Lookit, this is not a STRONK tale. Not this one.
This is a Choi Story, bappa. Bedtime reading. Tuck-in.
I’m starting to matter, y’see. This NPC is taking over the game. Like I just railed a truckstop bathroom line of Geppeto’s old-man magic dust and became a real boy right quick-like Soon you’ll catch me toe-tapping, a-bee-boppin’ and scattin’, up and down your residential neighbourhood, scuffing the sidewalks with my alliagator loafers, and humming a gay ole tuneski while I do.
Something from the old country, maybe late-stage TLC. Maybe prime era?
The song No Scrubs spoke to me.
(I heard it a decade or so after it first released, apparently. I was never much for the human female voice. So grating, so shrill.)
The song told me everything I needed to know. They (hot chicks) did not want a scrub, with a scrub defined as being a man who is inadequate in a myriad of distinct and anti-synergistic ways. The prototypical scrub is actually less than the sum of his parts. The mystery variable is dick size. It’s tough to make the math work; I think you’ve got to counter-balance it with ball plumpness. Or pube density and fragrance. One side bolsters, one detracts. Calculus.
I listened to that song and I heard myself described in it. It was like a personal attack coming through my CRT, aimed directly at me. I had no car. I just sat on my broke-ass. A lady in a convenience store in Compton once called me buster—I pursued her home, pleading with her to explain further, how would you characterize a buster?, but then her stepson came outside and put a serious beating on me. I lost teeth.
Shit. I couldn’t even holler at a bitch from the passenger’s side of my best friend’s ride if I wanted—I had no friends. Sure, the jocks that copped Adderall off me called me buddy and dude and even bruh one time, which is short for brother, keep that in mind, but they never invited me to parties or to sniff their girlfriend’s panties or to music festivals, so it’s like, am I AIDS to you, bruh? I thought we were bruhs, bruh? I’d never do a bruh like that, just ignore them or sometimes punch them in the kidney from behind for wearing dusty JNCOs.
So it’s nice I have Jace Parker Davidson and STRONK now. Real friendship. Ride-or-dies. And now that MONGO is dead and gone (he ride’d, he die’d), my life is sooo much less stressful. I haven’t shovelled an ounce of shit in almost a week now. I am unchained and unfettered once again. Free to think and to ponder.
But it’s a slippery slope, that thinking and pondering.
Do I feel bad about killing MONGO?
Do I regret causing STRONK so much emotional distress?
Do I feel remorse?
Do I lay awake at night with this terrible, malignant secret eating a hole inside me?
Am I so consumed by guilt that every second I’m left alone with my own parasitic thoughts I just want to bite the end of that shotgun and join that stupid bull in hell?
No to all of it.
I sleep like a baby on Ambien, baby. Newborn on Nebivolol.
Why? Because I know that what I did was right. I made a spreadsheet with a bunch of columns and I did computations and I modelled it all out, every possible permutation, every possible reason to not blow MONGO’s brains out, and the result came back the same every. single. time.
KILLBULL VOL I
(Totally wish I could make a sequel. But there ain’t much left of MONGO’s head. He’s also now missing a leg after STRONK sawed it off, bleached it, and used it to assault Fuse on CHAOS.)
So I did it. I should be lauded for that. But no one can ever know, for if STRONK were to ever find out he would, of course, physically destroy me, make me long for the days of thrashings bestowed by the hands and feet of my high school bullies. He will never discover it was I, Abdullah Choi, formerly Shelley Greene, that murdered his beloved bull on a mild September afternoon.
Only Jace knows and, c’mon, he’s my boi. You see that silky intro I gave him on Sunday? Bitch, I did actual research. I wrote shit down. I coordinated the fucking balloon logistics. The devil was hiding in the details, but I, being the smartest person I’ve personally ever known, smoked that little rascal outta there.
All that to say, Jace knows where his bread is buttered. (Not sexual.) And he also knows that Abdullah Choi knows where the bodies are buried.
I’ve got a gun to his head. He’s got one to mine. And we’re having a great time. We really are. The best. Ain’t nobody pullin’ no triggers here.
A beneficial, unforeseen byproduct of this whole situation (that is, me splashing on MONGO like he just finished buying shoes and I don’t have that exact pair) is that STRONK is under the assumption that Cunt Face and Conor Fuse are to blame. He, like, really believes it, too. Like… I think he might actually try and murder Fuse. Which would suck because STRONK in jail means no money for Choi.
Conundrum. Yes. I’ll just have to reign him in. Blunt objects ONLY. No stabby things. Keep it within the swim lane of a pro wrestling feud. We’re not out here trying to cop a felony.
But believe me, I’ve never seen STRONK like this before. He either sits in the backyard by MONGO’s slowly decaying corpse, talking to him about whatever nonsense it is that an idiot discusses with a dead cow, or he’s furiously working out and breaking things with an intensity one can only describe as ‘seriously unnerving.’
STRONK wants to watch the village burn with everyone responsible in it. And he will have his vengeance, OH YES HE WILL HAVE IT.
As misdirected as though it may be, STRONK will have his vengeance. Blood-drenched vengeance. Scary vengeance. Fuse is a dead man, though, again, hopefully not literally!
We just need him to feel that same sense of entitlement to violence and brutality… for Carey.
It’s proving to be a tough nut to crack. Tougher than originally expected. He’s a stubborn, thick-headed fuck, after all.
But we’ll get him there.
Soon, I think.
We’ll get him there.
You can trust in Choi.