Conor Fuse says he has nothing to say to my client or my nephew. He’s saving up all that vitriol for a one-on-one match. Doesn’t want to waste his ammunition on a throwaway tag team match.
Conor, you seem a bit… out of sorts.
I think you’re terrified of the prospect of falling further down the pecking order after Mike euthanizes you at 97RED. You haven’t held the top title in quite some time, and you’ve wasted every opportunity given to you.
You challenged Christopher America—you lost.
You tried once more to wrest big red from his clutches at War Games—you lost.
The only thing of note that you’ve done in the past year is brutally assault a man that was barely one-tenth of his true power and potential.
You nearly killed Mister Godson in that depressive concrete prison last October. You put him in the hospital for over a month. You stripped him of the thing he prizes most of all: his muscles.
But you failed to end him once and for all. You may not know it now, but one day you will look back on that as the greatest mistake of your miserable life.
Well, that, or saddling yourself with perhaps the most cringe-worthy gimmick in HOW history… and yes, that includes Darin Zion and his nauseating “love language.”
You say you’re done with all of that, though.
Conor Fuse is serious business now!
And according to you, STRONK! Godson is just some “comedy dweeb that hinders the prestige of the HOW World Championship.”
Explain to me how?
From your perspective, the “comedy dweeb” is the three hundred pound wrecking ball that has beaten nearly everyone he’s been matched against en route to having one of the most successful rookie years this promotion has ever seen!
Simply because he doesn’t engage in stomach-roiling melodrama befitting of a Spanish telenovela.
What’s comedic about that? What’s funny about unrepentant dominance?
You don’t have to answer, I already know. I dealt with this last week against crusty old Dan Ryan.
Dan Ryan had people in the back wondering, “What happens if Dan wins? Will he have to pull double duty at the PPV? Oh, he could spoil the main event!”
Everyone who said anything of the sort: sit down, shut your mouth, and show some respect to the champion.
Dan Ryan wanted to paint a picture of STRONK! as this hapless goon that goes on wacky adventures and talks funny, and we responded by choking him unconscious and leaving him lying, staring dead-eyed up at the lights.
It was a hell of a joke. I know I laughed!
But you’re not on our radar right now, Conor, and barring unforeseen circumstances, you’ll cop an L in Australia and find your way back to feuding with the likes of Stevens, Carey, Hollywood, and Zion.
Because remember, the last time you had the chance to prove what a “comedic dweeb” the King Stallion is, he choked the life from you and ended Christopher America’s legendary year-long title reign to win the most prestigious match in HOW.
So, you’ve already been soundly beaten by STRONK! Daddy—he avenged his loss—you’re no longer held on a pedestal by him or anyone else. We proved that Rumble At The Rock was a fluke; a confluence of external factors that led my client to walk into a fight for which he was not adequately prepared.
That was pre-MOB, remember that.
I do not excuse the prior administration’s failures and missteps, but I also do not condemn them.
What’s done is done. You rode a wave of momentum all the way to that aforementioned title shot back in March, but all it did was give you false confidence. You actually thought because you beat a depleted, mentally checked-out STRONK! that you were still championship material. A tip of the hat to America for showing you your place, but I see that it did nothing to humble you.
I really think you ought to take some time off, get your mind right, ask a doctor for a Ritalin prescription so that you can actually focus during your meandering promos, and silently ask yourself:
Is this really even for me anymore?
You had your run, as bad for business as it was, and now you’ve been usurped by better, more talented, far more physically gifted men.
You can either hang on for dear life and hope for the scraps of the HOTv or LSD division to fall in your lap, or you can show yourself the door.
Frankly, I don’t care.
But if you stick around and somehow find yourself squaring off against my client again, just know—there won’t be a round four.
… And then there’s Charles—Charles, you’ve been a thorn in my brother’s side for a little while now. Trying to get out of your contract. Seeking to learn the ways of the loser from some monk, when you could have just tapped Scott Stevens on the shoulder at catering and sat beneath his learning tree for all of five minutes and garnered all the knowledge in that area you ever would need.
I don’t know why you’re in this match outside of my brother wishing to punish you by making you team with a has-been cruiserweight against the current HOW World Champ, undefeated this year, in STRONK! Godson and the most decorated champion of all-time in Mike Best.
I don’t think I have to tell you this, but yeah, my brother really doesn’t take kindly to his wrestlers creatively trying to extricate themselves from binding contracts. Not a smart move, not one I would have recommended.
How you two will get along as tag partners, how effective you’ll be, I have no idea, but I do know that the betting odds accurately reflect the probability of your success, and they’re predictably lopsided in favor of the Final Alliance.
As they should be.
STRONK! knows there’s only one move in this scenario, and that’s to pull out the female human’s reinforced dining chair and wait for her to plunk her ass down onto it.
But BIG STACE has another idea: she explains, in her deep, booming voice, which catches the attention of other patrons and disturbs their dinner, that they will instead consume meat mid-squat.
The proprietor of the establishment slides across the restaurant floor, and comes up beside STRONK! and his blushing, three hundred pound date.
The man is old and thin, his eyes dry and red, blood spiked with red wine and uppers.
This is a man on the brink; a man that has operated his family’s Chicago steakhouse for decades, without a single two-month stretch in the black. Up and down, he’ll ride it out, all the way to bankruptcy court.
Take what, exactly? That’s what he’ll say to his many creditors. Take what? The ‘97 Camry parked in his backyard with the blown-out motor lying next to it? The half bottle of merlot sitting atop his fridge? The deep fryer that almost killed one of his cooks last year?
Blame it on loss-generating, idiotic menu pricing.
Point the finger at the utter lack of governance or controls that enable the front-of-house to rob the place blind.
Or maybe it’s the accounting—maybe the books are an indecipherable mess.
Whatever the reason, the man appears on the verge of a massive coronary, a proverbial ball of stress, but he flashes a toothy smile, puts on a brave face. Next month, hopefully, will be better.
“BIG STACE,” the owner exclaims, “fourth time this week. A new record for you!”
The owner despises BIG STACE, knowing she’s the reason he missed an interest payment the month before last. He narrowly squeaks by most months, but she was training for a powerlifting event and thus had increased caloric intake requirements leading up to it.
“YES. BIG STACE BROUGHT STRONK! FOR MEAT-EATING PURPOSES.”
“Fantastic,” he says, but doesn’t mean it. He sees the size of STRONK! Adds it to the size of the aptly named BIG STACE. Does some flawed math in his head. Big number. A cripplingly big number in terms of cost of goods sold, just for this one seating.
The pair of STRONK! and BIG STACE could ruin him.
He adjusts his lopsided bow tie, and nervously adds, “You know, we also have salad. It’s light but very filling.”
Moments later, the owner crashes through the front bay window of the restaurant, landing in a heap, amongst the trash and garbage, on the concrete sidewalk.
As he lies there bleeding, picking tiny shards of glass from his bare forearms, foot twitching involuntarily, STRONK! and BIG STACE, arms linked, exit the restaurant and stroll (or rather STOMP AGGRESSIVELY~!) past.
“STRONK! IS IMPRESSED. BIG STACE DID NOT HESITATE TO LAUNCH A HUMAN MAN THROUGH A WINDOW FOR INSULTING STRONK! AND BIG STACE WITH SALAD.”
“YES. IT IS UNFORTUNATE. BIG STACE HAS BEEN COMING HERE FOR SIX MONTHS. THAT HUMAN MAN WHOSE NAME BIG STACE DOES NOT KNOW WAS BIG STACE’S BEST FRIEND. BUT THE HUMAN MAN BASICALLY CALLED STRONK! A HO-ASS BITCH THAT BELONGS TO THE STREETS AND BIG STACE A FREAKTOAD WITH A GUNT. FUCK THAT MOTHERFUCKER. OH—EXCUSE BIG STACE’S FRENCH. NOT VERY LADYLIKE.”
BIG STACE burps, and it is at that moment that STRONK! definitively knows, this is the human woman that he will one day marry atop a mountain cast in darkness by a moonless night sky. Or Uncle Oliver will figure it all out and it will be a small ceremony, and Papa Best and the Final Alliance will be invited, but definitely not Jace Parker Davidson.
STRONKUMMS will, of course, cater the event, assuming he wins back control and brings that STRONK-level quality back to the product line.
“STRONK! DID NOT KNOW BIG STACE KNEW LANGUAGES. UNCLE OLIVERS SAYS THAT HUMANS THAT KNOW LANGUAGES ARE BILINGUAL.”
Whatever that means…
“OH YES. BIG STACE DOES NOT CARE. A HUMAN MOUTH IS A HUMAN MOUTH.”
STRONK! stops dead, prompting BIG STACE to do the same. He thinks about what BIG STACE just said, as though they were the most profound words ever spoken. “YES. THAT IS CORRECT.”
The two love birds return to STRONK!’s Sky House, where DOG awaits.
BIG STACE stomps from room to room, curling whatever free weight she finds lying on the floor (and she absolutely finds a collection in every square inch of the penthouse—like a Gold’s Gym had a going-out-of-business sale).
After touring STRONK!’s bachelor pad, they stand facing an urn, the front of which displays an etching of a bull’s head, its horns protruding long and proud, sitting on a mantle. The HOW World Champion reaches out, touches the urn; memories of his deceased best friend crash and break against his conscience like waves on a beach. They tug at his simple mind, begging to be addressed—Why have you taken so long to avenge me? Why is Jace Parker Davidson, my murderer, still walking around with his head attached to the rest of his body? Did you not love me? Was I not a good bull?
Strangely enough, the bull’s voice sounds like his old manager, Abdullah Choi.
None of the thoughts inside his head presently are as coherent as any one of those questions, but they help to infer the central theme of his momentary displeasure.
He feels guilty.
He doesn’t feel much one way or another, but right here, right now, he feels guilty. He’s forsaken MONGO to achieve his own dreams of winning the HOW World Championship and, perhaps more important than that (to him), weighing three hundred plus pounds.
“THESE ARE THE BURNT BITS OF A BULL NAMED MONGO. MONGO WAS STRONK!’S BEST FRIEND.”
BIG STACE follows STRONK! one step to the left.
“THIS IS A PHOTOGRAPH OF PAPA BEST AND STRONK! RIDING HORSE AND MONGO THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE. IT WAS TAKEN WITHOUT STRONK!’S KNOWLEDGE. BUT STRONK! IS HAPPY THAT IT EXISTS. PAPA BEST IS AN IMPORTANT HUMAN MAN AND ALSO THE BEST HUMAN MAN TO EVER LIVE.”
Leaning forward, BIG STACE examines the framed picture propped on the mantle, wondering what STRONK!’s relationship is with the bearded man on the horse beside him.
Father, maybe? They look nothing alike. Stepfather? Perhaps.
“HORSEBACK RIDING POUNDS THE GOOCH.”
STRONK! nods. “YES.”
They take another step to the left and come to the final object on the mantle: a football-sized lump of gristle trimmed off many a steak and fused together with lard.
It is in an advanced stage of decay.
“WHAT IS THAT?”
“THIS HELPS STRONK! REMEMBER GOITER. GOITER WAS STRONK!’S HERO AS A SMALL HUMAN. GOITER WAS DISGUSTING AND MADE FEMALE HUMANS SAD. AND THIS,” STRONK! says, pointing to the vile amalgamation, “IS DISGUSTING AND MAKES FEMALE HUMANS SAD.”
BIG STACE grabs STRONK!, spinning him around and staring deeply and lustfully into his eyes. “NOT BIG STACE.”
“THAT IS GOOD.”
“BIG STACE THINKS STRONK! AND BIG STACE SHOULD FINISH THIS TOUR IN THE BEDROOM.”
The door abruptly opens.
“Mister Godson, I have news. I have important—oh. OH. OH!”
Michael Oliver Best stands in the doorway to STRONK!’s bedroom, trying his best to shield his eyes from the sight in front of him.
That is, STRONK! and BIG STACE lying spread eagle on the bed, fully nude, no sense of shame or humility.
They share a large sack of beef jerky, aggressively wrestling each others’ hands for the next pull.
“WHAT IS IT?” STRONK! asks, his mouth full of partially chewed dehydrated meat.
MOB smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his face contorting. The smell is… strong. Very, very strong. But what would you expect from two muscle-bound behemoths bumping uglies for hours on end because they have exceptional cardio and neither wants to be the one to “tap out”?
The smell is, if not tolerable, less of an assault to his senses than the taste. He can taste it in the air.
Turning away, MOB stammers, “Uhhh, well, first—uhhh, Mister Godson, um… I wonder if it would be possible for us to have this conversation, say, in the living room?”
“WHERE IS THAT?”
Uncle Oliver sighs. “The room where you keep your squat rack.”
STRONK!, still unclothed, rises from the bed and lumbers past his manager, out into the living room, with MOB following behind.
“So, there’s two things… First, you’re teaming with Brother Mike this Sunday against that dastardly Conor Fuse and quitter Charles de Lacy.”
“OKAY. STRONK! WILL SMASH CONOR FUSE. DOES STRONK! HATE CHARLES DE LACY?”
“Yes,” MOB responds, “very much so. But only for the duration of Sunday’s main event. I don’t need you developing another grudge and certainly not with midcard trash like Charles. He’s beneath your station, Mister Godson.”
“AND WHY DOES STRONK! HATE CHARLES DE LACY?”
Annoyed, MOB cocks an eyebrow, and says, “Asking a lot of questions today, are we?” He takes a breath. “Uhhh… you hate him because… because… because… he’s trying to get out of his High Octane contract and you, the HOW homegrown loyalist megastar, STRONK! Godson, cannot fathom why anyone would want to leave the promotion you call home. You feel that he is an ungrateful, disrespectful bastard.”
It takes a moment, but STRONK! finally nods in agreement. “YES. WHY WOULD CHARLES DE LACY NOT WANT TO WORK FOR PAPA BEST? WHAT DOES CHARLES DE LACY HAVE TO HIDE? STRONK! WILL MAKE CHARLES DE LACY HAPPY TO HAVE EMPLOYMENT BECAUSE CHARLES DE LACY IS GOING TO HAVE HOSPITAL COSTS THAT WILL CRUSH CHARLES DE LACY AFTER STRONK! SMASHES CHARLES DE LACY.”
MOB smiles; that’s just what he wants to hear. “Beautiful. I love it. Keep that same energy come Sunday.”
He then pulls out his phone, opens the Wallet app, and brandishes his screen for STRONK! On it, plane tickets to somewhere STRONK! has never been before. A word he does not know.
“Thing number two,” MOB says, “following CHAOS, we’re going straight to Australia; we’re going to arrive way ahead of the PPV to properly acclimatize and prepare for your match with Davidson. We’ve got a lot of training and promotional stuff in our near future, Mister Godson. Best bring your working boots.”
STRONK! looks down at his feet. It should be clarified that even though he’s fully nude, twig and berries flapping in the wind blowing into the penthouse from an open balcony door, he’s still wearing his wrestling boots. He never takes them off—not to shower, not to sleep, and certainly not to “plow.”
Before STRONK! can respond, MOB adds, “It’s a figure of speech, Mister Godson.”
Walking through the park, with BIG STACE beside him, and DOG off-leash a few steps behind, STRONK! thinks about his upcoming tag team match.
There was a time when even the unshakeable STRONK! Godson may have been hesitant to step into the ring with Conor Fuse, the man that came within spitting distance of ending his life. But with his body rebuilt and his confidence restored, he now anticipates it.
He finished Conor Fuse at War Games, and on Sunday, he’ll do it again, either directly or indirectly. Brother Mike may want to secure the pinfall, and if so, STRONK! will oblige. Fuse is dead to him; he has more pressing matters to which to attend—that being his title defense at 97RED.
“BIG STACE. STRONK! MUST TRAVEL TO A FAR AWAY PLACE AND DESTROY A FORMER BEST FRIEND AND RETAIN STRONK!’S NINE-POINT-SEVEN POUNDS AND AVENGE MONGO AND MAKE PAPA BEST PROUD. BIG STACE WILL NOT SEE STRONK! FOR A WHILE.”
BIG STACE scoops up DOG, who surprisingly does not attempt to bite her fingers off. Maybe because BIG STACE is just a taller STRONK! with long hair and a vagina. If anything, her presence greatly confuses him.
“THAT IS FINE. CONQUER STRONK!’S ENEMY AND RETURN HOME AND MAKE AN HONEST FEMALE HUMAN OUT OF BIG STACE,” she says, placing DOG back on the ground.
“HOW DOES STRONK! DO THAT?”
“MARRIAGE. BIG STACE IS CARRYING STRONK!’S BABIES.”
It’s been less than an hour since their inaugural “roll in the hay.”
“BIG STACE IS HIGHLY FERTILE.”
STRONK! stops, the sun beating down on his head, momentarily lost in what minimal introspection he’s capable of, having never considered the prospect that he might one day sire a child.
“HOW MANY?” asks STRONK!.
BIG STACE counts her fingers, does some mental math, grabs her crotch, calibrates her final estimate. “EIGHT. GIVE OR TAKE TWO.”
“THAT IS A LOT. OR NOT A LOT. STRONK! DOES NOT KNOW HOW FAMILIES WORK.”
“IT DOES NOT MATTER. WHAT MATTERS IS STRONK! RETAINS STRONK!’S WEIGHT AND PROVIDES FOR STRONK!’S FAMILY. DO NOT LET BIG STACE OR THE UNBORN GODSON BROOD DOWN.”
STRONK! wraps BIG STACE in a bearhug-like embrace. They squeeze each others’ massive bodies until their faces are red and their lungs devoid of oxygen.
They release one another.
STRONK! looks determined, more determined than ever before.
“STRONK! WILL WIN. YES. STRONK! WILL WIN.”
“YES. WIN AND BUY BIG STACE A BIG OLD ENGAGEMENT RING.”
“OKAY.” STRONK! thinks for a second. “DOES BIG STACE WANT TO COME TO THE FAR AWAY PLACE WITH STRONK!?”
BIG STACE pouts. “BIG STACE CANNOT LEAVE AMERICA. BIG STACE IS A FELON BECAUSE BIG STACE SHATTERED A POLICE OFFICER’S PELVIS TWERKING DURING A PROTEST. BUT BIG STACE WILL BE WATCHING AND ROOTING FOR STRONK!”
As they continue to walk through the park, STRONK! cannot help but think about how his life has changed in such a short period of time.
Winner of 2023 War Games.
HOW World Champion.
And now… future husband to the most gorgeous super-heavyweight female human on the planet and father to her children.
Life’s a movie, for sure.