Denizens of Stronk Country

Denizens of Stronk Country

Posted on March 11, 2022 at 11:39 am by Stronk Godson

FEBRUARY 27, 2022

The thin black curtain separating the stage from the backstage area whips to the side.  A sweaty, glistening, blown-up STRONK GODSON stumbles past production staff, a strained, red-faced Shelley Greene crunched under one arm, helping to support him as best he can.


STRONK’s eyes are glazed over, his throat throbs from the Shooting Star Guillotine Legdrop delivered by the man who beat him mere minutes before, the High Octane Television Champion Jeffrey James Roberts.  As it turns out, wrestling is hard.  And it hurts like a bitch.

Greene:  (rubbing GODSON’s back)  Don’t worry, big man, this is just a very minor setback!  If anything, it’s a blessing in disguise!  Who needs a lengthy win streak anyway?  Who needs that albatross of expectations and anxiety clinging to them?  Not you.  Definitely not you.  We’re better for this, I truly believe that.

Production staff scuttle about, paying them no mind.  Greene leaves STRONK leaning up against a wall and zips across to a cooler sitting on the floor further down the arena corridor.  He opens it and retrieves a can of Mountain Dew.  Not STRONK’s favourite, but this wasn’t for drinking (STRONK only ever drinks two things—water and protein shakes).

He returns to STRONK’s side and holds the cold can of soda to the base of his neck.

Greene:  Whatever!  We’ll figure it out!  This isn’t a big deal, so how can it be a STRONK deal?  It’s small potatoes.  Means nothing.  Actually, less than nothing: it means negative nothing.  We’ll go home to our beautiful double-wide trailer and we’ll retool and figure out next steps…

Greene cracks open the can of Mountain Dew, takes a sip, then returns it to GODSON’s neck in an attempt to soothe the beast.

STRONK had done well.  Not great, but well.  Great would’ve seen him eviscerate JJR in the middle of the ring, pull him apart limb by limb, slam him down into the canvas repeatedly until his body resembled a sopping wet, brown paper bag filled with broken chicken bones.   None of which happened.  But he did well.  It was a valiant effort.  Not that any of this was consolation at the present time—GODSON’s world spins round and round, faster and faster; he is out of breath, his knees ache, his neck clicks when he moves his head, and his heart is thumping a mile a minute.   


Greene holds the Mountain Dew up for him to take.  STRONK ignores it initially, then becomes enraged (after his double vision finally stabilizes and he sees what Greene is proffering) and tosses it violently down the hallway, almost hitting an innocent seamstress making her way from one part of the arena to another.


Greene looks around anxiously, trying to spot a similar cooler (the one he retrieved the Dew from had no bottled water, just empty calories) or a water cooler.  Nothing.

Greene:  Excuse me!  Hello!  I need some water here!  Stronk Daddy needs hydration STAT!

GODSON’s eyes roll back in his head, his stomach churning.  The fluorescent light above is obtrusive and harsh, and in this moment he wants very much to grab a hold of Shelley and use him as a battering ram to smash each and every one in his direct vicinity, leaving him in silent, comforting darkness.

All of a sudden, a seemingly never-ending torrent of vomit SPRAYS from the Stronk Man’s mouth.  It first hits Shelley square in the face, with such force that it comically knocks him head over heels.  It ricochets off Shelley, splattering surrounding walls and various bystanders, all of whom stop dead in their tracks, frozen in confusion and horror, all wondering (after realizing what has just happened), ‘How the hell does one man contain so much puke?’ 

The answer to that question is that STRONK consumed the equivalent of two Thanksgiving dinners on top of a large tomahawk steak, and washed it all down with two litres of 1,000 calorie-per-serving mass-gainer.  It was, admittedly, a lot of food to eat before engaging in rigorous physical activity.

A poor choice, indeed, but you live and you learn.

MARCH 3, 2022

It’s a cold day in Minnesota.  There’s a dusting of snow on the ground.  The trailer park kids are skidding around on their bikes lobbing obscenities at anyone that crosses their path.  Inside the home of Shelley Greene, where STRONK GODSON has taken up residence for the past six months, there’s a persistent sense of fragility and awkwardness.

Shelley tried (and failed) to buoy GODSON’s spirits in the days following his loss to Jeffrey James Roberts, buying him a wide assortment of old bodybuilding magazines, as well as a set of kettlebells.  GODSON angrily tore the stack of magazines in half and tossed it like confetti all over their living room.  He threw the kettlebells—which he called “pussyboy dumbbells”—through their front window.  There’s now a large blue tarp that covers the resultant hole.  Needless to say, the Stronk Man is not what you would call a “good” loser.

Now, days removed from the embarrassing loss in his debut match, things have begun to take a turn.

Maybe it was deep personal reflection or introspection on GODSON’s part.  Maybe he sat down in the quiet of his bedroom, lights turned down low, white-noise machine droning out ambient noise, and really, truly thought about what he wants to achieve in the sport of pro-wrestling.  From this, maybe he was able to reframe the loss in his mind as, like Shelley said backstage following the match, a good thing; something that will only drive him to be better in the future.  MAYBE… STRONK really matured.  And you thought he was hell to deal with before?  Well, you can add “cunning” and “calculated” to the list of adjectives most would use to describe GODSON (including “big,” “strong,” and “tank-like”).

Or maybe… he did none of those things.  Because he didn’t.   If anything, GODSON decided that keeping a diary and chronicling his innermost thoughts was one of the primary reasons why he lost to JJR.  When GODSON kept his thoughts and feelings to himself, nicely bottled up and ready to POP, he was a (regional, unregulated) bodybuilding champion.  In the past he’d only ever known victory.  And that’s because he was centrally focused on the mission ahead of him at all times:  LIFT THAT DAMN WEIGHT.  The mission had changed; now, it was:  SMASH THAT DAMN OPPONENT.  But he was too busy thinking like a damn NERD to keep his macros in check and his pump sustained.  So you won this round, Intelligent Thought, but NO MORE.  NUH-UH!  From this point forward, STRONK GODSON is simply an SUV-sized meat vehicle piloted by an unthinking, unrelenting destroyer of men.

Back to basics.

Shelley Greene lurches out from the bathroom, doubled over at the waist, clutching his back as he moves to the kitchen, where GODSON is mixing up a protein shake.

Greene:  (pointing to his lower back)  I’m telling you, Stronk Daddy, I think I tore something back there.


Greene pulls out a bottle of muscle relaxers and throws a couple into his mouth.  Dry swallows.  Sighs.


STRONK and Shelley stand at opposite ends of Greene’s Cadillac, GODSON taking hold of the front bumper and Shelley the back.  Beer cans litter their feet.  GODSON finishes the last tasty gulp of cheap whiskey from a bottle clutched in his massive hand and then whips it at Shelley, who just narrowly dodges it.

GODSON hasn’t drank a day in his life up to this point.  His father, Gordon Godson, was a violent alcoholic and so STRONK vowed never to touch the destructive stuff.  But with all types of thoughts, mostly negative ones, crashing around in his head these past few days, he needed something to lower the volume of it all, and Bill—another resident of the trailer park, who’s a known drunk—told him to “drown his sorrows in that brown.”  STRONK took his advice.  And, in typical STRONK Style, went to the absolute extreme.

Turns out, a drunk STRONK is a scary STRONK.


Shelley strains, trying to lift his end of the car with no success, while, in the corner of his eye, calculating the distance from the car to the roof of their trailer.  An impossible feat, according to his math.

Greene:  I’m telling you, STRONK, I don’t think… uhhh… physics work the way you think they do.

GODSON projects a foggy-eyed death glare at Greene.

Greene:  I mean… if there were two of YOU in addition to little old me, then, sure, I could see us throwing this car onto the roof of our trailer.  For reasons.  But I just don’t see any reality where I can be of assistance with this.  And I think I already hurt my back, big man.  Feels like someone is jamming a steak knife into my spine.

GODSON flashes an inebriated smirk.  He knows that feeling well.  LOVES that feeling.  Best damn feeling in the world.


MARCH 3, 2022

After popping some muscle relaxers, Shelley Greene sits on the floor of the furniture-less living room, while GODSON hammers out a few reverse curls.

Shelley had been doing some thinking of his own.  He questioned whether he’d adequately prepared STRONK for his first match.  He’d taken him to see his cousin Lowell, whose only advice was to “talk a gang of shit and be intimidating,” and STRONK had applied the knowledge imparted to him to the best of his ability… but when it came time to walk the talk, things did not go as planned.  Perhaps STRONK did not have sufficient in-ring training.  Or maybe Shelley did not interject himself enough in the match like a good manager should.  All questions worth puzzling over.  Shelley, being a self-proclaimed genius, probed deeper into the root cause.

Greene:  You know, STRONK, I’ve been thinking that what we need is a good old-fashioned crew.  Like a posse.  We could use strength in numbers.  Just until you’ve gained a bit of experience.

GODSON halts mid-rep and looks at Greene inquisitively.

Greene:  We could use some soldiers in our ranks.  Me?  I’m more of a big-picture strategy kind of guy.  We need canon fodder.  Guys who can help with your… erm… shortcomings.  Just until you fully pick up on this wrestling thing, of course!  You’re still new to all of this.  We need people to train with you. … And the hobos we had you fighting haven’t been back since the first day.

Bracing himself for either a physical or verbal (or possibly both) onslaught of abuse, Greene readies himself to swiftly fold into the fetal position.

But GODSON’s reaction is uncharacteristically reserved.


Greene nods fervently, rising gingerly to his feet.

Greene:  Exactly!  You may be the size of an M4 Sherman, but there’s no reason to be a one man army!  We need allies, training partners.  I’m soooooooooo happy you’re in agreement, big man, because I’ve already scheduled interviews with a few of our fellow trailer park inhabitants.  I’ll do the talking, you just need to size them up for us and let me know if you think they’ve got the “good stuff.”

STRONK grunts.  Guess that’s a “yes”?

MARCH 4, 2022

We open on a “casting couch”-type setup.  The camera is pointed directly ahead, with STRONK and Shelley seated behind it, off-screen.  They’re in the living room of their trailer, so in the absence of a sofa or a lounge chair, Shelley has erected a makeshift seat of chemistry textbooks, all of which he’s read and thoroughly memorized.

The man sitting on the chemistry textbooks is a scrawny, sunbaked, middle-aged man with poorly drawn tattoos running up and down both arms.  His head is shaved and his beard unkempt.  There’s ample amounts of crazy in his eyes.

Greene:  Okay, thanks for coming in, uh… Raccoon Guy?  I just have down “Raccoon Guy” since I don’t know your name and everyone around these parts, heh… well, they only know you as the guy with the raccoons.  Why don’t you start off by telling us your name?

Raccoon Guy:  Nahm’s Raccoon.  Naw need fer no dang pleasantrays, uhthank ya.

Raccoon Guy spits his chewing tobacco into the sleeve of his flannel button-up shirt.

Greene:  Excellent.  And you’ve lived in this park for how long?

Raccoon Guy:  Uh since tha uhhh… uh wanna say the uhhhh… when dat war wiff tha sand peoples wuz goins on.  Round den.

Greene: Okay… I’ll just write down “more than a decade.”  … And what do you do for a living?

Raccoon Guy:  Ahh gots dem coons dat ayes breeds.  Whole dang lot of em, ayes do.  Yippp.

Greene stops and thinks for a second.  Who needs raccoons professionally bred?  Is there a market for domesticated raccoons?  WHO is buying these raccoons? 

Greene:  And how many of these, uh… raccoons would you say you sell in a typical year?

Raccoon Guy’s demeanour immediately changes; his back straightens up, and he tilts his neck to the side, producing an audible CRAAAAACK, before spitting more slimy chewing tobacco into his shirt pocket.

Raccoon Guy:  Aye ain’t sell nunna dem.  You crazy in yer dang head, mister?  Whut kinda dang man you take me fer?

Greene:  Then why breed the raccoons?

Raccoon Guy:  Nah daz a guddd question dere.  Goes back, ahhhh… twenty yurs or sah… Aye noticed the dang thangs wuzn’t fuggin’ like aye figgered they should be… so aye took it upon mahself to makes em fuggg.

Greene:  Uh-huh… and—

Raccoon Guy:  And nows theyz fuggin like yar wuddn’t believe.

Greene: Right, so moving on…

Raccoon Guy:  Ahh whole mess’a babies theyz be havin’ now.

Greene: Great; now about your—

Raccoon Guy:  Lotsa incest thah.  Kinda gots the new generashyun all crippy-legged and mangy.  But ahhhs still loves em just the same, aye dooz.

Greene:  That’s wonderful.  And so why do you want to be a disciple and training partner of STRONK GODSON?

Raccoon Guy:  Who dat?

Greene:  The man seated to my left.

Raccoon Guy:  Big ol bastid ain’t he?

STRONK leans in to “whisper” something in Greene’s ear.


Greene:  Well, Stronk Daddy approves, so that’s good.  The only other question I have is, what do you bring to the table?

Raccoon Guy:  Meth, if yaz wan it.  And all da coon pelts yar can shake a dang stink at.

Greene:  I think the expression is “shake a stick,” actually.

Raccoon Guy:  Haaah… not when yaz foolin wiff coon pelts.  Dang thangs stank.  But izza good stank.  Y’all get used ta it.

Greene:  Thank you for coming in.  Are you available three times a week to spar with the big man here?  Help get him ring ready?

Raccoon Guy:  Wuz a spahh?

Greene:  A fight.  You’d be fighting him.  In the field.  Out back.

Raccoon Guy:  Ahh nawwww… aye ain’t scrappin nobody fer nothin.  Had mah knees oblit—oblit—obliter—had mah knees fugged in a cah accident some yars back.  Can’t be doin nunna dat.

Greene: Okay.  Unfortunately, that’s a bit of a non-starter for us, but thanks for coming in to speak with us, anyway.

Raccoon Guy:  Yars welcome.  If ya ever wanna watch coons fugg, y’all give the Raccoon a ring-a-ding-dang.  Murrrkle ah nashure, iz whut it iz.

Greene:  Thanks for the invite.  I think we’re good.

MARCH 6, 2022

Charlie, the old man who lives next to STRONK and Shelley, sits on the stack of textbooks.  He smokes a cigarette.

The interview is already in progress.

Greene:  Charlie, it’s been great talking to you today.  I had no idea you had amateur wrestling experience in college.  In fact, I assumed you didn’t even graduate high school.

Charlie:  You assume a lot of things, don’tcha?

Greene:  I do.  So, are you available three times a week to fight STRONK here in the park?  He needs to get his reps in before his next match.

Charlie:  Fuck no.  I ain’t fighting that gorilla.  I want nothing to do with either of you weirdo fucks.  I just came over here to tell you to QUIT FUCKING AROUND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!  You wake my wife up one more time, and—

Greene:  Woah—aggressive much?  Take it down a notch, Charles!  Indoor voices, please!

Charlie:  You think I didn’t see you out there a few nights ago fuckin’ around with that car, drunk as a skunk?  Keep it the fuck down… or next time I’m gonna put a bullet in your back.  (points at GODSON)  And TWO in yours, if that’s what it takes to put your big ass down for good.  I’ve been to prison, and I don’t care two shits about going back.  They’ve got good grub.  Remember that.

Charlie gets up, stamps out his cigarette in the carpet, flips off STRONK and Shelley, and storms out of the trailer

MARCH 8, 2022

A curvy woman with a half-shaved head, dressed in a cheap pleather one-piece, sits on the stack of textbooks.  Her contacts make it so her eyes appear fully black, which unnerves STRONK… and strangely arouses Greene.  He’d always wanted a goth girlfriend, but until his horrific acne cleared up (about a year or so ago) he was not very desirable to the opposite sex.  Still isn’t, but that’s mostly because of his awkwardness and ‘Nice Guy’ tendencies.

Greene:  Your name is…?

Miss Darlene:  Miss Darlene.

Greene:  How long have you lived here in the park?

Miss Darlene:  Since I has just a wee one.  Back then this place wasn’t the trash heap it is today.  There were pure souls living here.  Respectful, caring souls.  Now… it’s a lot of darkness and depravity.  We’re in the belly of the beast, kiddos… and we’re swimming in its bile.

Greene:  Right.  And what do you do for a living?

Miss Darlene:  As in… what do I do for money?  Because that question can be interpreted any number of ways, hun.  I’m a woman who’s deeply connected to the spirit realm, you see, and I often catch myself pondering the meaning of life.  I’ve been close to answering that question many a time… but then the shrooms wear off.

Miss Darlene shrugs.


Greene:  STRONK’s right.  We’ve already cracked that code, baby.

Miss Darlene:  Excuse me?  I’m not your “baby,” and I’d appreciate you showing me a little respect.

Greene:  My apologies.  Miss Darlene.  To circle back around to my question, I was asking what you do for money, yes.

She nods.

Miss Darlene:  Now that’s better.  Anyway, what do I do for money?  I stream.  I stream all day everyday.


Miss Darlene:  I sit at my computer, camera on, and interact with my fans.  I have about two hundred—maybe two fifty on a Saturday—old crusty men that want nothing more than to lavish me with gifts and money.  These freaks go crazy when I shave my eyebrows.  That’s my thing—I shave my brows and they make it rain donations.

STRONK leans in, confused, noticing that her eyebrows are fully grown in.  Miss Darlene picks up on this quickly.

Miss Darlene:  I’ve been saving these up for a while now.  Law of supply and demand.  Artificial scarcity and all that.  My plan is… I’ll shave one eyebrow, get those dirty little perverts edging in their pants, and be all, ‘I dunno… maybe I like this look?’  All one-eyebrowed and shit.  Make them think I’m gonna stop there.  Then wait for them to start hitting that Donate button.  Boom.  Twenty bucks here.  Bam.  Hundred bucks there.  ‘Oh, you guys want me to shave off the other one?  Is that what you want?  I dunno…’  Waiting, waiting, waiting… Cha-fucking-ching.  Miss Darlene leases a brand-spanking-new Range Rover.  Get fucked, Patriarchy.

Greene turns to STRONK, trying to assess his initial thoughts.  The interviewee is, after all, a woman.  Was she suitable to be fed to the meat grinder that is GODSON?  STRONK is all about equality, and if she’s down, he’ll certainly beat the brakes off that poor lady.  However, to her credit, she did have a bit of size to her, and though her eyes were indeed black, there existed a fire inside them.

Plus, her fingernails are about four inches long and filed into deadly razors—those could do some serious damage to Stronk Daddy’s face.  His beautiful, beautiful face.

Greene:  You seem to be an independently wealthy person.  I don’t know if this is the right opportunity for you, but thanks for coming in.  Just out of curiosity—you know, for science—where might one find your eyebrow-shaving cam show?

Miss Darlene smiles.  She knows a potential mark when she sees one.

Miss Darlene:  You got a pen?

Greene:  I’ve got my brain.  (taps side of head)  Steel trap.

Cha-fucking-ching, Miss Darlene thinks.

Greene turns to GODSON.

Greene:  I am beginning to think we need to look outside the park for help.  This ain’t working.  I’ll make some calls.

MARCH 9, 2022

The road snaking through STRONK and Shelley’s shabby trailer park from entrance to exit is dirt and riddled with personal pizza-sized craters.  In the air, you smell tire-fire smoke and depression.  Shelley Greene walks, camera following in front of him, Greene staring into it.  His expression is tense but foolish at the same time.

The story of his life—hyper-focus execution yielding slapdash results.

He’d failed out of college (or, rather, was expelled for selling MDMA he made in his dorm).  He tried to be a TikTokker but users of the app just found him to be “creepy” and “off-putting.”  He attempted to sell ‘supplements’ online (on three separate occasions) only to somehow find himself ripped off by the buyer in the end.

Things are going to be different, he thinks.  He’s got a good feeling about STRONK, his beefy meal ticket.

STRONK will lead them to glory.

Greene:  I’ve had people ask me, Shell, why are you spending all this time managing the life of STRONK GODSON?  What do you get out of this?  Is he, erm, ‘slow’ and you’re taking advantage?

Shelley stops in his tracks.

Greene:  Let me answer a few of those questions.  In reverse order.  Is STRONK slow?  Yes.  He walks slow because anywhere he needs to be, and whomever he needs to meet when he gets there, can fucking wait.  The big man doesn’t skitter about like a cockroach; he lumbers like an iron giant with a boner in his pants.  Slow and steady.  Mentally?  STRONK’s as sharp as a tack.  He even read a chapter book once, I think.  And while he may not have much in the way of formal education, he gets it, you know?  And that’s more important than any college degree or fancy credential. 

Green pauses.

Greene: What do I get out of this?  I dunno.  I assume money, women, power, eventually.  But is that why I’ve devoted my life to this man?  Pledged my undying support to him?  Absolutely not.  I do this… because STRONK is Super-heavyweight Jesus.  He’s the real McCoy.  And baby, we’re going places together.

Greene looks around, taking a moment to take in his surroundings.  A neighbourhood kid pulls a “drive-by” on his bike, tossing a brick through the windshield of some random car.  Shelley is unfazed—an everyday occurrence in the park.

Greene:  His opponent this Sunday… I really hope he underestimates Stronk Daddy based on his recent loss.  I pray Xander Azula comes in thinking he’s going to add another L to the Stronkest Man Alive’s win-loss record.  You think you’re Jeffrey James Roberts?  What that man did was a miracle—and I’m a scientist, I don’t believe in miracles.  Statistically, we’d toss that data point out, tell it to hit the bricks, you don’t represent us!  But on that fateful night, Roberts got the job done.

A devilish grin crosses his face.

Greene:  Then he was attacked and beaten mercilessly by karma, which I also don’t fucking believe in.  We’re putting in the work, building those hurting bombs, sculpting the treacherous summit points of his bi’s and tri’s.  He takes his shirt off, you’d swear he was the bastard child of Everest and K2–the biggest and most dangerous, baby!  What?  You heard me!  I’m talking facts.  He’s a bad man and he’s got something to prove. 

GODSON moves into frame for the first time.  He’s wearing his favourite American flag compression shorts and nothing else.  He flexes and poses and growls menacingly, showing off his impressive physique.

Greene:  Xander, I don’t know if you have the fortitude to outlast STRONK.  STRONK Enterprises is a going concern, and YOU should be concerned for your health and wellbeing stepping into the ring with GODSON.  We will prove without a shadow of a doubt that STRONK’s loss was but a blip, something that will be forgotten in due time.  There’s no doubt in my mind that lessons were learned on February 27th, and if there’s one thing we don’t do it’s make the same mistake twice.  We learn and we grow.  Emphasis on the latter, eh, big man?


Greene:  Goddamn right we do!  So, Xander, bring your best this Sunday.  Please.  Please bring your best.  Give this man here a suitable workout.  And then when we’re through with you, if you’re lucky… we’ll toss you back into the shallow pond from whence you came.  Because we got bigger fish to catch.  Goals to accomplish.  And championships to win.  Anything you want to add, Stronk Daddy?


Greene:  Always a man of few words.  But damn if they aren’t powerful!

Just before the camera cuts out, the trailer park kid we saw earlier riding around on his bike pulls up abruptly, dismounts, and then swiftly kicks Shelley in the balls.  Greene topples over, clutching his groin and whimpering in pain.

STRONK smiles–a true rarity.


Fade to black.