Night Sweats and Day Training

Night Sweats and Day Training

Posted on April 27, 2023 at 4:48 pm by Stronk Godson

STRonk awakes in a cold sweat. His sheets are soaked through, his pillow is damp, his heart races like a stallion on meth. His room contains only a mattress with no box spring and a coat rack from which several different color variations of spandex shorts and male thongs hang.

Moments ago, in the deep recesses of his subconscious, he imagined Conor Fuse bludgeoning him into a long, uneventful slumber. He remembers the smell of the prison—gaped asshole, old blood, and cooked instant ramen from decades ago. He remembers waking up in a hospital bed with years of meticulously cultivated and shaped musculature withered away to nothingness. He remembers the feeling of Abdullah Choi’s super-secret growth serum coursing through his veins like hot magma bubbling up from within a thought-dormant volcano.

It was not a very pleasant dream.

It was actually a really bad dream.

The same one that’s tormented him the past few days, ever since he found out from Uncle Oliver that he would be teaming with Brother Swolex against… Conor Fuse and Scott Stevens at CHAOS 30.

Conor Fuse—the man that came within spitting distance of ending his career and, perhaps, even his life. The man that he once believed murdered his beloved MONGO until it was revealed to him that, no, it was the dastardly and deceitful Jace Parker Davidson who did it (it wasn’t; that was all Choi’s doing). The man that had tried (and failed) to take the title from Brother Flag Man at March To Glory 2023. The man that (rumour has it!) sniffs the stationary bike seats of other sweaty dudes at the gym. In typical Conor fashion, he likens it to an old video game; huffing that bramble musk is to Fuse what dashing into a runaway mushroom is to Mario.

And then, of course, there’s his partner this week.

A man with whom STRonk has absolutely no history whatsoever, at least according to him.

Scott Stevens?

Great guy, never meddum.

Earlier that day, MOB pleaded with STRonk, as they both stood on the penthouse’s balcony watching two birds fight to the death over a scrap of bread, to think, think back to no more than two weeks ago—who did you fight?

STRonk: “STRonk bELieveS iT wAS a LAddER THiNG WITh ThE biRD mAN. STRonk UNFORTUNATELY loST STRonk’s LSd CHampionSHIP. A stEP BROKe.”

MOB: “No! Damnit! NO! That was last fucking summer! You fought and beat Scott Stevens, do you understand? You’ve beaten him THREE TIMES now. HOW—HOW do you not remember this?”

STRonk: “TiME iS CONfusing aNd botherSOME.”

He, once again, has no recollection of Scott Stevens.

Couldn’t pick him out of a group of three people, if the two that weren’t Stevens were actually legless, armless albinos with long, pink glam-rock hair. 

That’s how poor his memory has become since returning from injury with a supposed TBI. Or how little Scott Stevens actually matters to STRonk. Maybe a combination of both. A little from column A; A LOT from column B.

STRonk gets up out of bed and walks himself into the ensuite bath. The counter is sparse: no toothbrush, no comb, no hair product to be found. Only six containers of spray-on baby oil and a shaker jug of putrid, long-forgotten protein supplement.

The light flicks on, burning his retinas. After his eyes adjust, he stares at himself in the blotchy mirror.

Eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, he turns on the faucet and scoops water in his hands, tossing it up into his face. He kneels down, opening the cupboard and fishing about inside. He pulls out a large bag of beef jerky and starts shovelling fistfuls of the dehydrated meat into his mouth, chewing only as much as is needed to gulp it down. He takes a deep breath.

His chronic body dysmorphia kicks in as he gazes at his reflection. Uncle Oliver has been a great support system, keeping him grounded, reinforcing the easily verifiable fact that STRonk is, in fact, growing, and growing at a considerable clip. When he started his bulk, he was two hundred and thirty pounds; as of yesterday, when he weighed himself, he was just ten pounds shy of the three hundo mark. (Those ten pounds will be considerably harder to gain, MOB reasoned.) But in his own warped mind, at five thirty in the morning, pre-3,000 calorie breakfast, he seems to be shrinking! His muscles are shrinking! No longer is he the beefy, brawny man he was just moments ago. Panic sets in as he realizes that he needs to consume more meat, and fast!

He turns the beef jerky bag upside now.

A few measly crumbs tumble out onto the counter. 

Not even worth picking up; he’d burn more calories extending his arm than he’d reap in return.

But just as he is about to start chewing on his own arm for sustenance, DOG walks in, wagging his tail excitedly. STRonk is momentarily distracted by DOG’s enthusiasm for life and their mutual love of meat. He pats the dog’s head, thinking to himself that maybe he could eat DOG instead of himself. But no, he couldn’t do that to his furry companion. Why did that evil thought even enter his mind? He gives his head a violent shake, swats himself across the face, then scoops up DOG in his arms.

DOG is love, not a ribeye.

He’s not himself when he’s hungry

STRonk and MOB enter the lobby of the building atop which STRonk’s “sky house” sits. Michael Oliver Best thumbs a quick message into his phone and hits send just as the elevator doors shutter open.

A sweaty STRonk Man wears a red singlet, continuously pulling on the straps, which chafe his nipples. He hasn’t worn a shirt in over a month and only threw on the singlet at the vehement behest of Uncle Oliver.

MOB: “What did I tell you? Wrestling training is going to be so good for you, Mister Godson.”

Finally having had enough, STRonk peels the singlet off his body like a plastic grocery bag—it doesn’t so much tear as it does melt away from his body—revealing a black speedo. He chucks the balled-up remains of the singlet to the ground.

STRonk: “YeS. UNclE oliVER diD teLL STRonk that.”

For three hours this afternoon, at Lee Best’s private gym, STRonk was put through the ringer by a bitter, middle-aged man with a strange accent. MOB told him the man was from Memphis, and STRonk wondered where that was located in Minnesota. Maybe it was a place in Chicago, which, STRonk slowly but eventually came to understand, was NOT in Minnesota? 

Either way, the man was decently big, as heavy as STRonk if not as well proportioned. Twenty years ago, when the man held reputable wrestling championships and competed in front of tens of thousands of people, it would have been a different story. Decades of brown liquor, chewing tobacco, and Fox News had jellified the man. He could somewhat understand STRonk’s distorted view of his own body.

To everyone else, from the outside looking in, STRonk is a jacked unit of a man: he doesn’t need to be (and probably shouldn’t be, health wise) north of three hundred pounds. But, as we’ve been over countless times in these STRonk tales, perception is reality, and right now STRonk looks in the mirror and sees a weak bitch who doesn’t deserve the love and respect of Papa Best and his fellow Final Alliance members.

Ten more pounds, though… game changer.

His trainer, on the other hand, perceives a positive distortion of himself. He still thinks of himself as a world class athlete; it’s his aching knees, stiff shoulders, persistent smoker’s cough (though he quit years ago), that state otherwise.

Three P.M. bourbons on the daily help to stifle those intrusive thoughts and nagging aches and pains. Pills, too, but he’s actively working on ‘tapering,’ at least that’s what he tells his wife, who really couldn’t give a shit one way or another.

STRonk: “STRonk DOEs nOT knoW wHAt MAKes STRonk’s TRainER ‘ORIGINAL’. ALL oF thE MOves STRonk’s TRAinER shOWeD STRonk, STRonk HAs DONE oR HAd DONE tO STRonk BEForE.”

The elevator ascends floor by floor, passing the twentieth en route to the penthouse. 

MOB: “It’s not about learning new moves, Mister Godson. I never want to see you attempting a Canadian Destroyer in the ring. It’s–”

STRonk: “YEs. STRonk TRIEd tO bE a DESTROyer OF caNADIans BUT COnor FusE bASHEd STRonk’s BRAins.”

Michael Oliver Best exhales, annoyed at the interruption. 

MOB: “…It’s that I want you to understand the basics. We need to shore up your fundamentals, Mister Godson. A tank’s no good if the person driving it doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing, do you understand?”

STRonk: “YoU WAnT STRonk tO dRiVe? STRonk thOUGHt yOU WeRe THe DrivER.”

MOB: “No. You don’t drive. Ever. You don’t have the attention span for it. No, what I’m saying is this: you’ve achieved great things based purely on your ‘natural’ strength and athleticism… but you’ve never received a day of formal training in your life. If we add just the tiniest amount of technique and knowledge to the formula that is STRONK GODSON, you could be unstoppable.”

STRonk: “ANd RUNning rOPes aND doiNG ROLLs anD DOINg 1,000 SHOULDER BLOCKS wiLL makE STRonk unstOPPAble?”

The elevator doors slide open with a ‘DING!’ 

MOB: “I mean… it can’t hurt, can it?”

Here we go again… only it’s different this time, kind of.

This time Scott Stevens, the perennial loser of HOW, teams with one of the most sadistic, despicable humans to ever haunt this great sport of ours, Conor Fuse.

After receiving the drubbing of a lifetime at the hands of my nephew, and made to look absolutely foolish in the war of words, you’re attached to the former number-one contender to take on the Final Alliance team of Steve Solex and my client, Mister STRONK GODSON.

Think of this, Scott…

My brother hates Conor Fuse. Hates him. Wants nothing more than to watch the man suffer.

You are but a tool used to enact greater suffering.

This is more of a three-on-one than a straight-up tag match. Conor Fuse is going to have to actively work to offset your shortcomings in this match. You are an obstacle to be overcome. 

Ironic, isn’t it? 

You being the most easily cleared hurdle on the entire roster for the person lucky enough to be standing across the ring from you. An easy win.

But to your own partner?


I have nothing more to say about you, Scott. In the end, you will be you, you’ll do what Scott Stevens does, and Conor will be all the worse for it. 

Even if you were a halfway competent partner, the team of Solex and STRonk would still thrash, thoroughly and profusely, as they are wont to do. 

Now, Conor Fuse.

You’re lucky.

Mister Godson has his sights set on Jace at the moment for what he did to MONGO and for robbing him of his strange meat processing company. To be honest, I’m sure part of the big lunkhead understands why you did what you did. He accused you of something so egregious, so evil only a dirty sex pest with one eye and no talent could have carried it out, free of guilty conscience. You fought back; you fought back like a caged animal. Good for you. You caught Mister Godson when he was at the weakest mentally he’s ever been. And then you put him in the hospital for a month and rendered him the weakest physically that he’s ever been. And then you rode that momentum to a title shot against the Captain of the Final Alliance, Chris America.

And then you lost. 

Mister Godson has a one-track mind… and right now, Conor, you’re not in the big man’s lane.

Once he disposes of Jace Parker Davidson, rest assured, I will be in his ear.

I will whisper thoughts, create a narrative, straighten out his mind. I will fix it. And you will become his newest obsession. He may understand why you beat him into a coma right now, but I will make certain that he circles back around to feeling justified in ending your miserable existence. 

Funny thing is, I don’t even really dislike you all that much, Conor… but a man needs a project. And you come ready-to-build in the box with a full set of instructions. 

Build you up. Tear you down. 

This tag match is not about vengeance.

It’s a demonstration of the superiority of the greatest faction in wrestling today.

An exhibition of excellence.

The sun shines down upon STRonk’s glistening back as he performs a seemingly endless series of push-ups in the middle of a busy park.

With every push, he thinks about how he will maim Jace Parker Davidson with his SHARP LONG STAIRS. Papa Best was noncommittal on a date for the match he requested, but whether it takes place next week, or next year, STRonk will remain patient and continue to conjure up ways in which to torture his former friend and business partner.

He’s never possessed an imagination, so these pictures that flood his brain, images of a bloody and diced up Jace Parker Davidson lying broken and beaten on the canvas while STRONKUMMS LLC employees race to the ring to celebrate the fall of a tyrant, are a novel occurrence.

DOG races across the field and sidles up next to STRonk, getting down onto his belly and pushing up with first front paws, as if mimicking his owner’s movements.

DOG, too, wants to be beefy, STRonk thinks. He already is, though. Looks great. Real big and buff. Functional strength and all that.

Moments later, an angry man in a golf shirt and cargo shorts storms over and stands blocking STRonk’s sunlight.

Man: “Excuse me, sir!? Is this your dog!?”

The man points at DOG.

STRonk responds, without looking up, continuing on with his workout.

STRonk: “YEs. DOG is STRonk’s DOG.”

Man: “This is NOT an off-leash park! Your dog attacked my son! If I hadn’t been close by, he could have bitten him!”

STRonk: “YeS. DOG bitES.”

DOG looks up at the man, baring his teeth.

Man: “Then put him on a FUCKING leash! It’s not safe or even permitted for him to be running around on his own! He could hurt someone!”

STRonk finally stops performing push-ups and stands up. He turns, looking down at his canine best bud. ‘DOG GODSON’ is engraved on his collar; he seems to smile back at his master.

STRonk: “WhaT WAs YOuR SMall huMAN doING tO AngER DOG?”

The man’s face screws up in astonishment at the question poised by the big man. He can hardly believe it. He takes a single step back, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

Man: “What did MY SON do!? Nothing! He was eating a fucking hotdog, you imbecile!”

Though he can’t understand the words being spoken, DOG understands tone and body language, and begins to perceive the man as a threat, prompting him to hunch into an attack posture. 

STRonk: “YOur smALL huMan SHOuld HaVE giVEN DOG thE HOT doG. EvEN STRonk KnoWs thAT.”

DOG inches closer to the man, growling. STRonk does nothing to de-escalate because he doesn’t even realize that the man is angry with him. He also doesn’t know what a leash is or how it applies to DOG.

The man kicks his foot out, more so as a means of keeping distance, and lightly catches DOG in the mouth, causing him to yelp.

The mood instantly changes.

The man realizes he’s made a mistake and pissed off the behemoth two feet in front of him.

STRonk: “THaT waS A MIStakE.”

STRonk goes to lock the man in Body Dysmorphia, but remembers his training from the old Memphis drunk.

Yesterday, they drilled suplexes of the Germanic variety.

STRonk executes a smooth go-behind and launches the man several feet onto the back of his head with a high-angle release German suplex. The man lies in a lifeless heap on the grass, his fingers and toes twitching.

A young boy runs up crying, half-eaten hot dog in one hand. He kneels down beside his father, screeching, unsure of what to do. 

DOG waits at STRonk’s side.

Both of them see it.

Both of them are hungry.

STRonk turns, gives a subtle nod, and DOG takes off into the direction of the kid.

Minutes later, STRonk and DOG exit the park. STRonk takes one final bite of the hot dog, then tosses it into his loyal friend’s mouth.

It seems wrestling training has already started to pay off.