Posted on May 23, 2023 at 7:52 am by Conor Fuse


Christopher America isn’t the only man who matters. Let’s say you did fail him, and he isn’t the one you will fight for the rest of your career… it’s not like HOW doesn’t have other prospects.

Plenty of villains to go around, Fuse. There’s one man in particular who used to get your blood going.

He got your blood going alright. No, it’s not Jace Parker Davidson. For the past year you’ve wanted nothing to do with JPD. Rather, it’s the guy who walked into Lee’s realm with tons of fanfare. Others claimed he was the next Conor Fuse.

Instead of video games, he lifts weights. He isn’t an ADHD headcase, just a mental toddler. No regular sized penis here, he’s got a tiny leg. Minuscule. Sad. Get your microscope out. And he ain’t anywhere close to as funny and clever as you are. He does not possess the ability to switch between wit and intensity like you. When you’re on, nobody can fucking touch you. Not even THE SON himself. You’re the most amusingly fun + need to be taken seriously, man alive.

Can this be the pick me up? Can you find motivation to wrestle again? Can you care about WarGames when you think of… him?

You made the man’s heart stop. He’s the reason the locker room knows not to push your buttons. You put him at death’s doorstep and no doubt about it, dear gamer, you can end his life bar for a second time if you ever so desired.

But you don’t, huh?

I know you don’t. It’s me talking to myself. I’m well aware the name Stronk Godson (in no OBNOXIOUS CAPS since he doesn’t deserve the accolades) is not going to tickle you pink… or 97red for that matter.

Go through his history. Give it a try. I need motivation and what better way to become remotivated than remember the time you took the next step. What you did to Stronk was more important than a championship. It screamed to the locker room:

Do. Not. Ever. Fuck. With. Me.

For years you had watched Mike murder, Ryan pummel and both Kaels dominate. It’s nice to pile on the victories, your opponents know you’re a threat. But not a threat like the aforementioned.

While Christopher America may have moved on, Godson is ripe for the taking.

You know Stronk wants another shot at you. You know he wants to return the favour.

This could be the perfect contrast. Two men who need each other and could go to war for a very long time.

If there was any other feud that could end up like Mike vs. Max, that ends in actual, finalized death, it’s this one.

Dive in, it can’t hurt. And if it doesn’t help, well, you’ll still be in the same spot. Not like it can get any worse when you’re already dead inside…

So why not have Stronk Godson join your end of the Asylum hallway. Defeat him. Throw him out of WarGames. Make him dead inside, too.

Although this one won’t be figurative.

— — — — —

Rumble at the Rock
Conor Fuse vs. Stronk Godson
October 30, 2022

He’s there for the taking. I rest a 50 pound weight over his chest for shits and giggles. I didn’t know I was going to take it a step further.

I run. I want to stop my legs. I really do, I swear. I have the match won; he isn’t getting up. I’ve sought revenge for my friend, Bobbie and Imma make sure the funny man isn’t gonna make anyone else laugh for a long, fucking, time.

Put him on the stretcher, Fuse, and roll him across the line. Match is over, you have your Alcatraz success.

My head says yes; my feet say no. By now, I leap. I’m flying through the air. It’s like a long jump, the hang time, the height, the speed of my trajectory. I point my heels towards the 50 pound weight, knowing his entire upper body is motionless underneath it.

“Here’s to Bobbie!”

And big man, don’t fuck with me, either.


I Head Stomp the piss outta the barbell.

I cracked the center of the weight right across his chest.

I fall back. Stumble. Suddenly, there’s a knot in my stomach. The weight slides off him and I see his eyes roll back. He begins convulsing.

What have I done? I’m too rattled to move. My feet go nowhere. It looks like his sprite, his entire body is ghost white.

I killed him?

Time goes by quickly. They say when you experience a serious life altering event you take it in slowly and remember every single detail.

Not me. My mind is trying to protect me. I’m an OCD headcase, I know I’ll never be able to forget. As a result, I’m already working on vanishing this from my mind while it’s happening in real time.

EMTs rush onto the scene. They try reviving him to no avail.

I did kill him.

You went too far, Conor. Way too far. You wanted to be like Mike, you dreamt of letting Alcatraz consume you and delivered the most destructive Conor Fuse of all-time. Now you have realized this potential and accomplished what you set out for. You pushed aside the Rumble at the Rock failures so far down the scale, nobody will recall your defeats at the hands of The SON and your initial PPV setback versus Jatt Starr. They will remember this moment. The time you killed the new Lee Best toy, where you stood on the roof of the prison, screamed into the night “NEVER FUCK WITH ME”…

“Or find out what happens.”

This is not revenge, this is stooping down to their level.

I can feel my stomach twist and my hands start to shake. I need to be escorted out of sight.

I may never be able to live this down.

I’m sorry Mr. Funny Man, I didn’t want to silence your humour forever.

— — — — —

Present Time

No longer residing in the homemade Dearness Living Community prison, I decided to find a temporary sublet in Chicago. It’s about as boring as one could imagine, much like the apartment I found when I moved out of the DLC the first time. This is not a long term home for Conor Fuse, there’s no fun to be had in here but until I can figure out what the actual fuck Imma do with my life, it’ll do. I can’t be living out of hotels for the next three weeks when High Octane has no wrestling shows. We’re in the waiting period for WarGames and I’m in the waiting period to find out what I’ll do moving forward with my life in-between HOW events.

Needless to say, I’ve watched the Alcatraz battle on repeat for a number of days, trying to find the motivation to pump myself up for the giant contest in Mexico. It hasn’t worked. I simply relive the moment of pure trauma… intensity… watching my face be consumed with fear over what I did to Stronk Godson.

I wanted to murder “someone” until I did. I wanted my name to strike fear into everyone for the rest of my career, until it had. And there, in that moment, I achieved this, or at least I thought. Ultimately, I wasn’t aware Stronk had an extra life and would eventually kick out at death’s door. It was a positive for him, clearly. Staying alive sounds significantly better than permanently six feet under. It was honestly a positive for me, too. I didn’t have to carry the burden of killing another. Like I said, it was something I thought I wanted and until it happened. I was able to see how foolish I was.

“Well fuck me, eh,” I say, rolling forward from my boring middle-aged bachelor couch and making my way over to the VHS player. Yes, I own a VHS player. My nicknamer is The Vintage, why wouldn’t I? I am a tape trader, although I don’t trade any tapes. I keep them. And there, to my right, is a pile of other tapes thrown on top of each other – various Conor Fuse moments I thought would have motivated me.

None of these other ones are going to work because nothing in my HOW career has stood out quite like this. Even my World Championships aren’t as intense as that night against Godson.

I lean over and pick up a different tape, reading the label.


I took my childhood hero and I punked him across the head after he jumped me from behind and broke my heart. You could look at that feud, that moment, and think I’d be able to recapture my drive. Who wouldn’t be hurt by having their hero resent them but then absolutely proving you are the better version, defeating your idol in Madison Square Garden.

High Flyer isn’t in this WarGames match…

Not that it matters but I’ll toss this tape aside and find another one.


A perfect example. The man you have been tied to since day one. Your love-hate relationship. Jatt is in the WarGames match. Christ, he’s been really nice to you lately… which means he’s likely up to something mischievous. Don’t I want to find out why he decided to give me $50 at random?

I know Jatt’s career is winding down and I want to be the one who ends it. I would find honour in that. It’s not that I want to see him leave, I simply know he will. So I want the chance to be his last match since he has been so influential in my success. Only one person in the entire world will get to be Jatt’s last match, this should give me tons of motivation. Kick Starr out of WarGames, pin the man and reignite the longstanding feud we’ve had going on forever.

I toss the tape back onto the pile. I feel nothing.

Jatt doesn’t fit what I’m looking for. I love him.

My eyes scan the rest of the stack. I sigh and decide to give the Stronk Godson viewing one more look. Falling back into my couch, I use the remote to rewind the match and watch it all over again.

— — — — —

Rumble at the Rock
Conor Fuse vs. Stronk Godson
October 30, 2022

We’re at the crucial moment, I connect with the “weighted” Head Stomp.

His eyes roll back, EMTs sprint onto the scene and I’m beside myself.

Yet the present day Conor Fuse, the one who watches the events unravel by the comfort of his boring ass sofa in his lame apartment, can’t be found to give a damn, other than knowing how much of a struggle it was for me to work past the next 24-hours.

Jesus, I’m a little bitch. Look at me worry, sweat pouring down my face. I’m surprised I didn’t vomit on the spot, it looks like I wanted to.

Stronk did not deserve this. He only conned Bobbie into being his friend. Actually, scratch that. He was only used as a puppet in the entire ordeal. He had no significant intentions about killing Bobbie. He was tricked, pushed around by his manager. He’s extremely feeble minded. The guy is a walking set of rocks.

And all he did to you, Conor, was wander down to ringside one night and choke you out. No biggie.

Even if he was influenced by others with their own specific agenda, it’s not like he should take partial responsibility for his actions.

Or every negative comment he said about you beforehand.

Those funny, little quips he’d make.

Pretty sure he said a lot of rude statements about you. Oh, they were goofy little jabs. Everyone laughed. Stronk so silly.

Because Conor Fuse is a video game guy, who’s a virgin and lives in mom’s basement.

Then the HOW locker room giggled.

Lee gives Stronk so much attention. Stronk spends a few months in HOW and he’s already on every fucking poster.

Why? Because he’s the new toy? He’s hilarious, stalky and therefore, talented. 

Get bent.

For the first time in months, I feel my heart skip a beat.

Okay, okay. Maybe Stronk deserved a part of my wrath. Perhaps not death, but a beating unlike any other. He was never gonna take you seriously, it was always gonna provide a nudge here and a wink, wink comment there. The fucker needed to know you meant business and business, oh you fucking meant on this night.

I give a sigh, watching the rest of the proceedings play out for what has to be the tenth time today. My heart rate goes back to normal. Dare I say, I’m almost feeling sleepy.

The match ends, Stronk is wheeled out and I’m left on my couch, still not feeling anything.

“What the hell,” I talk myself into one more viewing as I hit the rewind button. “Can’t hurt…”

— — — — —

Rumble at the Rock
Conor Fuse vs. Stronk Godson
October 30, 2022
Viewing #97

I place the weight on his chest. I run to the far end of the room, bracing myself for what’s about to come. In real time, on my couch, my heart hammers like a rocket.

“DO IT, FUSE!” I scream at the television, like I don’t know the outcome of the match. “END HIS FUCKING LIFEEEE!”

I run. Sprint like a man possessed. I’m so fucking proud of myself ATM. No Bitch Mode here. Full blown dickface Conor Fuse.

‘Cause I do, technically, have the match won.

And I don’t give a fuck.


“YEAAAHHHH MOTHER FUCKER!” I scream from my chair, arms in the air, saliva falling down my mouth.

Eat that you giant bag of muscle shit. I should’ve been the one on Lee’s team.

He likes you ‘cause you’re funny but what have you ACTUALLY done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done.

World champion. Survivor. Battler. Never quits, never backs down. Defends his friend’s honour.

And kills fuckstick schmucks like you.

Sure, you started later than me and won more than I did in the initial stages of your career. You had loads of promise. Maybe you would’ve become a multi-time world champion. Perhaps you could make it through the game and fight at the last level, sell merchandise like crazy, and be a cornerstone of this company for years to come.

Stronk is like Conor.

Conor is like Stronk.

Only thing I heard for three straight bullshit months.

Ya know what, bro, we were similar. Outside of the trophies and speed runs I’ve accomplished, there’s still one major difference.

I have never.

Fucking ever.

Walked into a big match and phoned it in.

Never have, never will, you take it to the bank.

You let Lee Best down. Playing too much beach volleyball, eh?

Go straight up fuck yourself.

“Get up Stronk,” I say in my head. The look on my face is intense, I demand this contest to continue. His eyes roll into the back of his head.

Not gonna happen, Conor. This match is DOA.

He gone.

Thanks to me.

I should’ve been much happier at this moment, but I understand why I wasn’t. New territory. It’s one thing to dream of this moment, it’s another to deliver.

The tape ends, I’m leaning forward on my couch.

“Another viewing?” I ask myself.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” I reply.

I honestly don’t know if I’m going to keep this energy going until WarGames spins around but it beats the absolute dead inside feeling I felt prior to the last couple of weeks.

I hit rewind on the remote and I ready myself for another watch.

— — — — —


Welcome back, glad you could make it out of The Rock alive. Thrilled to see you on a WarGames team because it means I have some unfinished business.

For the past few weeks I’ve moped around and found it extremely hard to get up for, well, a leak.

I’ve won world titles. I’ve established myself as a force. HONESTLY, what more is there for me to do?

Maybe just one last thing.

Legitimately complete the Stronk Godson hit.

Murder you. Full blown FINISH HIM.

It’d be a nice thought. I fucking hate people who mail in their shit. I fixated on Scott Stevens for doing that against me in my first month of HOW and now I really should hold the same grudge with you.

The Stronk-Conor comparisons were all over the place. The fans were hyped for our first battle. Then your pea-brained mind couldn’t find the intensity to back up what your physical statue dictates.

Instead, you leave me, the pale, skinny, nowhere-near-your-level-of-pound-for-pound-strength gamer, as the one who is terrifying.

The MDK mentality. The merciless voice inside my head, taking no prisoners and going the extra step to ensure not only victory, but embarrassment.

I hope you were thoroughly embarrassed on October 30th, 2023.

I was for you.

But hey, you ended up surviving so there’s always a silver fucking lining.

Now here we are once more. The critics say my WarGames team is rubbish and Stronk’s is STRONG. Whatever. The bottomline is you played too much beach volleyball (and garage band shit), pandering around with the American flag draped over your naked body for pictures, instead of, ya know, training for our Alcatraz match, a location I’ve never won in before so you god damn know I’d bring my best effort possible.

Where are my fucking pictures? Where’s the Conor Fuse video game photo shoot?

I don’t need it.

I don’t WANT it.

I’m here to win, mother fucker.

And win I did.

I look at that empty shell of a body, the body I stomped through with my own two feet. Mike ain’t the only guy who can commit murder in this place. You push this gaming n00b to the extreme, this is the horror I am capable of.

I lost my motivation and my killer sense of drive until I noticed something extremely important.

It’s not JUST about Christopher America.

I failed Chris. I didn’t win the World Title and I didn’t allow him to chase me. He is paying attention to everyone collectively. This hurts; fuck does it ever. I had the rest of my career resting on that match.

But give Conor Fuse a problem and he will find a way.

I’m not saying you’re the magic pill and I’ve cracked the code, solved the problem and revert to the OG Fuse. I won’t know what happens until I step into the double ring-cage. Perhaps I still don’t care. Maybe this is just a temporary disposition because out of everyone in this upcoming WarGames match…

I hate you the most.

Like I said, however, if there’s been a positive coming out of today it’s the realization it’s not merely a Christopher America focus.

There’s a Stronk Godson, too.

The nerve of you, rejoining this game after what happened. Seeing you picked in the second round pisses me off beyond belief.

You should be in the qualifying round.

I want to finish you. Take your head and plaster it through the steel cage. Grind your cheek against the mesh, your skin and trickles of blood fall out the other side of it, until it becomes POOLS of blood. I use the cage as my personal Godson cheese grater. That will feel amazing. I hope you scream as it happens, until I grate down to your mouth, of course. I intend to use the mesh to my advantage, all the way through to the stem of your neck.

I loath you. I cannot stand the sight of StRoNk.

Stronk Godson is nothing like Conor Fuse.

Since Stronk Godson’s an overrated joke.

You are surrounded by a great team, Mr. PowerLifter. But I have some sobering news for you to soak in.

YOU are the weak link.

The one who will fail them. The guy who will bounce out fast.

Better hope I go back to being dead inside and this was, in fact, a flash hit of energy. Better hope my mental shortcomings stay with me, that I am like some of the others in the company…

Talk a big game but can’t back it up.

Pray this is true. Sleep with one eye open, anticipating my loss to Christopher America completely ruined the rest of Conor Fuse’s amazing trajectory.

God have mercy on you if I’m not ruined.

Scratch that.

May Conor Fuse have mercy on you.

Otherwise, I’m going to FINISH THE STORY.

End your game.

And murder you… for good.

Go fuck yourself on the way out. I’ve always been better than you in every way, shape, and form.

And don’t forget to enjoy the shark ride you moronic sloth. So glad you receive ANOTHER fuNNy poster, while I don’t get photoshopped onto anything cool, even though I am this promotion.

Fail to live up to expectations once more. It’ll be the last time you do.

‘Cause this time, you dead.

Conor, rejoice.