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LOCAL RADIO STATION
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
MARCH 28, 2022
“And so, Stronk Daddy—can I call you Stronk Daddy? I feel like I can. I love it, personally. It’s very… 90s-ish—like if you had to associate a combination of words in the English language with a picture of a greased-up jacked guy in a neon yellow speedo, it’d be Stronk Daddy. Anyway, last question… why do you call your finishing hold Body Dysmorphia? Is it a wink and a nudge?”
Inside a cramped studio, STRONK and Shelley sit opposite veteran radio DJ Chip Chawson, who’s obnoxiously smacking a wad of Hubba Bubba with every syllable he squawks. The host has been vaping thick clouds of spent nicotine for the better part of ten minutes—at least since STRONK and Shelley joined him for their segment. It’s near constant.
STRONK is disturbed by this man and has no idea what the fuck he’s been jabbering on about for the past thirty seconds. He glances down to a crumpled PostIt note in his hand, given to him by Greene shortly before they went on the air. It reads: “DON’T KILL HOST. PLEASE.” He tosses it into a nearby waste basket. Kobe!
The host’s question hangs in the air for a moment, before GODSON responds, cutting off Greene just as he’s about to answer. STRONK reacts to the DJ’s “wink and nudge” comment.
STRONK: THE STRONK MAN RESPECTS YOUR LIFESTYLE, BUT REJECTS YOUR SEXUAL ADVANCES. STRONK REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT HE DOES NOT LAY WITH OTHER MEN. SEXUALLY. REGARDING BODY DYSMORPHIA: DYSMORPHIA IS THE MOST SMARTEST WORD EVER SPOKEN TO STRONK THAT DID NOT MAKE HIM ANGRY. THAT—AND ‘CALORIC.’ IN THE END, STRONK FLIPPED A COIN. … IT MEANS CRUMPLER. BODY CRUMPLER.
Host: Well, actually… no… it means—
STRONK: ‘CRUMPLER.’ YES. STRONK KNOWS.
Greene glances at the DJ, giving him a look that pleads “just… leave it alone, okay?” The one thing you don’t do, which has taken Greene some time to fully comprehend and internalize and adhere to himself, is correct STRONK GODSON; it never, ever ends well.
STRONK and Greene were invited onto the host’s local radio show to talk about their foray into the world of professional wrestling. The host asked the standard fare of questions: When did you start lifting weights? How much can you bench? Do you ever get nervous performing in front of crowds? Greene did most of the talking, but that last question woke the beast; he’d been daydreaming about squats. STRONK’s vocabulary is admittedly limited, but when he hears a word he likes, he locks it down, chambers it, waits for the right opportunity to use it (often incorrectly).
Host: Guys, it’s been a pleasure talking to you today. Thanks a bunch for coming in. All the best with your wrestling thing. Let’s do this again sometime. — Oh, wait, just one more thing. One of our audio engineers mentioned to me that you had a little, uhh, meltdown online… called out the CEO of the company you work for, said a lot of crazy shit, according to him. A bold move for someone so new to the industry and to that company in particular. Any comment? Do you feel like you’ve got a bit of egg on your face? Maybe woke up from a blackout and thought, oh shit, what did I do? Been there myself, so not judging! …said some wild and controversial shit that I ain’t proud of back in the early aughts, but damn if it didn’t all make sense at the time…
STRONK sits there in his seat, staring silently ahead of him, drilling a hole with his intense gaze through the host’s forehead. His greasy, wrinkly forehead. WASH YOUR FUCKING FACE, thinks STRONK.
Greene side-eyes the whole thing, feeling a bit like a matador about to walk into the arena. He surveys his surroundings, attempting to identify, as quickly as possible, “good bashing stuff.” Stuff that’s good for bashing. Stuff that STRONK might reach for.
Admittedly, STRONK was incensed when he sat down and penned his “blog” (on PostIt notes—Shelley could’ve just told him he published it online and STRONK would be none the wiser… because he doesn’t know what the Internet is), in which he called Lee Best a “stupid fucktard asshole cunt bitch” and the majority of the HOW roster a bunch of “frail and translucent twinkboys.”
Given a few days to calm down and come to grips with his not being booked for March To Glory 2022, he responded with a shrug when Shelley, at one point, asked him if he regretted putting the whole damn company “on blast”; a shrug that said “maybe,” but was still, at the end of the day… wholly noncommittal.
While these thoughts clang around inside Greene’s head, STRONK shoots to his feet, massive chest puffed out like a predator trying to make itself look bigger than it is (and STRONK, as we all know, is already pretty. fucking. big), and marches around the table to confront the host, who’s clocked the threat and is looking around frantically, now scared for his safety, for someone on the other side of the glass to intervene.
The host, realizing no one is coming, tries to cut through the tension and diffuse the situation with a fake radio laugh and some light flattery, stammering out every word.
Host: You know, you look about a half a foot taller over on my side of the table. Gigantic, even! Or maybe it’s just ‘cause you’re standing instead of sitting… Seriously, you—
SMAAAAAAAAAAAAACK~!
The frisbee-sized mitt of GODSON collides with the side of the host’s face in an open-hand slap that sounds like a gunshot and sends his headset flying across the room, knocking over a bobble head crafted in his likeness.
STRONK, red-faced and seething, breathes loudly through clenched teeth.
STRONK: KEEP MY BLOB OUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!
Discombobulated, eyes welling up with tears, the host flails his hands.
Host: I-I didn’t… I just meant… I-I was gonna…
STRONK: KEEP MY BLOB! OUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!
Then they sit down and do another five awkward minutes during which the shell-shocked host asks such softball question as: what’s STRONK’s favourite food (“PLAIN OVERCOOKED NOODLES AND MEDIUM RAW GROUND BEEF”), favourite movie (“PREDATOR”), and favourite video game (“QUIT HITTING ON STRONK. STRONK IS NOT INTERESTED.”). There’s eventually a long uncomfortable silence, at which point the interview just kind of… ends.
—
OUTSIDE STUDIO
MOMENTS LATER
Walking out of the building where the radio station is located, Greene checks the itinerary on his iPhone. There’s much to do—places to go, people to see. He’s especially chipper today. Having a multitude of things to occupy his manic mind serves to chill him out better than any drug (except Xanax—he loves Xannies).
Greene: I thought that went really well. I think he liked you, big guy.
STRONK: EVERYONE LOVES THE STRONK MAN.
Shelley nods.
Greene: Heh, you know, that’d make an awesome sitcom. Anyway, you wanna get a burrito?
Shelley decodes a STRONK belch as ‘Yes’ and the two men head toward his parked Cadillac Deville.
—
STRONK AND SHELLEY’S TRAILER
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
MARCH 29, 2022
STRONK: the effervescence is sublime. we traverse the dunes of a ruined land, transgressions strewn about like fallen carrion, made physically manifest as reminders of past regrets. the smiling speckled trout hangs above toxic clouds, large and foreboding, human teeth gnashing a gold bar like a piece of double mint gum. in the distance a stone monolith looms, drawing us closer with each passingSTRONK THEN RETURNED FROM THE CORNER STORE AND REALIZED HE NEGLECTED TO PURCHASE PAPER TOWELS.
Shelley looks up from his watch—he clocked it at twenty seconds; that’s how long his mystery serum was effective. Meaning: back to the drawing board.
STRONK: UGH—STRONK HEAD HURT.
Greene rubs a hand across GODSON’s back.
Greene: You’re all right, Stronk Daddy. The medicine just made you go all ‘purple prose’ for a second. Do you remember at all what you were trying to convey to me?
STRONK: ‘CONVEY?’ SPEAK AMERICAN.
Greene: …What were you trying to tell me? With your words.
STRONK: STRONK WENT TO STORE. STRONK CAME HOME FROM STORE. STRONK FORGOT PAPER TOWELS. YOU MUST GO GET PAPER TOWELS.
—
STRONK AND SHELLEY’S TRAILER
HOURS LATER
Shelley sits perched atop a stool, laptop resting on crossed-over thighs.
GODSON is—can you guess? Do you know him well enough yet? What could STRONK be up to?
He’s either pounding out reps—or drinking an obscene amount of creatine.
Or both. Today, he’s doing both.
He’s curling dumbbells, one in each hand, and downing mass-gainer from a “beer helmet” (constructed by Shelley the genius) that has shaker cups taped in place of where beer cans would otherwise be.
We catch them mid-conversation.
Every square inch of interior wall in their trailer is papered with 8”x10” photos of STRONK posing in a variety of erotic or intimidating ways. It is… unnerving.
Greene: I don’t know for certain that the blog we posted to the HOW website prompted this… but a match against Scott Stevens is just what we need in our continued ascent up the mountain.
STRONK: STRONK WAS NOT ON GLORY MARCH SHOW. SOMEHOW THAT IS YOUR FAULT.
Greene hangs his head solemnly after giving a weak nod of acknowledgement. His OCD kicking in, he notices one of the STRONKographs has begun to peel off the wall, walks over, fixes it, then returns back to where he was previously standing.
Greene: Obviously I failed you, big man. I drank that big boy bottle of ghost pepper sauce as a penance, if you recall. My guts… still haven’t recovered by the way. Don’t know if I’m still shitting out the sauce… or if it’s blood. I’ve been eating Tums by the fistful. But anyway… my ailing health is neither here nor there, I should’ve been all over management’s ball sack to ensure you were booked on the PPV. I am truly sorry.
STRONK cracks his knuckles as he sits down on a weight bench in their living room. For a moment he considers bludgeoning Shelley with his fists, raining down blows upon his pristine lips and schoolboy eyes, until he learns the error of his ways; until whatever part of him—the shitty incompetent part that failed to get STRONK what we wanted—was obliterated beyond recognition.
STRONK: YOUR ASSHOLE PAIN IS SUFFICIENT. WE MUST MOVE FORWARD.
Shelley heaves a sigh of relief.
Greene: I thank you for your mercy, Stronk Man. You are a fair and benevolent leader of men. A king. A god!
STRONK grunts in the affirmative.
Greene: Stevens is no joke, though. He’s a step up in competition.
STRONK: HE IS A FUCKBOY AND HE STANDS IN THE WAY OF THE STRONK MAN.
Shelley nods.
Greene: Definitely. Definitely a fuckboy. Fo’ sho’. But, ummm, I think we’ve gotta take this guy seriously, big man. Can’t look past him. We don’t want a repeat of the JJR match.
STRONK: STRONK LOOKS PAST NO MAN. YOU SHOULD PUNISH YOUR TONGUE WITH A MEAT TENDERIZER FOR ALLOWING SUCH IDIOCY TO BE SPOKEN. THE STRONK MAN SIMPLY ACKNOWLEDGES THAT HE IS A FUCKBOY. FUCKBOYS PRESENT A UNIQUE CHALLENGE. A CHALLENGE STRONK WILL MEET WITH A VIOLENT FERVOUR THAT WILL MAKE CONOR FUSE’S VIDEO GAME MACHINES SIMULTANEOUSLY STOP WORKING FOR REASONS THAT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED BY SCIENCE. YOU MUST THEREFORE LOOK TO THE HEAVENS OR TO THE FIERY DEPTHS OF HELL, BUT KNOW THAT IT DOES NOT MATTER THE DIRECTION IN WHICH YOU LOOK, ‘CUZ THE ANSWER REMAINS THE SAME—THERE IS NO ANSWER. IT JUST IS BECAUSE STRONK IS. SCOTT STEVENS IS A BITCH WHO STRONK WOULD AVOID AT THE GYM AND STRONK WOULD ALSO NOT CORRECT HIS FORM EVEN IF AREAS OF IMPROVEMENT WERE IDENTIFIED BY STRONK. STRONK HATES THIS MAN AND WILL CONTINUE TO HATE THIS MAN UNTIL THE WRESTLING SHOW CONCLUDES AND STRONK’S HAND IS RAISED IN VICTORY. AND EVEN THEN THE HATE WILL CONTINUE UNTIL SUCH A TIME AS STRONK FORGETS SCOTT STEVENS EXISTS. SO, A FEW DAYS AFTER THE WRESTLING SHOW.
Shelley’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the screen.
Greene: Oh! It’s my cuz!
He answers and puts it on speaker phone, holding the phone up flat in front of his face, arm outstretched between him and GODSON.
Greene: Cousin Lowell! To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?
Lowell: Wadddddddup, thuggggssss! I just checked up on you on the Interwebz, and wasn’t my dick hard to find out that my protege picked up his first dubya a few weeks back! Just… beauty. Beauty, guys. Heheh… I kinda feel like you stole from me… y’know, with me just charging you two hundred and seventy five bucks for all that homespun wisdom I shared with you when you came to visit me. Kinda feel like… you just reached into pants pocket and stole my wallet. No shades of grey, no hyperbole, just straight up raw theft. Like a crime. Like you both should be getting buttfucked in federal prison for what you did. Buttttttttt… I’m happy for you. I am. And I haven’t been happy for someone since my plug got run over by his baby mama and now he gets all the painkillers he wants… which means I get all the painkillers I want. Uhhh… where was I going with this? Sorry, I’m on a shitload of painkillers right now; shit’s fun as fuck!
—
STRONK AND SHELLEY’S TRAILER
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
APRIL 1, 2022
Shelley’s phone crumbles into pieces in the middle of STRONK’s hand. STRONK has just finished watching yet another Scott Stevens promo from weeks past. And this one—to an even greater degree than all the others—was especially aggravating to him. An affront to his sensibilities, if you will.
The guy cut a damn promo with the song ‘Obsession’ inter-spliced throughout. What the actual fuck, STRONK thinks.
STRONK: THIS MAN IS THE WEAKEST MAN STRONK HAS EVER LAID EYES ON. HE BITCHES AND CRIES TO HIS WOMAN WHO THEN DELEGATES CHORES TO THIS MAN. THE MAN THEN SAYS HE WILL DO THEM ONCE HE IS FINISHED WATCHING WRESTLING STUFF. HE DEVELOPS INTIMATE FEELINGS FOR CONOR FUSE, THE MAN WITH THE INTENSE INTEREST IN ENTERTAINMENT ELECTRONICS. HE TALKS ABOUT HIS WANTS AND DESIRES BUT KNOWS HE IS TOO MUCH OF A PUSSY TO OBTAIN THESE THINGS. HE TALKS ABOUT BEING OBSESSED. HE FLIRTS WITH THE CAMERA AND LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE STUPID WHO IS FAMOUS FOR MEASLY THINGS.
Greene: He looks like… a less athletic “Platinum” Mike Perry, the former UFC fighter turned burnout. Like weirdly tan, old as fuck… but even older than he actually is in human years by virtue of hard-livin’, with, like… garbage ass tattoos. He looks like… I dunno… the guy you’d see shoplifting rubbing alcohol and tampons from a WalMart at three in the morning.
STRONK: YES. WHOEVER THE FUCK THAT IS. ALL OF THOSE THINGS. A SCUMBAG SHITHEAD FUCK. HE IS A MAN WHO FEELS THINGS AND HAS THOUGHTS AND PONDERS WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT HOLD. STRONK IS A MAN WITHOUT AGE ‘CUZ HE DOES NOT KEEP TRACK OF BIRTHDAYS. WHILE STEVENS REVIEWS WRESTLING TAPE, STRONK BEARHUGS PORT-A-POTTIES FILLED WITH CEMENT AND MOVES THEM DISTANCES THAT MODERN ELECTRIC CARS WOULD STRUGGLE TO COVER IN A SINGLE CHARGE. A LIGHT WARM-UP. WHY DOES THE STRONK MAN’S HEART BEAT FAST WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT BATTERING SCOTT STEVENS AND TOSSING HIS LIFELESS BODY INTO A GARBAGE CAN? TRASH GOES TO THE DUMP WHERE IT BELONGS. STRONK COULD HAVE BEEN THE BEST GARBAGE MAN THERE EVER WAS IF HE WANTED. BUT STRONK DOES NOT DEAL WITH WHAT-IFS. THE REALITY OF THE SITUATION IS THAT STRONK GODSON IS GOING TO CRUNCH YOUR BODY AND CRUSH YOUR ORGANS. YOU WILL VOMIT A HEARTY STEW MADE OF YOUR PULVERIZED SPLEEN AND LIVER. MMMMMMMM—CHUNKY!
Shelley sits on the floor of the trailer, watching STRONK rage, practically foaming at the mouth. There’s several seconds of dead air before Greene pipes up.
Greene: Yeah, I hate people who think too much. It’s, like, super lame and stuff. My favourite people, seriously, they pack chew and punch each other in the face for beer money and gypsy clout. Simpler is better.
STRONK: SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
—
OUTSIDE STRONK AND SHELLEY’S TRAILER
HOURS LATER
Despite it being very much a terrible day weather-wise in the hometown of STRONK GODSON, several familiar trailer park inhabitants (that we have met in past glimpses into the goings-on of GODSON and Greene) stand outside, going about their strange and unusual business, as STRONK and Shelley make their way to the Cadillac Deville parked outside their trailer. They’re headed to the airport to hop on a flight en route to Refueled XCII.
Their next-door neighbour Charlie, crouched in his yard pulling up weeds, notices them and takes the opportunity to make a gun sign with his hand and point it at Shelley first, STRONK second. But they pay him no mind.
Raccoon Guy is a few trailers down, but they can see that he’s in the process of trying to coax two of his raccoons to mate.
Greene: Hey Raccoon Guy! We’re headed outta town for a few days—can you watch over the place, make sure no one fucks with our shit?
Shelley, upon saying this, immediately shoots an accusatory glance at Charlie, who continues to unload an imaginary clip with his “hand” gun.
Raccoon Guy: Ya gozzz it, mistah! If them damn chilrenz colms back, the Raccoon’ll smack `em with a two-by-four. Hey, y’all wanna see these coons fuggg?
STRONK and Shelley climb into the car; Shelley leans out the driver’s side window to respond to Raccoon Guy.
Greene: That’s quite all right, thanks. But you… have fun… I guess…
The car starts and the tires kick up dust mixed with pieces of broken bottle as they putter their way slowly toward the park’s exit.
Raccoon Guy: (calling out to them from a distance now) This ain’t about no dang fun! This `bout the bloodline! The bloodline, yars see!
—
BOEING 747
THE AIR?
APRIL 1, 2022
STRONK and Shelley have been in the air for a couple hours. As is custom on the rare occasion they fly and don’t drive to their destination, the Stronk Man almost immediately, after the seatbelt sign turns off, makes a beeline for the restroom. Now, some thirty minutes later, there’s a line of people—seven or eight—queued up outside the bathroom door. The door pops open and STRONK lumbers out, moving past them, bumping shoulders with anyone standing in his path—man, woman, child, it makes no difference.
The stench of a particularly monstrous bowel movement invisibly stalks after him like the killer in the movie It Follows, turning the stomachs of rows of passengers, as he finds his seat.
Off in the distance, coming from within the four walls of the claustrophobic airplane toilet, we hear: “HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST ON A CRACKER! WHAT IS THAT!”
STRONK doesn’t flush. Doesn’t believe in it. That’s typically Shelley’s job. Bitch work.
Shelley is seated near the window; GODSON the aisle. In the middle of them is a young professional—mid-30s maybe—dressed in a finely tailored suit. STRONK unceremoniously plonks himself down in his seat, garnering a sneaky look of annoyance by the suit-clad man.
Greene: Shouldn’t be long now. Think we’ll be touching down in… twenty minutes or so.
STRONK: THEN WE FEAST. STRONK NEEDS PROTEIN TO FUEL HIM FOR HIS FIGHT AGAINST SCOTT STEVENS ON SUNDAY. TWO FULL DAYS OF STEAKS AND CHICKEN THIGHS. AND THEN—PUNISHMENT.
The businessman turns to STRONK, taking out one Airpod.
Businessman: Excuse me, do you mind not yelling? I’m trying to listen to a podcast.
STRONK: WHO IS YELLING?
Businessman: You are, man. Do you not know how to speak at a respectful volume when you’re in a public space?
Before STRONK can answer, the businessman turns to Shelley.
Businessman: Is this guy special needs or something? What’s wrong with him? He keeps tensing his body and crowding me. It’s disturbing.
STRONK: WHAT IS YOUR JOB, FANCY BOY?
Sighing, the businessman takes the second Airpod out to fully address GODSON.
Businessman: Banking—mergers and acquisitions for the industrials space.
1 plus 1 equals ?
Divide by pi and…
Carry the 2?
STRONK, blank-faced, nods once.
STRONK: THOSE ARE WORDS.
The businessman, against his better judgement, inquires the same of GODSON.
Businessman: And what do you do for work?
STRONK: STRONK IS A DESTROYER OF WORLDS. THIS SUNDAY, STRONK FACES A WEAK MAN BY THE NAME OF SCOTT STEVENS. STRONK WILL PAINT THE CANVAS WITH THE PERIOD BLOOD THAT POURS FROM THE GAPING HOLE IN HIS FACE PUT THERE BY A STRONK ELBOW DROP. THE NEW CEO OF H-O-W WILL RUN TO THE STRONK MAN AND GIVE HIM A NEW CONTRACT. THE CONTRACT WILL HAVE A BLANK SPACE WHERE STRONK WILL PUT A BIG NUMBER. A NUMBER THAT WILL FINANCIALLY CRIPPLE H-O-W BUT A NUMBER THEY WILL BE HAPPY TO PAY. AND THEN TITLE SHOTS WILL COME. ALL OF THEM.
Shelley interjects (respectfully, so as not to piss STRONK off).
Greene: Plus, there’s that whole War Games thing they’ve got cooking. Wouldn’t it be awesome if you got to lead a team? What a statement that would be!
STRONK: WAR GAMES—YES. LEAD TEAM—YES. BUT STRONK NEEDS NO TEAM. STRONK WILL SIMPLY REMOVE THE GOVERNOR FROM HIS MASSIVE ENGINE AND TEAR THROUGH THE COMPETITION. YOU SAID THE WAR GAMES TAKES PLACE IN SOME KIND OF CAGE-LIKE THING.
Greene: Yes, a cage.
STRONK: LET STRONK TELL YOU SOMETHING, FANCY BOY. WHEN STRONK WAS A SMALL HUMAN, HIS FATHER PUT HIM IN A CAGE MADE FOR CAPTIVE DOGS. THERE STRONK SAT FOR TWO WEEKS WHILE FATHER AND MOTHER WENT TO ATLANTIC CITY. DURING THAT TIME STRONK ATE KIBBLE AND DRANK HIS OWN PISS TO STAY HYDRATED. WHEN FATHER AND MOTHER RETURNED, THEY WERE SHOCKED TO FIND STRONK ALIVE. FATHER CURSED AND MOTHER CRIED. BUT YOU KNOW SOMETHING, FANCY BOY? STRONK CANNOT BE KILLED BY CONVENTIONAL METHODS. YOU PUT STRONK IN A CAGE AND THE CAGE BECOMES STRONK. AND ONCE STRONK SMASHES IN SCOTT STEVENS’ EMOTIONAL BRAIN ON SUNDAY, GETS HIS NEW BIG MONEY CONTRACT, AND IS ASKED TO STEP INTO THE CAGE TO FIGHT OTHER MEN TO THE DEATH—WHICH IS WHAT STRONK ASSUMES HAPPENS IN THE WAR GAMES—IT WILL BE AS THOUGH HE IS RETURNING HOME AFTER A LONG ABSENCE.
The businessman blinks twice.
Puts the Airpods back in his ears.
Closes his eyes.
Thinks: What. The. Actual. Fuck.
And ends the convo right there.
The overhead seatbelt sign blinks on. The plane begins its descent.
In just two days, STRONK thinks, a statement—in ALL CAPS (Stronk Style)—will be made.