Three Bills

Three Bills

Posted on April 22, 2022 at 2:26 pm by Stronk Godson

STRONK AND SHELLEY’S TRAILER
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
APRIL 19, 2022

It feels pretty good.  Pretty fucking good.  Winning titles.  Being a champion.  Smashing the dreams of others.  Oh, the taste of it—sweet like candy.  

Sunday night was a special night for STRONK GODSON.  So special, in fact, it single-handedly undid an entire adolescence filled with disappointment and regret.  The belt he now carries is like a lost security blanket returned to a confused and disoriented child.  

The night after he won the HOTv Championship, he slept with it around his waist.  The next morning he strutted to the toilet to do some ‘paper work,’ with it hanging low off his hips, barely covering his private bits.  

Two days later, and he still hasn’t taken the damn thing off.  Fuck a rash.  

The last time he weighed himself was the morning of Refueled.  In the days that followed he was on such a high, he consumed anything and everything in their fridge that was either once alive or made in a lab to simulate once-aliveness.  

Success feels incredible.  Winning the HOTv Championship superseded every personal best he ever set in the gym.  Every hard fought pound stacked onto his already massive frame.  Every victory picked up in the squared circle to that point.  All pale in comparison.

He steps onto the scale in the bathroom, obviously unclothed or else it would be considered cheating in STRONK’s mindbut still has the HOTv belt loosely strapped around his waist.

Before he can read the weight on the scale, a voice calls out from his left side.

Greene:  Woah!  Stronk Daddy!  You’ve still got the gold on—you’ll gig the scale!

STRONK turns and looks at Greene, who appears from behind a shower curtain.

Shelley’s standing in their bathtub with a belt of his own cinched tightly around his neck and looped over the shower rod for leverage.  

STRONK:  YOUR MASTURBATORY HABITS ARE ADVANCED.

Shelley pulls his head out from the makeshift noose, tossing it aside.  He quickly lights a calming cigarette between shaky hands.  Greene’s trembling makes bare-ass STRONK feel uncomfortable. 

Greene:  It’s a disease, or so I’ve read.  Porn addiction.  Gotta constantly up the ante or I can’t get hard.  I’m so very ashamed of—

With a quickness that can only be described as chemically fuelled, or like ‘jacked Jason Bourne on meth,’ STRONK snatches an eyebrow tweezer from the bathroom vanity.  In the same motion, he grabs ahold of Shelley by his greasy, jet-black hair and presses him against the shower wall, holding the tweezers mere millimetres from his roommate’s eye.

STRONK:  ENOUGH.  

After being released from GODSON’s grip, Shelley slides down into a seated position, the faucet jammed into his lower back.  He takes a drag off his smoke.

Greene:  I was just saying… you’re always preaching that ‘don’t cheat,’ ‘no shortcuts’ stuff.  That belt ain’t you.  It’s added poundage, brother.  Don’t falsify your accomplishments, big man.  You’ll only regret it. 

STRONK looks down at the beautiful championship belt adorning his waist.  

He thinks about the naysayers who told him he’d wind up broke on the side of the road, giving HJs to truckers for highway rides.  The pitter-patter of raindrops on his utilitarian sun hat (when you’re out standing in the Lots from six thirty in the morning to one aye em in the dark times, you think a little about UV protection—you get creative—because nobody likes it when you’ve covered in a greasy layer of SPF-50 and sweating all over them) keeping rhythm with the love sounds of thrusting thumps and guttural grunts.  This very same hypothetical scenario played out in GODSON’s head for years.  Failure meant debasing oneself in the most depraved ways possible.  Running dirty miles, is what they called it.

You’ll be runnin’ dirty miles ‘till your ass falls out.  Then you’ll run ‘em some more!

Snapping back to present day, shaking the cobwebs of a life (thankfully) not lived, GODSON turns to Greene.

STRONK:  THE BELT WAS EARNED BY STRONK.  IT IS NO DIFFERENT THAN THE PULSING MUSCLES THAT MOVE STRONK’S IMPRESSIVE SKELETON AROUND ALL DAY.  A PRODUCT OF HARD WORK.

Greene looks like he’s about to offer a retort… but stops himself at the last moment.  He rolls the idea proffered by STRONK around in his brain.  Considers the logical counterarguments.  Shrugs.

Greene:  I mean… shit… you’re not wrong, Stronk Daddy!  That belt is so you it might as well be you!  HOT as fuuuuuuuck.  Okay!  I’m convinced!  Let’s see what the scale has to say.

As though neither man has mentally prepared themselves for the very real possibility that the scale (on which a ten-pound belt-wearing STRONK GODSON—who was reportedly two hundred and ninety nine pounds only days earlier—now stands) may tip up and over the historic three hundred pound mark, they lock eyes, cautiously optimistic but expecting the worst… then slowly and dramatically trace their gaze to the analog display on the scale.

Seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days!  At least that’s what it felt like.

STRONK closes his eyes just before his brain has time to register the poundage shown beneath him.

He opens his eyes, one by one. 

Three hundred. 

And.

Seven pounds.

3 0 7

3

0

7

Three bills.  The big ‘uns.

Three zero seven.

He did it.

He was officially (fiiiiiiinally!) a BIG MAN.

The scale SMASHES into many sharp pieces of plastic as STRONK excitedly jumps up and down on top of it.  Elation floods his body, filling him from head to toe, a feeling not unlike when he won the HOTv Championship only a few days before.  A feeling of satisfaction and triumph; a feeling that’d been foreign to him all his life.

Shelley abruptly eats the cigarette he’s holding because he feels the need to do something extreme to demonstrate his shared enthusiasm, and that’s the first thing that pops into his head; it hurts and tastes disgusting.

Greene:  Oh my fucking God!  We did it!  We did it!

STRONK:  STRONK FEELS WARM IN HIS GUTS.  

Greene:  That’s pride.  You’re proud of yourself.  Three hundred plus and a brand-spanking-new championship!  These are the times we remember, Stronk Daddy.  Right here, right now. 

STRONK looks down at the heap of parts belonging to what was, only minutes before, a functioning scale.  The bottoms of his bare feet are cut up from the sharp edges of the plastic shards on which he stands, but he hardly notices.

UNKNOWN (IT’S A SECRET!)
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
APRIL 20, 2022

Shelley’s powder blue Cadillac Deville motors down a suburban road, somewhere in Minnesota.  

Inside, Shelley sits behind the wheel, beaming ear to ear.  STRONK is shotgun, arm hanging out the window, HOTv belt ever-present around his waist.  House after house passes them by, all common in design, if not completely identical sans choice in paint colour.  Kids on bicycles navigate chalk-marked sidewalks, cautiously circumventing grannies and toddlers alike; not a single glass bottle or homophobic slur lobbed.  

To STRONK, suburbia is utopia.  Heaven on earth.  Anathema to the world in which he cut his teeth.  So what if it’s boring and safe, the neighbours intrusive, the lawns obsessively kept with not a blade out of place or chunk of dog shit to be found.  So what.  Is perfect bad?  Of course not; it’s just incredibly off-putting at first.  Like, what’s the town got to hide?

The stench in the air lacks that familiar trailer-park ambrosia of burnt cat hair and exploded meth lab.  It isn’t even a stench, really; more a straight-up inoffensive smell.  

Where the fuck were they?

STRONK rolls up his window, feeling a momentary sense of dread, trying to create a barrier between himself and the all-too-perfect outside.  The only movie STRONK saw growing up (except for Over The Top) was Edward Scissorhands, and this neighbourhood reminded him of the one in which the film is set.  (Why was Edward Scissorhands one of only two movies he’s ever watched, you might ask?  Because his mother adored the father character.  Not Edward, not the lead girl, not the mother—the father.  No one ever knew why.)

The car turns into a driveway and rolls to a stop.  

Greene:  STRONK, I have a surprise for you.  A BIG surprise.  So big, words can’t do it justice.  

STRONK:  ARE THE RESIDENTS OF THIS SLEEPY SUBURBAN STREET POTENTIAL TRAINING PARTNERS FOR STRONK?

Greene:  Kind of.  Maybe.  Not really?  

Shelley turns off the car, unbuckles his seatbelt, and pops open the driver’s side door.  He motions for GODSON to do the same.  

STRONK doesn’t wear a seatbelt.  Doesn’t fit, plus they’re for wimps who don’t know how to make the collision your bitch.  Most people let the collision fuck on them; you’ve gotta fuck on it first.  How exactly?  Right before impact, you slam both your fists down into the dash.  The impact of your fists neutralizes the impact of the car impacting with (whatever).  Apparently.

Greene:  Let’s go, big man!  We’re burning daylight here!  

GODSON reaches for the door handle and begins to open the door, but turns back to Shelley.

STRONK:  SURPRISES ANGER STRONK.  YOU KNOW THIS.

Greene nods.

Greene:  I do.  But this is different.  This isn’t like the time I fed you all that Viagra in your mashed potatoes to see what it’d do for your overall vascularity.  

STRONK:  IT COULD BE.  

Greene:  Stronk Daddy, I told you they’re not good for your heart.  Your other ‘medicines’ put enough strain on it as it is!  Enough!  Just follow me.

STRONK and Shelley exit the Cadillac and find themselves standing in front of a cookie-cutter split-entry house.  Probably built forty or so years ago.  Decently maintained.  Three bedrooms.  Two baths.  A place to barbecue outback.  

It reminds STRONK of a house he visited once as a child.  It was a kid’s fifth birthday party.  STRONK was somehow invited, much to his surprise.  

STRONK’s father, despite having a strict ‘no drives after 2 PM’ rule due to his typically being black-out drunk by three each day, surprisingly acquiesced to his son’s request.  When his dad’s battered F150 pulled up in front of his classmate’s house, he was shocked that it had two stories.  Growing up in a dirty, dingy, two-bedroom trailer, he’d never seen anything like it before.  He jumped out of the truck, walked to the front door, and gave it a polite knock.  

The woman that answered would inform a dejected STRONK that “no Timmy lives here, hun, sorry!”  

Timmy had ‘pranked’ STRONK.  Only STRONK never laughed.  Not once.  The other kids sure did when he showed up for school the next day.  Oh, they laughed their fucking asses off.  Even the red-headed kid who everyone called ‘Ghost’ got in on the action, pointing and mocking STRONK.

Greene:  You okay, big man?  You look like you’re having one of your… lost in the past… moments.

STRONK:  RECALLING OLD FRIENDS AND THE JOKES WE PLAYED.

Greene:  (turning, pointing to the house)  Well…?  What do you think?  You like it?

The Stronk Man’s eyes narrow into suspicious slits.  

STRONK:  WHY?

Greene:  Because it’s ours, baby!  I bought it!  How’s a champion and War Games combatant supposed to live amongst the dregs of society?  You know that Charlie is slipping into full-on senility, and that old bastard has a gun for every day of the week, and you just know they’re all loaded and the serial number’s been filed off.  I can’t have your hopes and dreams one bullet to the spine away from complete annihilation!  So I bought us a motherfucking mansion in the suburbs!  

STRONK, wide-eyed now, has to pull his jaw up from the pavement of the driveway.  His driveway.  He glances down to the belt around his waist, then to the massive arms that are attached to his now three hundred pound frame, and finally to the house again. 

STRONK:  A CASTLE.  FOR A KING.

They walk up to the front door—STRONK is careful not to stamp on the flowers lining the stone walkway, flowers that only minutes before he’d clocked while sitting in the car as targets specifically for stamping.  Those were his flowers.  

Shelley pulls out a two keys… and hands one to GODSON.

STRONK AND SHELLEY’S HOUSE
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
APRIL 20, 2022

GODSON walks around the first floor of his and Shelley’s new house in nothing but acid wash jean shorts and the HOTv belt.  He thumps on each wall, with his ear pressed to it.

Shelley stands a few feet away, measuring the space for furniture he hopes to buy.

STRONK:  ALL THESE WALLS MUST BE ELIMINATED.  THE FIRST FLOOR WILL BE OPEN CONCEPT.  NO WALLS.  FOOD PLACE.  WORKOUT AREA.  SHITTER.  SLEEP, AND ONLY SLEEP, OCCURS ON THE SECOND FLOOR.

Greene:  I mean, we’ll keep the bathroom enclosed, right?  Ain’t nobody wanna see what goes on in there…

STRONK turns his head and glares at Shelley.

STRONK:  DID STRONK STUTTER?  

Greene doesn’t respond because… he doesn’t know how to respond; he just nods.

Greene:  Y’know, Stronk Daddy, this Sunday’s a big night for us.  Steve Harrison challenges you for your HOTv Championship.  And it’s a War Games qualifier, no less!  Steve’s undefeated in singles competition so far this year.  We need to maintain our momentum.

STRONK: —

The door bell rings, halting GODSON’s response. 

They open the front door.  A man and a woman stand on their doorstep, smiling.  They look like they’re in their late fifties.  The woman holds a plate of chocolate chip cookies covered in plastic wrap.  

Joe:  Hi there!  I’m Joe; this is my wife Caroline.  We just wanted to pop by and officially welcome you to the neighbourhood!

Joe looks STRONK and Shelly up and down.  STRONK, in his acid wash cutoffs; Shelley, in a red leather suit looking like a white, emaciated Eddie Murphy in Delirious.  (He’d bought it at a thrift store for five dollars as a gift to himself when STRONK won the HOTv Championship.) 

Caroline:  Everyone on the street is so nice and accepting of alternative lifestyles.  You’ll feel right at home here.

Shelley:  Good.  Our lifestyle is very alternative.  Punk rock shit.  Just a couple of hetero lifemates playing house, preparing to take over the world.

Caroline lets loose a burst of overly delighted laughter.

Caroline:  Oh, you’re funny!  You’re the funny one, aren’tcha?  Amazing.  Ah-may-zing.  

Greene:  I’m Shelley.  This is STRONK.  You’ll notice STRONK’s championship belt—he recently won that sexy strap of leather and gold by squashing a super-heavyweight masked deviant in front of thousands of people.

STRONK:  STRONK IS NOT FUNNY.  THE WOMAN IS CORRECT IN THAT STATEMENT.

Joe:  (addressing STRONK)  Ahhh, a military man, I presume?  Navy?  My brother’s in the army.  Used to be, sorry.  He’s mister serious now.  Talks in the third person, too, but, well—

Caroline:  (leaning toward STRONK and Shelley, half-whispering)  He hasn’t been the same since suffering a traumatic brain injury during his last tour overseas.  We just try and make sure he’s comfortable and feels safe when he’s staying with us over the holidays.

STRONK:  WHAT ARE YOUR CLATTER LAWS?

Joe:  Excuse me?

STRONK:  YOUR CLATTER LAWS.  FOR WHEN YOU ARE DROPPING HEAVY WEIGHT FROM CHEST HEIGHT OFF COMPOUND LIFTS AT ODD HOURS OF THE NIGHT.

Joe looks at his wife, confused.  Caroline looks back at her husband, equally confused.

Joe:  I can’t see why there’d be an issue…  Maybe just keep your garage door closed if you’re out there after dark  ‘pumping iron’?  

STRONK:  UNACCEPTABLE.  STRONK’S BODY TEMPERATURE AND OVERACTIVE SWEAT GLANDS CAUSE IMPROPERLY VENTILATED SPACES TO BECOME MUGGY AND FOUL.  

Greene:  It’s true.  Our last place had, like… a fog? …that just kinda hung in the air.  You got used to the taste of it on your food pretty quick, though.  It had a spiciness to it.  Like a musky Frank’s in mist form.

Caroline succumbs to another fit of laughter.  STRONK ponders whether she is insane.   

Caroline:  Oh, STRONK, you should see this one after running the half marathon!  Tries to climb into bed with me without showering—YUCK!

STRONK:  SWEAT IS A NATURAL LUBRICANT.  MAKES THE DICK SLIPPERY AND CAPABLE OF ENTERING A WOMAN AT A VELOCITY THAT WOULD OTHERWISE BE IMPOSSIBLE OR PHYSICALLY UNSAFE FOR THE PERSON ON THE RECEIVING END.

Joe:  (gesturing to his crotch)  Believe me, Mr. Stronk, there’s no, heh… velocity going on down here.  No sir.  Whole lotta nothin’ these days.

Caroline:  Joe’s tried medication, but it makes him… moody.  Pouty face.

Joe:  Also clinically depressed and suicidal, but thank you once again for minimizing my pain, Caroline.

Caroline:  You know what’s great for your self-esteem, Joe?  Success.  You should try it sometime.

Greene:  Weeeeeeelllllpppppp… thanks for stopping by.  Great to meet ya.  We’re going to return to our new duties as homeowners, but if you wanna leave the cookies and get the hell outta here, that’d be real neighbourly of ya.

Caroline graciously hands over the plate of cookies, awkwardly smiling and side-eying her husband the whole time.  Maybe tonight’s the night she finally starts putting crushed glass into his food after his third glass of scotch before dinner.

Joe:  Sure, let us get out of your hair!  You probably have a few rooms left to, uh, christen.  Once again, welcome to the street.  She’s good one.  Ohhh!  The third Saturday of every month is Wii Sports night at the Thompsons!  It’s a great time.  A real hoot!  We get a little silly on the vino.  You may even get a chance to fuck my wife!

Caroline:  Jesus fucking Christ, I thought we worked past that, Joe?

Joe:  We have.  I have.  Just saying, even lightning has been known to strike the same place twice!

Caroline:  Maybe if SOMEONE could get their coc—

STRONK slams the door on the happily married couple.

LATER THAT NIGHT

In the suburbs, there’s laughter, and Sunday afternoon NFL parties, and children playing basketball or hockey in driveways.  Evenings are quiet, though sometimes punctuated by a dog’s bark or a car engine starting.  

The cool April air feels nice on STRONK’s skin as he lays out on a lawn chair out on their back deck, in a state of relaxation he’s rarely ever experienced.

Greene tends to the grill, preparing to flip two pieces of meat—a four ounce beef medallion (for himself) and a thirty two ounce AAA tomahawk steak (for STRONK).  

Greene:  So what do you think?  Did Shelley do good, or did Shelley do good?

STRONK smiles.  It’s difficult for him; his facial muscles strain as he forces an expression that does not come naturally to him.  

STRONK:  YOU DID GOOD.  STRONK WILL SLEEP WELL TONIGHT.  THE THIRD BEDROOM IS WHERE STRONK’S CHAMPIONSHIP BELT WILL BE STORED.  IT’S TIME TO LET GO.  IF ONLY A LITTLE BIT.

For the first time in three days, STRONK unclasps the belt from around his waist and hangs it ceremonially on the arm of his chair.  He is home and can finally relax a little and let his guard down.

Greene:  You know, Stronk Daddy… I’m happy you like the place and everything… I really do… but this could all be temporary.

STRONK:  WHAT DO YOU MEAN?  

Greene flips the meat, sets down the tongs, and looks over his shoulder at GODSON.

Greene:  Our living here?  It’s predicated on you continuing to win.  And hold championships.  And secure brand deals.  And fuck, I dunno, maybe a goddamn superhero movie one day!  I see you laid back in that chair… and I worry.  I didn’t think I would, but I do.

STRONK:  ABOUT WHAT?

Greene:  I don’t want you to go soft.  But I do want you to enjoy some of the trappings of success.  Because you deserve it.  Promise me you’ll not forget where we’ve come from.  The hardships endured.  And know that our collective prosperity rests solely on your ability to consistently get the job done.  You fail you?  You fail us.  I know it’s a lot of pressure, but it’s time to step the fuck up, big man.  I’ve fucking stepped up.

GODSON looks down at the HOTv Championship, then back to Shelley.  

All this…  

Was on STRONK.

No one else.  Just him.

He may be living in an 1,800 square foot split-entry palatial estate today, but a few missteps, a couple errors along the way, a loss of focus… and it could all evaporate into nothingness.

Then you’re runnin’ those dirty miles.

Greene:  Oh, and now may be an appropriate time to mention that I’ve maxed out several credit cards in your name.  All necessary business expenses, of course.  But… y’know… we gotta make that money, baby.  Now more than ever.  We’ve got a lifestyle to maintain!

STRONK AND SHELLEY’S HOUSE
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
APRIL 22, 2022

STRONK’s eyes follow from his feet to his chest, then up to his face.  Standing in his new bedroom, he stares at himself intently in a wall-mounted mirror.  

The HOTv belt is nowhere to be found.  As he stated he would, he left it hanging prominently on an isolated coat rack in the middle of their spare bedroom.  He’d decided that it was necessary to create some distance between it and himself.  

Every championship match needs to feel as though he’s attempting to win it for the very first time.  Champion’s advantage, to-be-the-man-you-have-to-beat-the-man, reassurances he doesn’t need or want.

STRONK believes in himself.  Shelley believes in him.  Soon enough, children across the globe will paper the walls of their bedroom with pictures of STRONK and quotes of STRONK.  His rise to the top of the card will be looked upon fondly a few years from now.  Weird Internet people will spend countless hours each day on Reddit or Twitter, discussing the dominance displayed by GODSON as he fought his way into the main event.  But all of that will happen in time.

Now, he must continue to remind himself:

Stay focused.

So you’ve won the HOTv Championship.  Nice.  How many times have you defended it?

So you’ve won the HOTv Championship.  Nice.  Cool.  Beautiful.  Why not the World Title, though?

So you’ve crested up and over the three hundred pound mark.  Incredible.  Great accomplishment.  You must be so proud of yourself.  But why aren’t you four hundred pounds?  Are you happy being a small man?  

STRONK closes his eyes.

We enter the static and the ether once again, where STRONK can more easily string a few cogent sentences together as a form of mental preparation before his big title defence on Sunday.

SUNDAY NIGHT STRONK STEPS INTO THE RING AGAINST PERHAPS HIS BIGGEST CHALLENGE TO DATE. 

FOUR-AND-OH STEVE HARRISON.  THE REIGNING LSD CHAMPION.  THE MAN STRONK MUST DECIMATE TO ENSURE STRONK CONTINUES TO BE PAID AND ACKNOWLEDGED AS A CHAMPION.  AND THE MAN STRONK MUST DEFEAT TO SECURE A PLACE ON MICHAEL LEE BEST’S WAR GAMES TEAM.

MICHAEL WROTE A NICE LETTER TO STRONK LAST WEEK.  HE MADE IT KNOWN THAT HE IS A HARDCORE STRONKITE.  AND IF STRONK DOES NOT WIN ON SUNDAY, MICHAEL LEE BEST WILL BE SAD AND ANGRY AND WILL PROBABLY TAKE HIS FRUSTRATIONS OUT ON THE INNOCENT; MAYBE HE WILL BEAT A HOMELESS PERSON TO DEATH WITH A LARGE GAVEL OR WHATEVER C-E-Os USE TO RENDER THEIR DECISIONS AS FINAL.  

STRONK HAS NO LOVE FOR THE HOMELESS.  STRONK WAS HOMELESS ONCE.  LIVING IN PARKS AND UNDER BRIDGES.  STEALING PROTEIN POWDER AND MUGGING PEOPLE FOR THEIR HAMBURGERS AS THEY WALK OUT OF A WENDY’S.  STRONK UNDERSTANDS BUT HE DOES NOT ABIDE.  LAZINESS AND MENTAL ILLNESS IS NO EXCUSE.  

AND IF STRONK DOES NOT WANT TO RETURN TO A LIFE OF VAGRANCY, HE MUST PUNISH STEVE HARRISON.  SEND A MESSAGE TO THE REST OF THE H-O-W ROSTER THAT CHALLENGING THE STRONK MAN IS NOT A SMART DECISION. 

STEVE HARRISON DOES NOT RISK LOSING HIS CHAMPIONSHIP ON SUNDAY.  BUT HE DOES RISK LOSING HIS UNDEFEATED RECORD FOR THE YEAR.  AND STRONK VERY MUCH WANTS TO STICK THAT FEATHER IN HIS CAP.  STRONK’S CAP NEEDS FEATHERS.  IT HAS SOME FEATHERS ALREADY.  BUT IT NEEDS MORE.  THE PEACOCK IS THE ONLY BIRD STRONK RESPECTS BECAUSE IT IS FLAMBOYANT AND DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK WHAT THE SEAGUL HAS TO SAY.  

STRONK WILL PREPARE FOR SUNDAY AS HE ALWAYS DOES.  LARGE AMOUNTS OF FOOD WILL BE EATEN.  WEIGHT WILL BE LIFTED IN A VARIETY OF MANNERS.  AND STRONK WILL WALK INTO REFUELED WITH BAD INTENTIONS.  

WHEN IT IS ALL SAID AND DONE, THE HOTV CHAMPIONSHIP WILL REMAIN WITH STRONK.  

AND MICHAEL LEE BEST WILL BE WAITING BEHIND THE CURTAIN WITH A BASKET OF GATORADE, A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS, AND A NEW CONTRACT FOR STRONK TO SIGN.  STRONK WILL CHASTISE HIM FOR NOT DELIVERING THESE THINGS LAST WEEK, BUT WILL ACCEPT THEM REGARDLESS. 

There’s a knock at the door.

Shelley pokes his head in.

Greene:  Hey Stronk Man, what would you say if next week I throw a little shindig to recognize all that you’ve accomplished lately?  Maybe invite some of the neighbours?  Could have the opportunity to cuck that Joe guy.  Build some nice tension on the street.

GODSON flexes.

STRONK:  YES.  INVITE EVERYONE.  TELL THEM IT IS BRING-YOUR-OWN-MEAT.  STRONK AIN’T FEEDING THE DAMN NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Greene nods.

Greene:  Definitely.  And I’ll ask everyone to bring a little something extra.  Pasta salad, brownies, cake, whatever.  That way, if shit goes south and it turns out our new neighbours are a bunch of boring pussies or whatever, we can kick them all out and feast on their finger foods and desserts.  It’s a no-lose situation, big guy!

STRONK:  YES.  IT IS DECIDED.  FIRST, SMASH STEVE HARRISON.  THEN, PARTY WITH STRANGERS AND TRY NOT TO PUNCH THEIR STUPID FACES IN.  GOOD.

Greene:  Awesome!  I’ll get the ball rolling on my end.  You just make sure you’re good to go on Sunday.  Be ready!  Stay ready!

STRONK:  STRONK IS ALWAYS READY.

Fade to black.