So Papa Best wants to put Simon Sparrow, Jatt Star, whatever the guy wants to be called, against Stronk Daddy one more time. And Jatt Sparrow Simon Starr is just stupid or deluded enough to sign on the dotted line.
Uhh, what? Didn’t STRONK already push your shit in? Back for seconds like a broke-down Oliver Twist?
We on reruns or what?
Somebody flip the record over. Hit the shuffle button, please!
Next week we’ll be tuning up that bitch Scott Stevens for a second time. The STRONK Express out here lapping you Low Octane goofballs!
LSD Championship, what an accolade. What an accomplishment. Ninety seven grand a year guaran-damn-teed. STRONK shirts selling out in minutes. STRONKUMMS only three weeks in business and already the private equity vultures have begun to circle—they want their piece of the pie.
Big money meat bidness, baby. We outside. Yeah, we outside.
And yet, Sparrow, you so ignorantly choose to target Papa Best’s grand baby? Are you redacted? Is there something wrong in your brain?
OF COURSE you’re gonna get matched against the Stronkest Man Alive. I mean, of course. You stupid idiot. Dumb fuck. You’re just so, sooo stupid…
You should’ve sat back, chilled the fuck out, and enjoyed the paycheck that comes with having some semblance of history round these parts. You could’ve been the guy Lee trots out every once in a blue moon for an easy crowd pop. Dads be like, ‘Look there, Timmy, there’s that guy that used to be relevant; he’s a Hall of Famer!’ You could’ve hitched a ride with that chick of yours to her next movie shoot and stood around the set pining for a time when people paid that much attention to YOU.
But long gone are those days. So you do what any sad, pathetic has-been does, and that’s try and leech that oh-so-sweet clout from someone younger and frankly better than you are. Or ever were. Case in point, your cowardly attack on Tyler Best.
One more PPV payday, right? You’re gonna save your ‘show’ money this time, right? Invest in, uhh, I dunno, BlackBerry or My Pillow or something else equally as dumb-as-rocks. This will be the paycheck you don’t squander, eh buddy?
I mean, shit, how OLD are you? I can’t tell. And the birthdate on your HOW roster bio is empty, leading me to think you’re way older and crustier than even I first imagined. Imagine that. You may be late thirties, or you may be inquiring about the senior citizen discount at your local Denny’s. I don’t know! I can’t pin it down!
STRONK did say he thought he heard some hard candy crunch in your pocket when he slammed your osteoporosis-riddled body to the canvas. Any truth to that? You packin’ Werther’s, bro? That Original shit, my guy?
Nevertheless, whatever whatever, the big man gets another opportunity to beat you pillar to post on Sunday, and put a mile-wide smile on Papa’s face. The King Stallion riding in on wings of whirring steel, with a payload of napalm ready to be dumped on you from high up above.
That’s right—Stronky Baby is looking at that top rope like a fat kid eyeing the last pork chop. He flew into CHAOS 001 on a giant helicopter and whooped Chris Kostoff’s ass. Easy work. So he no longer fears heights. And that means the big man may see fit to ascend those ropes and dive off with the most devastating, awe-inspiring splash ever witnessed!
If that happens, if STRONK decides the juice is worth the squeeze, the risk outweighs the reward, then Papa Best is gonna have to dig into his pockets and pay the ring crew extra to work around your flattened carcass once it’s driven a foot into the damn mat. They might just junk the whole fucking ring. Toss it in a landfill and label it the final resting place of Jatt Star, or Simon Sparrow, or the senile old fuck with the two-dollar Supercuts hairdo.
Your dozens of fans will travel from all over, accompanied by their handlers, of course, to make the pilgrimage to your gravesite. It’ll be like a very sad Graceland. A fitting end to you, SIR.
I mean, c’mon, like, fuck your thing with Tyler—any and all Jatt Starr chit-chat’s getting effectively silenced on CHAOS 003. Those misguided OG fans of yours can go back to tugging dick in the vitamin D-deficient shadows of their parents’ basement.
Sparrow, I guarantee you this: you will be softened on Sunday. We got that meat tenderizer and it’s aching to be swung on a bitch.
Now, other business unrelated to that jackass, I heard someone—not gonna name names or point any fingers—call Shelley Greene an ‘NPC’ the other day on radio. And for all you boomers out there, that stands for Non-Playable Character. Insinuating, insultingly I might add, that I, Shelley Greene, am unnecessary window dressing; that I am expendable. Uhh, what!? I go away and you think you can slot anyone else into my position?
I am a one-in-a-million managerial star, baby! You will all learn to RESPECT ME. I travelled across the globe to a fucking war zone to fulfill the duties of my job! You think Chris Pratt’s personal assistant does shit like that? No! Chris Pratt’s PA has never had to do half the shit Shelley Greene has done and WILL DO if called upon. It’s the name of the game.
But put some respect on my name.
I am Krang; STRONK is my muscle body! Yin and Yang shit!
So to conclude this masterful diatribe of mine, I’ll say this: I am the glue that holds things together. I am the man who plots and schemes, plans and adjusts. And STRONK may not be much of a thinker, but thankfully he doesn’t need to be. I do the thinking; he does the crushing.
And at CHAOS 003, Sparrow Starr will be crushed, so much so that HOW will need to lower him from the rafters and work his lifeless corpse like a marionette in order to get the ICON Championship match done and dusted and another dubya added to Tyler Best’s win column.
STRONK AND SHELLEY’S HOUSE
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
JULY 12, 2022
Greene: Hey big man, what’re you doing up on the roof?
At the end of the quiet cul-de-sac, STRONK GODSON stands on the roof of the house he shares with his manager Shelley Greene. His arms up, hands stretched out, adorned in only a pair of cutoff and frayed Daisy Dukes and his LSD Championship, he gazes skyward, allowing the July sunlight to wash over him.
STRONK: STRONK DOES NOT FEAR HIGH PLACES ANYMORE. STRONK HAS ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE WHAT ‘UP HERE’ IS LIKE AND NOW STRONK HAS.
Scaling the ladder propped against the side of the three-bedroom split-entry, Shelley emerges on the roof. He moves cautiously toward the peak, knees trembling out of fear he might accidentally trip and go rolling off the side of the roof, where his client stands stoically.
Greene: That’s cool, I guess. But maybe we can climb back down and talk business on solid ground?
STRONK looks out over the neighbourhood with his trademark emotionless expression, his long black hair flowing in the warm summer breeze.
From his perch he spies Peter, their alcoholic deadbeat-dad of a neighbour, passed out on his front lawn with several beer cans surrounding him as well as a flipped-over lawnmower. He sees Betty, the morbidly obese woman who rides a Rascal to her mailbox to fetch a few bills and maybe her long-standing monthly subscription to Hustler every morning; and thinks she looks pretty ripe and wonders if she has a man. He peeps a married couple two houses down through their bedroom window aggressively fucking like they’re having a Texas death match in 1984. Finally, he views a 747 flying overhead, and wishes he were holding onto a wing soaring through the air. You see, commercial flights have cramped seating for a man his size, they’re very uncomfortable; maybe a willingness to ride on the outside of the plane could even save them a few precious dollars—money they can then invest into their growing STRONKUMMS thinly-sliced frozen meat empire.
After climbing down from the roof and entering the house, they move to the kitchen where GODSON rummages through the refrigerator, grabbing a log of bologna, ripping off the plastic film that covers it, and devouring it in three bites. Shelley looks at him, attempting to hide his disgust as the giant man then proceeds to consume twelve raw eggs, half a package of raw bacon, and drink a gallon of orange juice in under five minutes. He belches and tosses his garbage onto the floor for Shelley to collect and throw into the trash.
Greene: You got Jatt Starr this Sunday.
STRONK huffs, unimpressed that he has to once again beat up a man he actually kinda respects. Having never watched a single second of HOW television, outside of his “CHAOS WATCH” Twitter watch-along last week, he doesn’t really know why Sparrow is considered by many to be an HOW legend, but understands that he must have accomplished a great deal to be held in such high regard.
Greene: I know you already beat him, but look at it as a favour to Papa Best. He just gave us a huge raise—Hall of Fame money—and he’s expecting something in return. You battered Kostoff and he probably loved you for that. Just gotta do the same to Sparrow. Again.
STRONK: STRONK MUST FEED MONGO.
After grabbing an uncooked turkey from the fridge, STRONK leaves the house through a patio door, lumbering out into the backyard.
There, chained to an old tree, next to the remains of the shed they burned down, is MONGO the bull. Lee Best gifted him to STRONK when they went for a leisurely but powerful ride through the countryside together to discuss his new #97PAID contract. Lee even bestowed MONGO his name and explained to STRONK the inspiration for it, too—something about fiery saddles or a burnt horse or something like that—but STRONK quickly forgot or just wasn’t paying attention in the first place.
STRONK lobs the uncooked whole turkey toward MONGO, landing it a half a foot in front of where he lay.
Shelley appears from behind.
Greene: I told you, Stronk Daddy, bulls don’t eat meat.
GODSON turns and looks at Shelley.
STRONK: MONGO DOES.
To Shelley’s astonishment, the deranged-looking bull chomps into the turkey, eating it bones and all. Once finished, it lets out a belch that rivals STRONK even on his best and gassiest of days.
Greene: Okay, that’s… an abomination of nature… right… uhhh… Let’s just not get too close to—oh, oh, I see, you’re, uhhh, you’re already petting it… You’re gonna give me a fucking nervous breakdown, champ…
STRONK grinds his knuckles into MONGO’s head (HARD) but the bull seems to really enjoy it.
Shelley decides to get in on the action (to show GODSON he’s not a wimp) but the second he gets two feet from the animal it pops to its feet, snarling, a malevolent fire in its eyes. In that moment its horns look extra sharp and extra pointy, like their sole reason for existing is to be violently run through Shelley’s guts. He gulps.
STRONK: IT’S OKAY. MONGO HATES WHITE PEOPLE. DO NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY.
MONGO pulls one of his patented ‘threat displays’ of the broadside variety and exhales two sharp, heavy huffs of air through his nose, exuding a sense of unpredictable aggression.
STRONK, looking into the bull’s eyes, nods, his hand still ruffling the fur atop his head.
STRONK: NO. MONGO AND STRONK CANNOT EAT SHELLEY. HUMANS ARE NOT FOOD.
Shelley looks at STRONK, then at the bull, confused.
Greene: What? Are you talking to the bull? Bulls can’t talk, big man.
STRONK: BULLS DO STRAIGHT TALK. HUMANS ARE THE CONFUSING ONES. COMMUNICATION IS NINETY-FIVE PERCENT EYES AND SNORTS AND FARTS.
Greene: This bull’s been lobbing micro-aggressions my way since it got here.
STRONK: MONGO HATES YOU MOST. SORRY. DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK TO HIM.
STRONK turns back to MONGO.
STRONK: NOT YET. HE IS NEEDED. STRONK DOES NOT KNOW PLANE TICKETS OR HOW TO CLEAN AN OVEN.
MONGO, as if satisfied with GODSON’s answer, settles into a laying position and goes to sleep. The entire turkey STRONK gave him has been eaten, save for a few small bones that broke apart and fell from his mouth.
Running a hand through his hair, Shelley wonders how much of a distraction and headache this stupid fucking bull is going to be for him. Someone will need to shovel its shit, and that certainly isn’t a job for a champion. This realization prompts a heavy sigh.
Greene: I meant to tell you… that cold storage facility where we were storing STRONKUMMS? Yeah, they kicked us out. I guess I insulted the general manager’s mother or something? I know better than to try and negotiate a delay-of-payment while pilled out of my gorde, but I stupidly did it anyway. I’m sorry.
Inside STRONK GODSON’s mind: CAN STRONK RIDE THIS BULL TO THE RING AT DEAD OR ALIVE?
Greene: … So I had to move it to a cheaper facility. Much cheaper. Haven’t gotten a look at the place yet myself, but I think ol’ Jacey’s planning to make a trip out to scope it sometime soon, make sure everything’s on the up and up and all that.
Suddenly, a man scrambles up and over their eight-foot-high wooden fence, falling with a thud into the dead flowerbed in their backyard, startling Shelley; STRONK, as usual, doesn’t even notice.
He gets up, Budweiser T shirt stained with blood, wobbling from side to side. He clutches his right hand, on which three fingers have been crudely severed. Blood squirts from the bloody little stubs.
It’s Peter—he must’ve woken up.
Peter stumbles over to them, pale-faced and disoriented but otherwise calm and with his wits about him.
Peter: Fellas, it‘s a fucking hot one out today. Got any beer?
Greene: (shocked and disgusted) Pete, what the fuck happened to your hand?
Peter furrows his brow. Looks at his left hand—blood smeared but otherwise perfectly fine.
A full minute of awkward staring between he and Shelley goes by before he finally redirects his eyes to his mutilated hand.
Peter: Oh! This guy! Haha, right! Funny story… got drunk mowing the lawn, passed out… then woke up, reached out, and grabbed the mower blades by the pussy while it was still running. And the really funny part was the gas tank was nearly bone fucking dry. If I’d only been able to finish that last can of Bud, it probably would’ve kept me out long enough for that thing to run outta gas. I know my drunk pass-outs, boys. I may not know how to do my job all that well, or keep my kids from hating me, but I know my drunk pass-outs. And yeah, just thought the mower was my ex-wife. Looked just like her. Was gonna choke the bitch to death. Fucking mower chewed up my jacking hand.
STRONK uncharacteristically shrugs.
STRONK: MOWER MONEY MOWER PROBLEMS.
Greene: Fuck it. I’ll call 9-1-1.