Oliver Best scoops up a rampaging DOG and clutches him close to his chest, noogying his head.
DOG had been off in the showers, attempting to burrow his way straight through to China.
“There’s no one more masterful when it comes to submissions than that bastard you’re training with,” Uncle Oliver says, before placing DOG back down on the gym floor, his arms quickly fatigued from holding the now seventy-pound canine. “Like I’ve said before, you’ve got the physical, you’ve got the mental, you just need a cunt’s hair worth of technique. And then, Mister Godson, you’ll be… unstoppable. That cage won’t be able to contain you.”
Contain you.
Contain. You.
“DO YOU THINK STRONK WILL FIT IN THE WAR GAMES CAGE? SHOULD STRONK AND UNCLE OLIVER INFORM PAPA BEST OF THEIR LOGISTICAL CONCERNS?”
MOB smirks. “I think you’ll fit just fine, Mister Godson. Trust me.”
STRONK finds his reflection in a mirror across the gym.
He flexes.
He flexes a few different ways.
Several different ways.
A dozen or more, actually.
307.1 LBS.
“YOU SURE?”
“I’m positive. Now, come on, I have a surprise for you.”
Manager and client walk to the locker room area. Straight through to the sauna.
“There’s someone I want to introduce you to,” says MOB, gripping the door handle to the sauna.
“OKAY.”
They enter the sauna; everything is obscured by a thick steam. Seated on the far side of the sauna is a large–maybe 600 pound–man with an Alaskan King-sized towel wrapped around his waist. The man is in his late 60s, maybe early 70s, and he wheezes in poor health. He also smokes a joint, which adds to the “steaminess” of the sauna.
STRONK and MOB wave their hands through the mist, attempting to dissipate it and reveal their surroundings. Gradually, shapes start to emerge.
The combination of thick mist and the pungent aroma of the lit joint creates an ambiance of surreal haze, as if the very air itself is saturated with a mystical aura.
“Mister GOITER,” Uncle Oliver says, as he steps forward and shakes the large blob of humanity’s limp hand, “this is Mister STRONK.”
“GOITER?” STRONK says, voice unsteady.
The man that had defended him from being stomped into the dirt by his heavily intoxicated father. The man that had knocked out his old man’s two front teeth. The man that had rocked a giant lump of benign flesh and puss on the side of his neck for years and years without any semblance of shame.
“Eeegggghhhhh,” the giant man clears his throat. He looks past STRONK, to MOB, who fans a wad of hundreds out of sight. This is his reminder he needs to be GOITER and not whoever the fuck the guy who plays (played?) GOITER is. “STRONK. Uhhhhh…. IT IS GOOD TO MEET YOU.”
“STRONK MET GOITER YEARS AGO. IN THE PAST. NOT LAST YEAR. OR LAST WEEK. STRONK REMEMBERS… GOITER PROTECTED STRONK. YES. GOITER WAS STRONK’S PROTECTOR.”
GOITER flicks the joint aside, and then lights up a bootleg cig he bought off some ex-con in a gas station parking lot. He takes a hungry drag. “AH YES. GOITER, uhhhh…. GOITER REMEMBERS. OF COURSE. YOU WERE A GOOD KID, STRONK. GOITER IS PROUD OF WHAT YOU HAVE ACCOMPLISHED. AND WHAT YOU WILL ACCOMPLISH.”
STRONK kneels before his childhood hero in a show of respect. He barely remembers the events of the day they met, but regardless, he knows, deep down, how important he was to his maturation as a man.
“THANK YOU. STRONK NEEDS TO WIN WAR GAMES. BUT STRONK’S FRIENDS ALSO NEED TO WIN WAR GAMES. THIS IS DIFFICULT FOR STRONK TO UNDERSTAND.”
GOITER carefully gets to his feet, knees straining as he waddles past STRONK on his way to exit the sauna. He turns back to him. “AND…” he coughs and hacks up a wad of phlegm, “YOU WILL DO WHATEVER THAT IS. YES.”
STRONK stands up, watching as his hero opens the sauna door and steps through. He has only one response–one fleeting farewell:
“YES.”
STRONK will do whatever that is.
That being winning War Games.
STRONK is moved to tears, but then the steam distracts him and makes him think about what a piping-hot cast iron skillet looks like when ground beef is smashed into it. Yum.
He nods.
“YES.”
So he must–WILL–win the 2023 War Games. Must.
But what comes after that?
Waaay after that.
Find out (only) on…
A Portrait of The STRONK as an Old STRONK.