STRONK AM STRONK

STRONK has been spending a lot of time alone in his bedroom. Lifting weights. Watching paint dry.  Observing the swaying trees from his second floor window. Every activity tense, foreboding violent outburst. During periods of calm he daydreams the vivisection of Conor Fuse.

Abdullah Choi knows better than to disturb the King Stallion when his bedroom door is closed and behind it ambient factory noise blares from a barely functioning cassette player. This is STRONK’s alone time.

Choi’s taken to going on long walks, escaping to a nearby coffee shop, rather than remain in the same house as the tightly wound Godson.  

Abdullah looks up from the menu, greeting the waitress with an eye roll.

“Cup of coffee, porcelain white, let the cream flow,” Choi says, not looking at the waitress. “Piece of pie.  Use the following SORT algo based on availability and in-house quality of pie: pecan, pussy, lemon, apple, strawberry rhubarb.” 

He winks at her; her stomach turns.  

“You get that out here in the next five minutes and I got a gently used twentski I’d be happy to slip in your back pocket on the low-low.”  Choi looks her up and down lasciviously. He notices the braces and Billie Eilish-inspired fashion sense, then instantly discards those pesky little details. 

“FYI—I’m seventeen,” the waitress responds snappily, before turning and walking away toward the kitchen.

Choi catches a judgemental church lady seated two tables over gawking at him, shaking her fat head, having observed the whole seedy interaction.

“What?  I’m a patient man.” He takes a pull on his vape and exhales down into the neck hole of his shirt. “For all we know, she’s seventeen and five eighths. Womanhood is right around the corner.”

He licks his lips, prompting the nosy patron to get up and leave the diner in disgust. 

He has two grand burning a hole in his pocket. Time to go buy some sneakers.

—

The words MIND-FUCK ROBERNETTE and CUT DOPE PROMO are scrawled in blue marker on a dry-erase board.  Both have an X through them.  

Panning back, Abdullah Choi sits at a small makeshift table in what would ordinarily be the dining room of the house they cohabitate in the suburbs, somewhere in Minnesota.  He smokes a cigarette, sips cheap whiskey, and fingers his butthole through a hole in the crotch of his pants.

Life’s good. Too good. You start to anticipate the dropping of the proverbial other foot. But then you drink more and experiment with hard drugs and your worries melt away like any discerning shape in any of the paintings adorning your walls. 

Nextdoor neighbour Pete sits on the other side of the table (a flimsy TV tray on four skinny legs). Pete smokes, snatching the odd dart from Choi’s pack, and drinks from a Big Gulp.  The Big Gulp emits the smell of grain alcohol.

“So, let me get this straight, you mind-fucked your boy on some real psychopath shit,” Pete says, not judgementally; he wants to know if he understands the story that Choi told him despite being a dozen beers deep. The cigarette dangles from his fingers, a long husk of ash hanging from the end.  

“No! Weren’t you listening, Pete? Jace and I set things right,” Choi huffs, aggravated. “How we got there, I’ll admit, a little dicey dicey. But I’m a man of results. Speaking of which, you got my money, bitch?”

Pete ashes his cigarette. “You know it’s the time of the month when I’m a little strapped, Abby. Child support’s due.”

Choi cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t pay child support.”

“Yeah, true, but also there’s this chick at my gym who’s saying I did some shit that I’m pretty sure I didn’t do, but then who fucking knows? So I gotta pay her. Yeah, my life sucks right now.”

“Not my problem.”

The front door bursts open, prompting both Choi and neighbour Pete to snap their heads in its direction.  

STRONK stomps inside the house. He’s wearing cutoff denim shorts (he finally blew the crotch out of his camo fight shorts) and not much else. Not even a pair of shoes, which explains why his feet are caked in mud.  His hair is sopping wet from the heavy rain outside.  

“STRONK IS HOME.  STRONK REQUIRES MEAT.  PREPARE THE BISON,” shouts STRONK as he storms the kitchen, raids the refrigerator, and begins stuffing pepperoni into his maw by the pound. 

Choi gets up from his chair and walks into the kitchen to greet him. Pete goes to get up himself, but Choi gestures for him to remain seated and keep his mouth shut.

“Hey big man, how was lifting in the park?” Choi asks, watching the voracious STRONK Daddy continue to devour cured meats. 

“STRONK FOUGHT A BALD MAN WITH A LIMP THAT DID NOT WANT STRONK TO DEADLIFT HIS AUTOMOBILE.  STRONK DOES NOT TOLERATE SUCH DISRESPECT.”

The former Shelley Greene looks at Godson’s knuckles, scraped raw and crusted over with dried blood. “We gonna have the fuzz dropping by to pay us a visit? We talkin’ assault or, erm… something worse?”

“THE BALD MAN WITH THE LIMP HAS BEEN DECIMATED,” STRONK announces, with a mouthful of pepperoni, pieces flying out and hitting Choi in the face. “WHICH IS A WORD THAT MEANS BRUTALLY FUCKED UP BY STRONK. THE BALD MAN WITH THE LIMP DID NOT KILL MONGO BUT HE COULD HAVE AND THAT MEANS HIS THROAT DESERVED TO BE CRUSHED.”

Nodding, Choi responds, “I can’t argue with that logic, but remember, your body is one big, jacked-up lethal weapon. You’ve gotta control your violent impulses. Especially around the civilians.”

STRONK Daddy looks perplexed.  

Choi continues: “Like… don’t get me wrong, big man, I love the fact that you’ve finally unlocked the dark destructive rage I’ve always known has existed deep inside you. But you’ve got to direct it to the right people. That whore Carey was a perfect first step. Conor will be next. You’ll finally have that sweet, sweet vengeance we’ve talked about. But you won’t be able to make the trip to Alcatraz on October 30th to destroy Fuse at Rumble At The Rock if you’re already behind bars at a different prison. Do you get what I’m saying?”

The sudden booming rumble of thunder startles Abdullah Choi. 

The blank-faced STRONK finishes processing his manager’s advice.  

“YES. STRONK UNDERSTANDS. DO NOT MAIM CIVILIANS UNLESS THEY ARE DISSIDENT AND DO NOT ALLOW STRONK TO LIFT THEIR PROPERTY OR THEIR SPOUSE. IF THEY INTERFERE WITH STRONK’S WORKOUT ROUTINE IN ANY WAY THEN THEY MUST BE HUMANELY DESTROYED.”

Choi shrugs. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

—

JATT STARR IS THE MAN THAT TOOK STRONK’S BELOVED GOLD WEIGHT. THAT FACT AGGRAVATES STRONK A LOT. JATT STARR PUT A HEX ON THE FOURTH RUNG OF THE LADDER THAT LOST STRONK HIS LSD CHAMPIONSHIP BECAUSE HE IS A GYPSY IN SHEEP’S SKIN. STRONK DOES NOT TRUST HIM NOT TO THROW MAGIC SAND IN STRONK’S FACE AND THEN STRONK BREATHES IT IN AND IN A HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS STRONK DIES SADLY A YOUNG HUMAN MAN OF SOME MYSTERIOUS LUNG AILMENT. STRONK UNDERSTANDS THE BIRD MAN’S TRICKS. BUT STRONK ALSO HAS TRICKS OF STRONK’S OWN. ONE IS CALLED CHOKING THE BIRD MAN TO DEATH AND MAKING HIM SHIT HIMSELF ON LIVE TELEVISION. THAT IS A TRICK.

STRONK’S GOOD PARTNER JOHN SEKTOR WILL BE THERE TO PUMMEL THE BIRD MAN WHILE STRONK DOES OTHER THINGS. STRONK UNDERSTANDS JOHN SEKTOR TO BE A GOOD MAN BECAUSE JOHN SEKTOR IS A MEMBER OF THE BOARD AND SHELLEY GREENE BELIEVES HE OWNS MANY COLOGNES AND GUNS. THAT IS IMPRESSIVE.

CONOR FUSE. IT IS YOU WHO DOES NOT KNOW WHAT AWAITS THEM ON THE ISLAND PRISON. CONOR FUSE CONTINUES TO SHOW THAT CONOR FUSE IS A VERY DUMB HUMAN. 

FLAG MAN SAYS THAT CONOR FUSE HELPED THE WHORE THAT WILL NOT BE NAMED BECAUSE OF SOMETHING CALLED A BLOWJOB. JACE PARKER DAVIDSON SAYS THAT ALL THE NAMELESS WHORE DOES IS JOB SO THIS DOES NOT SURPRISE STRONK. 

CONOR FUSE. STRONK WILL SAVE STRONK’S WORDS FOR THE PRISON ISLAND.

FOR NOW STRONK WILL BORROW A QUOTE FROM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL AND INSPIRATIONAL STRONKUMMS ATHLETE AND DOMINANT HOTv CHAMPION:

STRONK AM STRONK

AND STRONK WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.

—

Oh hello there, my little dandies. Guess who? Yeah, i’sssa me. Abdullah “The Boy Toy” Choi. Coming at you on the ass end of a pretty lacklustre STRONK tale, but y’know, sometimes shit just is, amirite?

This tag match… ehhh. We’ll see, y’know? Jatt Starr deserves 100% of a beating, not 50%. Or is it 25%? I was never a stats guy. Geddowdahere with that silly trash. But, if I really applied myself, I would’ve been the best at it. Because I’m me. And I’m a genius and maybe not classically handsome but in the right light I’m not revolting. Also, I can gain weight with steroids, you’re all just fat pieces of shit with dirty neckbeards, menial jobs, no future, stupid kids, ugly wife, blah blah blah… you get it. All I’m saying is I just want us to get through CHAOS 13 in one piece. Then we go to Alcatraz and punish Conor Fuse for all his transgressions.

How DARE he murder MONGO in—ahhh okay, I don’t need to lie to all you.

You know!

I put a couple rounds in that demon’s head and (SECRET ALERT!) peed in his cratered skull. 

Because I’m a very bad person with mental problems and substance abuse problems and girl problems and boy problems and financial problems—BITCH, I GOT A LOT OF PROBLEMS! 

99 problems, and Carey’s just one.

But thankfully STRONK Daddy de-strooooyed that woman and made her bleed her own blood. Thank Jesus! It was a little touch-and-go there for a while, but Jace and I wrangled the redact. And now all’s good in the world.

CHAOS 13–we show Conor Fuse what it means to be in the same ring opposite a very angry and vengeful KING FUCKING STALLION. He won’t like it. He’ll probably piss himself a bit because he’s a coward, cum a bit because he’s weird as fuck, and go running back to his parents’ basement. 

Stay there.

Seriously. For your own good. Just… disappear. 

But don’t you dare come to the Rock.