- Event: Chaos 042
STRONK! sits in a chair next to his manager, Michael Oliver Best, on the set of a daytime talk show that airs throughout the state of Illinois. He’s shirtless, dressed in his trademark camo fight shorts, which, by now, are beginning to show a bit of wear-and-tear (and resultant transparency) in the crotchal region. The HOW World Championship lays folded in his lap, freshly shined-up by the captive Abdullah Choi.
The people in the audience erupt with applause, prompted by a flashing sign overhead and out of sight of the cameras, as the show returns from commercial break.
The host is a finely dressed, mid-forties gentleman, with slicked back hair. He clutches a cue card in his hand and beams widely from ear-to-ear, gazing into the camera.
“And we’re back,” he says with ample enthusiasm, “…and here with me right now is the High Octane Wrestling World Champion, STRONK! Godson, and his manager, Mister Michael Oliver Best.” He turns to face them. “Gentlemen, thank you very much for joining me today.”
MOB, ever the charmer, nods his head, and says, “It’s our pleasure, Jonathan. Big fan of the show. I like your ‘What’s In, What’s Out’ weekly fashion segment.”
The host, Jonathan Ryles, a seasoned television personality that somehow made it through the Me Too Movement unscathed, smiles back at MOB, taking in the compliment. “Thank you! It’s a fan-favorite, for sure.”
Resetting, the host glances down at his cue card, then directs his attention to the King Stallion.
“Now, STRONK!,” he begins, “I admittedly don’t watch a lot of pro wrestling. But my brother is a huge fan of yours, and he’s greatly anticipating your upcoming title match against a man by the name of Conor Fuse. Can you tell us why the world should tune in this Sunday for your title defense?”
STRONK! contemplates the question. Scratches his balls. “STRONK! WAS MADE SMALL AND ALMOST DIED AT THE PUNY GIRL-HANDS OF CONOR FUSE. STRONK! WAS SAD BECAUSE STRONK! LOST A DEAR FRIEND IN MONGO AND STRONK! DID NOT PREPARE FOR CONOR FUSE THE FIRST TIME. STRONK! WILL NOT MAKE THAT MISTAKE AGAIN. STRONK! IS GOING TO CRUSH CONOR FUSE INTO A TINY CUBE OF HUMAN MEAT AND PLACE THE TINY CUBE OF HUMAN MEAT ON STRONK!’S MANTLE FOR LOOKING AND FOR GAWKING.”
“Yes,” MOB interjects, seeing the host recoil at the volume and bombastic nature of STRONK!’s way of speaking, “my client, way back in October of last year, looked at Conor Fuse and saw a man that was not worth adequate preparation. This was, of course, before I came into the picture; I would never have allowed this man to look past anyone, let alone a former HOW World Champion like Fuse.”
The host nods, as MOB continues.
“But can you blame Mister Godson?” MOB asks rhetorically, first to the host, then to the audience as a whole. “You look at my client, and you see a man that was built for battle. He’s three hundred plus pounds of rock-solid, fast-twitch muscle fibres. It’s as though he was engineered in a lab for this sport. He is everything a promoter or, personally speaking, a manager would want. If he were born thousands of years ago, there would be statues of him built in ancient times depicting him as a conqueror and pillager of great cities. Alexander the Great? More like Alexander the Okay, if my client were his contemporary.”
A drunk man in the audience–some frat boy, fresh off slamming a half dozen midday beers at a local bar, who wandered in off the street when a man handing out tickets mentioned that STRONK! Godson was going to be on the show today–stands up (sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the crowd of mostly women) and pumps his sweaty fist in the air. He calls out, “YEAH! STRONKY BABY! YOU THE MAN, HOSS! KILL THAT DORK! KILL HIM!”
STRONK!’s eyes dart around the bleachers, finding the source of the shouting. “YES. STRONK! WILL DO THAT. GOOD IDEA.”
MOB looks at the man with contempt for rudely interrupting his train of thought.
As the man is carried off by security, MOB continues, “Now, compare that to Conor Fuse: small, weak, blonde. Probably cannot bench four hundred pounds, which Mister Godson can. Easily, I might add. Conor Fuse would likely complain about joint pain and have an ugly-cry about it.”
The host watches as STRONK! gets up out of his chair and… begins lifting it up and down over his head. The chair weighs very little, so it looks like it barely registers to the King Stallion.
“So I can’t blame my client for looking past him,” MOB says. “But that… that was a rookie mistake.”
He looks over at his client, before continuing, “Now that Mister Godson is under my purview, my watchful eye, such a mistake will never, ever be made again, that I promise you.”
MOB subtly gestures for STRONK! to sit back down, which he does.
“We are taking this match very seriously. Mister Godson has been in the gym everyday, lifting the kind of weight that would crush Conor Fuse beneath it, running miles on the treadmill, doing endless roadwork, and mercilessly brutalizing his training partners. I’ll tell you, Jonathan, Mister Godson goes through training partners like slabs of meat at dinnertime. We’re running out of fresh bodies in the city of Chicago; we’re having to bus them in from out of state! It’s truly incredible the amount of focus and determination I’ve seen in the STRONKEST! Man Alive since this match was announced.”
Jonathan nods, leaning in, engaged. “It sounds like your client has something to prove.”
MOB thinks this over for a second.
“Yes and no,” he says. “Yes in the sense that STRONK! is always looking to prove that he’s better than he was the last time you saw him. He’s always evolving, getting bigger, better, more lethal. There’s a reason we don’t list his weight on the HOW website anymore–because it’s constantly increasing! Every week he stacks on more and more lean, functional muscle mass. And with every title defense… he looks more and more unstoppable.
“But also no, Mister Godson doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone… and certainly not to Conor Fuse.
“Conor knows that his criminalistic victory over Mister Godson at Rumble At The Rock was a freak occurrence, like winning the Powerball. A one-in-three-hundred-million shot. Statistically, it never should’ve happened. And if Conor were as smart as he thinks he is, he would’ve taken his winnings, the prestige of beating a depleted STRONK!, and ridden off into the sunset. He could’ve spent the twilight of his career wrestling those SOFTIES down in PRIME, but instead, he fights and claws his way back up to a title shot. … And so here we are.
“An unfortunate situation for Mister Fuse. Truly unfortunate. I feel bad for him. Not really, but imagine if I did? This could be a very trying time for me. It’s not… but again, it could be.”
The host straightens up in his chair. “That seems like a fitting way to end the show. STRONK!, Michael, any parting words for our audience?”
Before MOB can answer, STRONK! launches into a tirade: “YES. THERE NEEDS TO BE MORE MEATS IN THE SMALL ROOM BEHIND THE WALL OVER THERE. TOO MANY ORANGE STICKS THAT TASTE LIKE NOTHING AND NOT ENOUGH MEAT THAT TASTES LIKE SOMETHING. STRONK! WAS MADE TO STARVE. STRONK! SHOULD CRUSH THIS PLACE AND EVERYONE IN IT. BUT STRONK! WILL NOT CRUSH. BUT STRONK! SHOULD CRUSH.”
Sighing, MOB clarifies, translating STRONK! Speak in plain English: “He’s mad about the veggie tray, John. Me? I thought it was delightful. Great dip. Good spread. But should we ever make another appearance on your show, you should get catering from a local steakhouse. Too much? There’s no such thing. Mister Godson gets ornery when he’s hungry.”
Chuckling nervously, the host forces a smile, and turns to the audience to bid farewell. “We’ll take that under advisement. Anyway, that’s our show, folks! Thanks for stopping by! We’ll be back again tomorrow, same time, same channel!”
STRONK! turns and flexes for the audience.
Old women and sexually frustrated housewives hungrily eye the thin layer of rapidly eroding fabric covering his sizable bulge.
STRONK! feels justifiably objectified… and enjoys every second of it.
Behind him, MOB calls out to the audience, “Keep your pants on, ladies! He’s got a fiancé and a whole gang of kids! He’s taken!”
–
As is always the case, two days before CHAOS, when STRONK! Godson has a title defense, MOB puts a moratorium on any intense training.
No sense risking a last-minute injury, is his thought process. Of course, it’s always a challenge to get STRONK! to understand and comply, and so it’s important to create low-impact distractions for the big man.
Earlier today, MOB showed up at STRONK!’s Sky House first thing in the morning. He trudged through the random objects and broken pieces of dinnerware that littered the floor of the penthouse, meeting STRONK! in the living room, and informing him they would spend the day house hunting.
The 2,000-square-foot, million-dollar penthouse provided plenty of space when it was just STRONK! and DOG! living there. No furniture, no kitchen table, a mattress on the floor of the bedroom, and that’s it. But now, with a family of nine, including Godson himself, things had gotten a little tight.
Even though MOB couldn’t care less about the comfort and safety of the STRONKY! Babies–there’s a less-than-zero chance they’re his client’s offspring given the myriad of reasons that were instantaneously apparent to him the first time they met–their presence around every corner of the condo proved to be a distraction.
There was no place to hide in the Sky House.
And so, in MOB’s opinion, STRONK! needed to upgrade.
Time to move out of Lee Best’s penthouse into a home of his own.
Michael Oliver Best scheduled showings at a few large houses in the wealthiest suburbs of Chicago.
Mister Godson was a world champion; his digs should reflect that.
“You know you have millions of dollars in the bank, right?” he said to STRONK! at one point as they drove to the first showing.
“IS THAT A LOT?”
“Yes,” MOB responded. “It’s a significant amount of money. And you’ve spent none of it.”
It’s true–ever since Lee Best got wind that Abdullah Choi had been siphoning money (ALL of the money) from STRONK!’s paychecks, and then quickly put a stop to it, money had been accumulating in a bank account that HOW’s chief accountant had setup for him.
Lee continued to pay for STRONK!’s insane grocery bills every week, while money from PPV bonuses, merch sales, and appearance fees built up, completely undisturbed.
Might as well sink it into an asset that will actually accrue value, thought MOB, acting surprisingly like a genuine steward of his client, looking out for the best interests of his future financial stability. Because, regardless of the type of athlete you are, no matter how dominant you are in your chosen field, your prime doesn’t last forever… and eventually you find yourself on the wrong side of forty, at which point you better hope you saved your money when the opportunities dry up.
MOB is perhaps the first person in STRONK!’s life to consider his well being, rather than simply looking to milk every last dollar out of him through nefarious methods.
It’d be a stretch to call MOB a “good person,” but, like Lee Best, he’d grown to like the big idiot, and so he didn’t want to see Mister Godson’s life unravel when his run at the top comes to its inevitable (but hopefully way-down-the-line) conclusion.
It was nearing the end of the day, and they’d seen five houses already.
(One more to go.)
Much to MOB’s consternation, STRONK! found a reason to be unimpressed and unconvinced with each one:
House 1
“THE SHITTER IS TOO SMALL.” → “But Mister Godson, the bathroom is three times the size of your current one.” → “BUT IT SMELLS LIKE FEMALE SWEAT. AND NOT THE GOOD KIND FROM THE DUMPER THAT IS EARNED IN THE GYM.”
And…
House 2
“THERE ARE NO DUMBBELLS OR BARBELLS OR SQUAT RACKS OR WEIGHT BENCHES OR LARGE ORBS OF STEEL TO TRAIN WITH.” → “Yeah… but you know we can just, like, take the ones you have in your Sky House and move them in here, right?” → “NO. THIS HOUSE WAS NOT BUILT FOR MUSCLE MONSTERS THAT LIFT HEAVY AND SHIT BIG.”
And…
House 3
“THERE ARE TOO MANY OBJECTS INTENDED FOR WEAKBOY SITTING AND LAYING AND NOT ENOUGH EMPTY SPACE FOR PUNCHING AND GRAPPLING.” → “The furniture belongs to the family that is selling the house, Mister Godson. It will be gone by the time we move in. I promise you.” → “NO. THAT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE TO STRONK! AND UNCLE OLIVER IS WRONG.”
And…
House 4
“THE HUMANS NEXT DOOR WAVED FLIMSILY AT STRONK! AND STRONK! ASSUMES THAT IS AN ACT OF AGGRESSION.” → “You… are just making shit up now, aren’t you?” → “STRONK! DOES NOT NEED ANOTHER BLOOD FEUD.”
And…
House 5
“BIG STACE WOULD NOT LIKE THE FOOD ROOM. IT STINKS LIKE BAKED GREEN THINGS.” → “FuuuUUuuuUUckk… they must’ve just cooked lunch before we arrived. IT WILL AIR OUT, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” → “THE STINK WILL PERSIST.”
And finally…
House 6
MOB and STRONK! stand in the foyer of a large “McMansion” on an affluent street on the outskirts of Chicago. The King Stallion curls an urn he found on a shelf that proves to be much too light, but at least it’s something to occupy his anxiously bored biceps.
Michael Oliver Best holds his hands out, expectantly, his eyebrows raised. He waits for STRONK! to offer his assessment.
This was, by far, the best one they’d seen. Or at least the most aligned to Godson’s tastes. Its current owner must be an unmarried professional athlete that never bothered to hire an interior decorator, because there’s very little furniture, lots of gym equipment, and the kitchen counters have been carelessly left strewn with bloody butcher paper and empty packages of meat.
“So…?” MOB says. “SO?”
STRONK! hooks his thumbs in the HOW World Championship fastened around his waist, craning his neck around to look over the interior one final time.
“IT…”
“…Is perfect, right? Ticks all the boxes?”
“…IS TOO STERILE.”
“What!?” MOB spits, taken aback. “What do you mean ‘it’s too sterile’!? How is that word even in your freaking vocabulary? And assuming for one second that you know the meaning of the word, isn’t that… like… exactly what you want?”
Turning around to point out all the benefits of the house, he continues, “Gym equipment! Meat! This is a manly domicile, Mister Godson! It’s everything you could possibly want!”
There’s a long stretch of silence… that’s eventually punctuated by a rigid shake of Godson’s massive head.
“IT LACKS WARMTH.”
Doubling over at the waist, MOB presses his face into the palms of his hands to muffle a scream.
He straightens back up, composing himself, looking his client square in the face, hoping this is some (extremely) rare bit of humor on STRONK!’s part. “IT LACKS WARMTH!? WHAT!? What… what are you even TALKING about!?”
STRONK! scans the foyer and peers into the adjacent rooms one final time.
He’s made up his mind.
“THIS IS NO PLACE TO RAISE A FAMILY.”
MOB takes a few steps away, his back turned to Godson. His breathing is rapid, labored. He’s tired and just wants this ordeal to be over. He thinks back to all of the other listings he viewed online, and knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that what they saw today was the best of the best.
If STRONK! didn’t like any of the houses he selected, it’s futile to keep looking.
But then he gets an idea.
An idea that he thinks will pique STRONK!’s interest.
But it will mean leaving Chicago–a place he’s grown very accustomed to–and moving somewhere south with an altogether different climate and class of people.
The more he rolls the idea around in his noggin, however, the more he thinks… it’s perfect.
How had he not thought of it before?
Within seconds, he’s on the phone with his brother.
“Yeah, Lee?” he says, walking even further away from his client to give himself some privacy. “Mister Godson needs a new home…
“And I think I know just the place.”