Latest Roleplays
Well, REFUELED LXXXVIII had come and gone, and with it, STRONK’s first-ever in-ring promo. It was short and sweet and, most of all, effective. And, if you listened to Shelley Greene tell it, it was the biggest talking point of the week; wrestlers, journalists, pundits, fans, all enraptured by the words of GODSON, feverishly liking and re-tweeting glowing praise for the Minnesota Hay Bale (a nickname improvised on the spot by Greene, and now absolutely hated by STRONK).
Of course, none of that is true. GODSON intended to speak for several minutes, informing of his unique backstory and manic desire for success. And by the end, the fans would be on their feet, tears in their eyes, hands outstretched toward the Stronk Man, fully invested in their new favourite wrestler.
But that didn’t happen. STRONK froze like a deer in headlights. By the time his wits returned to him, he was out of the ring and halfway to the back. Still, he sent a message, and perhaps his terrible short-term memory and lack of public speaking experience proved advantageous; perhaps less is more.
UNNAMED STRIP MALL GYM
SOMEWHERE IN MINNESOTA
FEBRUARY 21, 2022
For men who workout—like, really workout, not pussyfart around the free weights doing shoulder shrugs with ten-pound dumbbells—sweat is the body’s way of pissing out weakness. The sweat jewelled around your brow as you lift the bar to your knees and hear that nagging injury in the small of your back scream ‘Fuck you, bitch!’? Piss. And every set, every rep, is your opportunity to drain the metaphorical dick that is your lack of self-discipline and abundance of self-doubt. Feel it all pour out, and know that you’re better than when you walked through the doors of the gym and ogled the chick at the front desk. She hates you because your body is jacked and hers is puny and frail. You wouldn’t touch her anyway; she looks… fragile. Like you’d shatter her with a cuddle. No, you like a full figured gal who chalks up and stands right there next to you at the urinal of life, pissing that weakness away. Power couple.
Every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday, STRONK GODSON travels twenty miles to the nearest gym. Located in a barely renovated space that used to belong to a travel agency, it has a handful of benches, a smattering of free weights, two squat racks, and a lone treadmill that’s been partially dismantled and stripped of its parts.
GODSON stands in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, intensely staring himself in the eyes. Having just finished a gruelling workout, he’s even more swole than usual, if that’s possible.
“STRONK! STRONK! We’re booked! We’re booked, baby!”
Shelley Greene tears through the reception area, almost bowling over an old man hunched by the water fountain. He skids to a stop behind STRONK, beaming brightly. He holds up his phone; on it, what looks to be a match contract.
Greene: And get this… we’re challenging for the HOW Television Championship! First match, already gunning for a title, baby! How do you like that? I told you I know how to negotiate!
In actuality, Greene had nothing to do with STRONK being thrown into a title match in his debut. He really had no idea how that came to be, but he wasn’t going to question it. For all he knew, it was a clerical error. A happy, little clerical error.
STRONK: EXPLAIN TO THE STRONK MAN WHAT THIS MEANS.
Greene: It means that you have the chance to win a championship in your first match ever! Think about it, baby; one week you’re roughing up some hobos in a field next to our trailer park, and the next you’re fighting for gold! This is the kinda shit Disney films are made of!
STRONK grunts.
STRONK: THE STRONK MAN IS NOT A CARTOON!
Greene jumps back, waving his hands in front of him.
Greene: No, of course not! Not all Disney movies are cartoons though.
STRONK: INCORRECT. YOU’RE THINKING OF 21st CENTURY FOX.
Greene: I’m not. Disney makes—
GODSON grabs Greene by the throat. He watches himself in the mirror, likes what he sees. Greene’s eyes bug out, his face begins to turn a disconcerting shade of red.
STRONK: YOU ARE.
STRONK releases him. Greene sucks in a few painful breaths of sweet, sweet pungent gym air.
Greene: (nodding) I am. That’s my mistake. I’m sorry.
STRONK: WHAT YOU ARE SAYING IS THE STRONK MAN WILL BE CHAMPION. THE GIRLS, THE CARS, THE HOUSE ON THE HILL.
Greene: Well, it’ll take time for us to make that kinda skrilly nelson, bubba, but eventually, yes, definitely!
The shoddy lighting blinks erratically above. STRONK has tuned Greene out. In his mind, there’s the sounds of expensive dinnerware clattering atop fine linen tablecloth, of sexy women laughing and complimenting his muscles and teeth, of fast exotic cars customized to fit his enormous frame—the sounds of success.
—
LATER THAT NIGHT
Back here for journal entry number… I dunno. Didn’t number the pages. Don’t want to count right now, so won’t.
Anyway, I found out today that I will challenge for a championship in my debut match. That sounds fine. But what I really want to know is how much money will I make.
Money means bigger. I can be bigger but I need more money. And the bigger I become the more money I can make. I think about this a lot because it makes me happy. And it makes me happy because I am in control of everything. The variables are like the crackheads I beat on in the field out back: they do as I say and are my things with which to do as I see fit. There is no resistance. I did some math yesterday and by my calculation, if I maintain my current trajectory, by this time next year I’ll be six hundred pounds of rock solid muscle with a billion dollars in the bank. I believe this is a reasonable goal that I can easily accomplish through hard work and determination alone.
But before I can assume my final form, I’ve got bodies to stack, championships to win, and fans to make. How does a god relate to the common folk? Is it better to be feared or lusted over? I say, why not both? My body is a temple at which mere mortals pay money to sit adjacent and breathe in my essence. So why wouldn’t they cheer? If god appeared in Time Square, and then proceeded to physically destroy a bunch of guys in wrestling matches, you’d still love him even though he is, in every way, your superior, right? Or would there be rampant jealousy? I think they’d cheer god in that scenario. I really do. But if you just come right out and say that, you’re branded a delusional narcissist. It is a struggle to exist alongside such boring mediocrity. It tests my patience every single day.
Shelley has self-medicated tonight; he said he wouldn’t be able to sleep on account of how excited he was for me… but he also smoked a bunch of meth so that could also be the reason.
This leaves me alone with my thoughts… I’ve wanted to be on TV, to be star, ever since I was in first grade. My pops told me I was retarded and wouldn’t amount to nothing, that I better build my body because my brain was the drizzling shits. So that’s what I did. I was the only kid in my elementary school who knew what creatine was. And they wondered why I absolutely DOMMED at peewee football. Here’s an idea: quit giving your kid a tofu sandwich and some fucking kale, and pack him a thermos of weight gainer; slip in a handwritten note that says ‘Hey little STRONK, never forget what a useless piece of shit you truly are—and your mother is a dirty VLT slut.’ It builds character. It’s what’s needed in today’s society.
Shelley, to look at him, is a weak bitch. He’s skinny. His wrists are tiny. His hair’s too long. He’s naturally hairless in most places. All trademark weak bitch traits. But he’s been on his own since he was a kid; he’s a vulture. He actually looks like a vulture physically, too, which is humorous to me. He’s a parasite, like that tapeworm I had that kept me plateaued at two-seventy-five for six months straight. But he gets by; he survives. Even with that frail body of his, he survives. He’s like an egg rolling down a rocky cliff side. I couldn’t live my life knowing my body is tissue paper over a couple of glued-together toothpicks.
No, I just couldn’t do it. I need to feel stronger than everyone around me. I need them to look at me and tremble a bit. Know that, if I was a raging psycho, I could end them right then and there. And there’d be nothing they could do to stop it. But I’m not a raging psycho, I’m—
Greene: (off-screen) Hey Stronk Daddy! Can you come in here and sign some eight-by-elevens I had printed? First edition autographs will be worth a fortune in a couple years!
Greene had (evidently) risen from the dead. Xanax can’t keep a good man down, not when there are things to be done.
The carpenter pencil SNAPS in half. STRONK lifts his head from the journal, aggravated, turning it in the direction of Greene’s voice.
STRONK: YOU DO IT, FUCKFACE. STRONK’S SIGNATURE IS A FANCY CIRCLE AND A CHECKMARK.
Greene, standing next to a TV tray on which a stack of photos of GODSON rests, nods his head. He smiles slyly. He’d been forging STRONK’s signature for months now—for loans, for shipments of controlled substances through the dark web, to setup a life insurance policy, among other things. He’d gotten really good at it. Practice makes perfect, as they say.
Greene: You got it, big man! Consider it done!
—
NONDESCRIPT STRETCH OF HIGHWAY
SOMEWHERE (WHO KNOWS?)
FEBRUARY 22, 2022
The not-regularly-maintained engine of a Cadillac Deville groans and putters. The air outside the car is cold, the environment dreary and grey. It is midday and Shelley Greene and STRONK GODSON are travelling to a location out of state.
Shelley pilots the gas-guzzler, with STRONK sitting in the passenger’s seat. “Born to be Wild” plays on loop through the tape deck.
Greene: I’m telling you, STRONK; my cousin, he knows the in’s and out’s of the wrestling biz. He did it at the highest level for years. Never won any world titles or nothing, but he was in the mix! He’s going to be able to give you all the advice, the tips and tricks of the trade, that you’ll need to be successful.
STRONK: IT SURPRISES THE STRONK MAN TO LEARN THAT YOU HAVE AN ATHLETE IN YOUR BLOODLINE.
Greene chuckles, drums on the steering wheel with his hands.
Greene: Oh yeah, it’s crazy, right? I come from a clan of learned gentlemen. But my cuz? He walked a different path. Imagine being a kid, and seeing your cousin on national television. It was a trip, baby. He even ran a wrestling promotion himself one time, but that turned out… not good. Accounting is hard and the government loves to trump up charges of tax evasion and money laundering. Can’t let a good man thrive.
STRONK: YOUR GENETICS ARE SHIT. WAS THIS COUSIN OF YOURS ADOPTED?
Greene: Heh… don’t think so! I mean, we look a lot alike!
STRONK: THEN THE STRONK MAN FEELS SORRY FOR THIS INDIVIDUAL.
Changing the subject, Greene gestures toward the interior of the car, looking pleased with himself.
Greene: What do you think of our ride? I traded some of my chemistry shit to Gomez for this bad boy. Made a few road dollars, too, on the deal. Look how committed I am. I just made the first major capital injection into STRONK Enterprises.
STRONK: INJECTION? BUT IT IS TUESDAY. INJECTIONS ARE MONDAYS AND FRIDAYS.
Greene: Not that kind of injection, baby! I’m talking that monaaaaay! I’m investing in your—our—future. Gotta spend money to make money!
STRONK: UNDERSTOOD. THE CAR SMELLS LIKE CHEMICALS.
Greene laughs, points with his thumb to the backseat where a duffle bag sits.
Greene: Brought some homework with me. If I know my cuz like I know my cuz, he’ll have a lab I can work out of while he puts you through the ringer.
STRONK: WILL IT MAKE THE STRONK MAN BIGGER?
Greene: Oh yeah, big man! If I can get it right, we’ll accelerate your beef cultivation by, I’d say, nine months? You’ll be so big you won’t fit in a regular automobile. I’ll need to cart you around in a fully pimped out tanker truck. You’ll be in the back, chillin’ with some beautiful ladies, eating steak dinners and drinking only the finest protein shakes! I’ll be up front, behind the wheel, zapped on Adderall, driving us to the next show! What a beautiful dream!
STRONK: YES. WHORES AND MEAT. SATISFACTORY.
—
NED’S DISCOUNT STAY ‘N PLAY
SOMEWHERE IN THE CONTINENTAL U.S.
FEBRUARY 23, 2022
The motel is rundown and minimalistic in every way possible. There are four “suites” located less than ten feet from a row of gas pumps, and a fifth that operates after dark as an illegal casino. The sun begins to set over the horizon as a beat-up Cadillac Deville rolls into the parking lot.
Greene exits the vehicle, followed by STRONK, who is wearing sweatpants that are way too tight and a T-shirt that reads “WHO FARTED?”
They walk over to room number three. Greene raps on the door with the back of his hand. STRONK sees this, becomes visibly angry, and then HAMMERS on the door repeatedly with his massive fist.
STRONK: KNOCK SO THEY CAN FUCKING HEAR IT, SCRAWN-BOY!
The door opens a crack—the lock still attached by the chain. Beady, bloodshot eyes peak out, scanning STRONK and Shelley.
Man Behind Door: Vat… iz… dey… passwerd?
Shelley leans in.
Greene: Fuck bitches; get money.
Man Behind Door: Bangarang, Peter!
The doors swings open. Greene and GODSON enter the motel room. The door slams shut.
Greene: Lowell, it’s so great to see you! It’s been too long!
Lowell—known to wrestling fans as Lowell Dot Com, Lord Lowell, or the Warrior Poet Known Simply As Lowell—stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Like Greene, he’s tall—about 6’1”—and very skinny. What little weight he put on during his wrestling career through steroids and boozing every night is completely gone. A wrinkled dress shirt hangs loosely off his bony torso. He slumps back into a recliner.
Lowell: So, this is the guy you’ve been emailing me about, huh? STINK GLADSTONE?
Shelley jumps in instantly, spying the silent rage beginning to bubble up within GODSON.
Greene: That’s STRONK GODSON. STRONK.
Lowell grabs a half empty can of beer and downs its contents.
Lowell: Well, whatever your name is, you’ve got the body of a Greek god. I mean, you’re short as fuck, but so were a lot of the greats. I heard Hogan was, like, actually a midget, but they filmed him at an angle, which made him look huge.
STRONK: SHELLEY, CORRECT THIS MAN’S TONE BEFORE THE STRONK MAN RIPS A BRANCH OFF YOUR FAMILY TREE.
Greene: STRONK is not short; he’s the perfect height for his frame.
Lowell smirks.
Lowell: Speak it into reality—I love it. Good shit. So, what can I do for you?
Greene: I was hoping you could bestow some wrestling wisdom on STRONK here. Things to watch out for. How to stand out. That sorta thing.
Lowell: Well, looking like a fattened gigantized pitbull walking around on its hind legs is a good start! But sure, I’d be happy to help out my cuz. Will even give you the family discount. One hour, three hundred bucks.
Greene: I only have two hundred and seventy five dollars for incidentals.
Lowell: Forty five minutes it is then! I can cram a lot into forty five minutes, though! You’re getting a crash course in the shit Lowell did wrong and why you should avoid heroin at all costs!
STRONK: IF YOU TRY AND FELATE THE STRONK MAN WITH YOUR HERPES-INFESTED MOUTH, KNOW YOUR DESTRUCTION WILL BE LONG AND MISERABLE.
Lowell smiles, fires off the double finger guns.
Lowell: Don’t worry, big boy, I don’t do that kinda thing anymore. Cleaned up my act. I hold sacred the teacher-student relationship. This whole thing is entirely above board.
STRONK glances at Greene as if to say “If this man wastes my time, it’s your ass!” Shelley gulps.
Lowell: (rising from the chair) Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. Shelley, go and grab a drink in the gambling lounge and wait there. This pressure cooker ain’t no place for intellectuals.
Shelley exits, leaving Lowell and STRONK standing chest to chest.
Lowell: Let’s talk about your opponent. You got a match signed yet?
STRONK grunts in the affirmative.
Lowell: What are the stakes?
STRONK: BELT.
Lowell rubs his hands together excitedly.
Lowell: Right into the deep end. Excellent. Fire forges iron… or something. I’m no blacksmith. All right, let’s get to work.
Lowell sticks his hand out. STRONK thinks about crushing it, but instead shakes it as gently as he can muster.
—
THIRTY MINUTES LATER
The pool at Ned’s Discount Stay ‘N Play hasn’t been used in years, not since Little Johnny from Indiana was attacked by a deranged duck and discovered by housekeeping (i.e., Ned’s wife Helen) the next day, bloated and cold and sucked up against the filter.
With the water drained from it, it makes an excellent “dojo.”
Lowell stands in the middle of it, hands clasped behind his back. GODSON looks annoyed.
Lowell: Listen, I’m not gonna tell you what moves to use, or how to win matches by beating your opponent with technical prowess. That wasn’t me. I was the kinda guy to get under a motherfucker’s skin like a bad case of scabies. I mindfucked my opponents by talking a gang of shit. Tell me about your opponent.
STRONK: HE HAS A REDNECK NAME AND DOES A FLIP!
Lowell: A flyer, huh? Those guys are crafty. They make up for their small dicks by moonsaulting all over the goddamn place. Nevertheless, you’ll want to try and use what you’ve got to intimidate him. Flex a lot. Maybe come into the match with half a chub, get him thinking, like, ‘What’s this crazy son of a bitch have planned for me? Does he want to have sex with me?’ Stuff like that. Get in his head!
STRONK: USE THE THREAT OF SEXUAL ASSAULT TO THE STRONK MAN’S ADVANTAGE—GOT IT.
Lowell: You’ll need to cut a nasty promo in the lead up to your match. Something that carves deep. He got any dead relatives you can make fun of?
STRONK: EVERYONE HAS DEAD RELATIVES. OUR ANCESTORS FERTILIZE THE GROUND ON WHICH WE WALK.
Lowell: Thank you for the very literal interpretation of what I was saying. Listen, the tools you have at your disposal… I didn’t have. I never had a physical advantage over anyone ever in my life. You need to find your own way. But remember, if you can throw you opponent off his game, you increase your probability of success. It’s just basic statistics.
STRONK: YES. THE STRONK MAN IS AN OUTLIER—HE IS SEVERAL STANDARD DEVIATIONS OF SWOLE BEYOND THE POPULATION MEAN.
Lowell nods.
Lowell: The median, too, I’m sure. Okay, why don’t you pretend I’m your opponent and cut a promo. Let’s see what you got.
GODSON stares Lowell in the face, trying to imagine him to be Jeffrey James Roberts. He unfortunately is creatively bankrupt and does not possess an imagination.
STRONK: JEFFREY JAMES ROBERTS—THE STRONK MAN KNOWS LITTLE ABOUT YOU, BUT HE RESPECTS THAT YOU ARE CURRENTLY A CHAMPION. YOU HAD THE BALLS TO SIGN TO FIGHT STRONK DADDY IN A MATCH. SO YOU ARE ALSO VERY STUPID.
Lowell: Don’t say you respect him! He hates you! He wants to defeat you and leave you in that disgusting trailer park! He’s banging all the rats—your rats! How do you feel about that?
STRONK: THE PROMISCUOUS WOMAN OF WRESTLING FANDOM SHOULD BE THE STRONK MAN’S! HIS BANGING OF THE RATS SHOULD CEASE UNTIL THEIR OWNERSHIP IS DECIDED IN OUR MATCH!
Lowell: Good, good, and all that money and fame you dream of? Mr. Roberts wants it all for himself. He’s a greedy little fuck. Oh, and I read online he called you a dwarf. Y’know, because you’re so fucking short.
STRONK: HE DARE CALL THE STRONK MAN SHORT? HE, A MAN WHO IS MUCH TOO TALL FOR HIS FRAME? THE STRONK MAN WANTS TO OFFER HIM A SANDWICH. SKINNY BOY. FLIP-FLOPPER. BITCH. YOU ARE NO MATCH FOR THE STRONKEST MAN ALIVE! YOUR BODY WILL WILT IN THE STRONK MAN’S VIOLENT EMBRACE. CRUSH YOUR BONES LIKE THAT OF A TINY BIRD. BOP YOU ON THE HEAD AND COMPRESS YOUR SPINE SO WE STAND EYE TO EYE. AND WHEN WE STAND EYE TO EYE DO NOT THINK FOR ONE SECOND THAT YOU ARE THE STRONK MAN’S EQUAL. YOU’RE NOT. YOU ARE CITY WEAK AND COUNTRY STUPID. THE STRONK MAN IS BUILT TO LAST. AND HE’S COMING TO RIP THAT CHAMPIONSHIP BELT FROM YOUR EFFEMINATE GRASP!
Lowell smiles. Lights up a cig and takes a long drag, exhales contently.
Lowell: That’s it. That’s the fire you need. You’re ready.
With that, Lowell flicks the cigarette away and walks off toward the motel “casino,” his work complete, armed with two hundred and seventy five bucks to feed into a slot machine while getting loaded off cheap liquor.
The STRONK MAN stands at the bottom of the empty pool, anger roiling deep inside him, feeling like he could tunnel through the side if he ran headfirst into it.
STRONK: I’M GONNA EAT JJR ALIVE.
Fade to black.