“LOOk WhaT STRonk DID.”
Inside the living room of STRonk’s Papa Best-paid-for “sky house” stands an oddly assembled collection of grimy old bones. The afternoon sun shines upon it, revealing deep scratches as though the bones were polished with spit and steel wool.
MOB: “What am I looking at, Mister Godson?”
STRonk drops the SOS pad in a bucket of dirty water and turns to face Michael Oliver Best. He holds his hands out as if to say ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
STRonk: “STRonk DuG UP MONGO anD RESURRecteD HiM as A MuSEUm cORpse.”
If the glued-and-hammered-together pile of bovine bones is, in fact, the late MONGO the bull, it looks absolutely nothing like him—STRonk just started piecing it together without much thought and the monstrosity erected before them now is the direct result of his efforts. Like the work of a deranged child with a LEGO set but no instructions.
MOB: “That’s terrific work, Mister Godson.”
STRonk nods, not sensing the facetiousness of Uncle Oliver’s response. He turns to gaze upon his handiwork once more and lays a hand on what one could only assume is intended to be MONGO’s face.
STRonk: “STRonk is nOw TWO hundRed AND EIGHty PounDS. STRonk wiLL MAkE MONGO proUD. ALmoST ThREe HUNDREd.”
MOB: “Yes, you’re making excellent progress. Ahead of schedule, actually. And you’ll get the opportunity to make use of your ever-increasing size against… Scott Stevens… again… this coming Sunday.”
STRonk walks toward the kitchen and starts to rifle through the refrigerator, pulling out logs of cured meat and taking giant bites out of them, unfazed by MOB’s words.
Joining STRonk in the kitchen, MOB closes the fridge door and snatches the meal log from Godson.
MOB: “I know you’ve beaten him twice before, but let’s not get careless. You’re undefeated thus far in 2023. We don’t want to stumble now and lose momentum on the road to War Games.”
Looking perplexed, the former HOTv and LSD champion cocks his sizable cranium to the side.
STRonk: “STRonk HAs?”
Now it’s MOB that looks confused.
MOB: “Has what?”
STRonk: “WhO IS scOTT StEVE’S sOn?”
MOB: “Two times. Two times you’ve fought and beaten Scott Stevens.”
MOB scratches his head, at a bit of a loss for words.
MOB: “You literally just fought him on CHAOS 25.”
STRonk: “OKaY. THAt muST HAvE beeN a LONG time AGO.”
Michael Oliver Best runs his hand over his face, taking a deep breath.
In the relatively short amount of time that he has been managing Mister Godson, as he prefers to call him, MOB has come to understand how intensely frustrating it can be to communicate with a man with beef tips for brains. Abdullah Choi once knew this same frustration, but his senses were often dulled by copious amounts of pills and street drugs concocted shoddily by himself.
If STRonk’s memory was substandard before, it’s gotten much worse since Choi infected him with his mystery growth serum. Sometimes MOB catches STRonk Diddy eating a third breakfast, not because he’s still hungry (which, let’s face it, he’s always hungry but that’s beside the point), but because he couldn’t remember eating the two meals prior.
STRonk’s daily caloric intake—factoring in both his purposefully increased meat consumption to fuel his monster gainz as well as his inability to recall when he last stuffed his face—has pitched up and over the fifteen-thousand mark. Papa Best, attempting to be as supportive as he possibly can, signs-off thrice weekly on exorbitant food delivery bills that would feed a small village and still leave a lot of waste to be trucked to the nearest landfill.
MOB: “It was three weeks ago, Mister Godson.”
Now, STRonk doesn’t question much. He’s a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. But even he is presently confused as to why he’s booked against the son of Scott Steve so soon after he, evidently, just trounced him.
STRonk: “STRonk UNDERSTANDS thaT To BE Not A loNG TIME. WhY doES PAPA BEST waNT STRonk to CRUSH thiS FEebLE HUMan MAN aGaIN?”
MOB: “Just as I do not question why you felt the need to dig up a bunch of smelly old bones and drag them into a twelve thousand dollar a month penthouse apartment, I’m sure your Papa Best would appreciate it if you did not question his motives. Trust that they are sound.”
STRonk: “STRonk WILL SMASH thE OFFspring of SCOTt STeVE. YES. STRonk WILL DO whateVER PAPA BEST wAnTs.”
MOB: “Good. Remember, even though you’re two-and-oh against him—and even though he really does suck to an almost immeasurable degree—don’t lower your guard. First, we beat Scott Stevens this Sunday. Next, we gode that coward Jace Parker Davidson into fighting you in that convoluted barbed wire ladder match you requested and take back full control of your meat business. And then… we win War Games to become HOW World Champion.”
There’s a lengthy beat of silence as STRonk listens, digests, analyzes, and finally comprehends Uncle Oliver’s words.
STRonk: “YeS. STRonk WILL WIN STRonk’s FIRST evEr WAR GAMES. WHAteveR THAT iS.”
MOB sighs, shaking his head.
Just what has he gotten himself into?
A loud CRASH echoes throughout the penthouse, bouncing off its walls and fifteen-foot high ceilings. Both STRonk and Michael Oliver Best turn abruptly and reenter the living room to find the MONGO bone reconstruction in a pile on the floor. Next to it, DOG sits with what looks to be MONGO’s femur bone lodged between gnashing teeth. MOB quickly moves to snatch the bone from DOG’s mouth, but STRonk sticks his arm straight out across MOB’s chest, halting him mid-stride.
STRonk: “It IS fINE. IT is THe CIRclE oF LIFe.”
STRonk walks over, kneels down, and scratches behind his beloved DOG’s ear.
STRonk: “GIVE STRonk A TAstE.”
As MOB exits the room, he hears STRonk say one word:
Michael Oliver Best:
Scott, I have to ask…
Is there something broken in your brain? Did it go out for a pack of smokes and never come back?
In your last promo against STRonk weeks back, you went on a tangent about how certain people are living off past accomplishments. A cardinal sin in your eyes, I take it.
Are you that dense that you don’t see how ironic that is? Do you lack even a sliver of self-awareness? Do you not see how the pot is calling the kettle black?
What have you accomplished that leads you to believe you’re the protagonist of High Octane Wrestling? Sending “cryptic” news to our website staff ad nauseam, wasting their time and annoying every Internet tourist that has the utter misfortune of spending two precious minutes of their life reading and attempting to decipher whatever garbage spills out of that empty head of yours?
I don’t know if you’re a drinker, an alcy, a substance abuser–I don’t care–but you are the dictionary definition of ‘wet brain.’
Make no mistake, your messages aren’t clever—they’re boring drivel, a last shot across the bow in a futile attempt to recapture what little bit of relevancy you once had… years and years and years ago.
I checked your singles record… the last year in which your wins exceeded your losses was…
Eleven years ago you were batting 500, and that’s as good as it’s ever been for you.
Not exactly what one would call a world-beater, now are we?
It really is quite pathetic. And if you weren’t such a deplorable piece of trash, the empathetic side–and it’s a very small side–of me might even feel sorry for you. But no, you aren’t worthy of anyone’s pity. And so I circle back to: you are exceptionally terrible and you’re living in the past and, sadly, the past isn’t much better than the present.
“Facts don’t have feelings.”
“Numbers don’t lie.”
The facts and the figures should be a crushing reality check for you, sir.
And you called yourself a god… and asserted that Mister Godson, the King Stallion, would be—what was it again?—laying at your feet at the conclusion of your match just three weeks ago.
Question—how’d that go for you?
Yeah. You’re doing great, pal.
At CHAOS 28, my client will put to effective and efficient and violent use the additional fifteen pounds of rock-solid musculature he’s packed on since the last time he beat you from pillar to post. Scott, you will feel every ounce of that musculature, every ounce, I promise you.
And it’s going to be no DQ, anything goes. When I was first informed of the match, that detail had eluded me; made it far less interesting. But Scott, you incompetent fool, the fact that Mister Godson can do whatever he wants to you under protection of the law genuinely excites him. He wants very much to be rid of you once and for all.
Mister Godson’s been muttering something about his banned Body Dysmorphia finishing hold, how he intends to wrench the life from your poorly tattooed, sun-baked carcass. He’s not much for swinging a weapon, but rest assured… I’ve had him in the gym swinging a steel folding chair at a heavy bag for hours on end.
He does not tire.
We are well prepared to effect total annihilation this Sunday. You may have qualified for War Games by some humorous twist of fate, but will you make it to War Games?
That question has yet to be answered. But I think we’ll find out when news of your unfortunate physical state breaks early Monday morning.
Three strikes… and you’re out of here.
The doctor’s eyes widen as he holds the stethoscope to the hulking man’s chest, listening intently to his erratic heartbeat. Despite the man’s massive size and intimidating appearance, the doctor remains calm and focused as he analyzes the irregular rhythm. With each thump of the heart, the doctor’s brow furrows deeper, a crease forms in the middle of his forehead, a look of concern crossing his face. He removes the stethoscope, and slowly releases the pressure and removes the blood pressure cuff from the man’s arm, before finally turning to the well-dressed man standing next to the patient with a solemn expression, ready to deliver his diagnosis.
Doctor: “Mister Best, your client has, for lack of a better medical term, an obscenely high blood pressure reading–300 over 200, to be precise. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a miracle Mister Godson is even alive right now. He requires immediate medical intervention.”
STRonk sits on the examination table in the doctor’s office, adorned in a hospital gown that barely fits, flanked by MOB. His eyes widen.
STRonk: “DId YOU saY… 300?”
The doctor sets down the patient chart clipboard next to STRonk.
Doctor: “That’s what I said, yes.”
STRonk: “NoT 307.1 BUT CloSE. THat iS VERY gOOd. STRonk IS goINg to BE STRONK AGAIN SOON. BIG AND STRONK AnD DESTRUCTive.”
The doctor is left baffled as STRonk smiles, exclaiming that his extremely high blood pressure is somehow a sign of his impressive strength and vitality. Michael Oliver Best, meanwhile, remains silent; there’s simply nothing to be gained from trying to correct STRonk Diddy when he’s already decided upon something.
Doctor: “What? No! That is the exact opposite of ‘very good,’ Mister Godson. Your heart could very well explode at any moment. This is a very serious situation, not to be taken lightly, do you understand?”
Doctor: “Good. Now, we’ll need to run a battery of tests to determine the—”
STRonk: “YES. STRonk’s BLOOD is 300 aND soOn STRonk’s BODY will be 300. STRonk’S blOOd IS leadING tHE CHARge.”
STRonk immediately stands up and rips the hospital gown from his body, tossing it aside, before strutting in a red thong out of the office with all the confidence of a man on the doorstep to SUPER HEAVYWEIGHT glory.
MOB looks at the doctor, knowingly.
MOB: “I’ll speak with him. We’ll be back.”
There’s nothing to be gained financially from a client deemed ‘medically unfit to compete.’
Better just ignore it and hope for the best.
On the way home from the doctor’s office, STRonk advised Uncle Oliver to turn into a Home Depot. Leaving his manager to take a business call in the car, the King of Stallions marched into the store with one purpose in mind:
Procure one of those things humans climb to grab higher things and that also occasionally break and cause great champions to unceremoniously lose their belt to some bird-like human man.
He needs a ladder.
As he lumbers through the aisles, not bothering or possibly incapable of reading the signage up above, he grips a spool of barbed wire in his right hand.
Once a ladder is located, STRonk grabs hold of it and begins wrapping it end-to-end in barbed wire.
An overly chipper sales associate slides up next to him.
Sales Associate: “Good day, sir! Anything I can assist you—oh, oh, what’re you doing there?”
STRonk: “MakINg LONG STAIRS THAT ARE SHARP thaT STRonk WILL usE TO PUNisH JACE PArkeR DAVIDson aND WIN BacK STRonk’S MEAT compANY.”
The sales associate has no immediate response; he watches as the short but overly muscled man continues to weave barbed wire through the rungs of the ladder and around its legs.
Sales Associate: “Um, what?”
STRonk, without stopping what he’s doing, repeats himself verbatim.
STRonk: “MakINg LONG STAIRS THAT ARE SHARP thaT STRonk WILL usE TO PUNisH JACE PArkeR DAVIDson aND WIN BacK STRonk’S MEAT compANY.”
Sales Associate: “Riiiiight. Well, maybe you want to first purchase the ladder and then do whatever it is that you’re doing once you get home?”
STRonk stops. Thinks. Thinks some more.
The sales associate goes to speak but stops himself, instead snatching the two-way radio from his belt and bringing it up to his mouth.
Sales Associate: “Uh, yeah, security?”
Having finished his call, Michael Oliver Best reclines in the driver’s seat of his rental car, taking in the warm sunlight that beams through the windshield. Just as he begins to doze off, something startles him.
STRonk whips open the passenger’s side door and haphazardly jams an eight-foot barbed wire-wrapped ladder into the backseat, unintentionally shattering the back window in the process.
It takes a moment for MOB’s vision to adjust, but within seconds he’s registered the sight before him.
A red thong-clad STRonk, covered in blood, completely expressionless.
STRonk: “STRonk THinKS wE ShouLD GO noW.”
Without uttering a single word, Michael Oliver Best turns the ignition key and they speed the hell out of the parking lot.
STRonk is GRowING FAST. THIngS ArE HAppenING. STRONK’s BLOOD is BIG. DOG is BIG. MONGO is BONES.
STRonk goT VERY gOOd doctOR nEWs aND ALSo STRonk IS VERY clOSe to BEING noT SMALL AGAin. PAPA BEST wiLL bE verY PRoud ONCe STRonk is STRONK AGAIN.
STRonk’s INSIDES hurT buT thaT is GOOD beCAUSE PAINS MEANS GAINS. STRonk’s INSIDE MUscleS neeD to BE biG AND YES thEY ARE grOWing GOOd.
SOMETimeS STRonk CANNOT SEE and STRonk FORGets WHERE STRonk IS but THAT DOES NOT MATTER becAUSE UNCLE OLIVER knoWs WHERE thinGS aRE aNd wheRE STRonk IS.
EVERYthinG IS GOOD.
EveryTHING IS GREAT.
STRonk FIGhts THE SON OF SCott STEVe SOMETIME SOON that iS nOt TODAY aND THen HOpeFULLy nEVER aGAin.
JACE PARKER DAVIDSON does NOt wanT to FIGHT STRonk BecAUSE hE is WEAk aND KNows STRonk WILL tuRn HIM inTO MEAT Goo. STROnk MIGHT puT JACE PARKER DAVIDSON in a cAn oF LIQUID STRONKUUMS and FoRCE FeeD IT tO hIS FEMAle HUMan WHO alWAys HAd EYEs fOR STRonk. JACE PARKER DAVIDson IS small THOUGh so JACE PARKER davidSON might NOT fILL a WHOLE can AND STRonk iS VERY PASSIONATE abOUt PROduct QUALITY CONTROL.
STRonk IS veRY conFIDENt THAT STRonk’S shaRP LONG STAIRS WILL huRT JACE parker DAVIDSon VERY BADLY becAUSE STRonk’S SHArp LONG STAIRS HUrt STORE HUMAns VERY BADLY. STRonk TESTED it and YES it IS A gOOD thinG FOR boTH SMASHING aNd SLICING. VERY GooD.
WAR GAMES is a THING STRonk appARENTLy DID LAST YeaR BUT STRonk DOES NOT remEMBER NOW. STRonk’s NEW FRIEND STEVE SolEX piCKEd STRonk BECause hE is BOTH smART and SWOLL. STRonk WILL go intO a CAGE anD DESTROy some HUMANS and theN beCOME chaMPION buT ThaT COULD UPset FLAG MAN sO STRonk DOES NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO.
STRonk WILL aSK PAPA BEST what PAPA BEST wanTS anD ThEn DO THAT.
NOW STRonk MUST gO CONSUME MEAT beCAUSE STRonk DOES NOT KNOW wheN STRonk LAST CONSUMED MEAT.