starring

FRED DICK

&

STRONK GODSON

~~~~~~~~~~~

ICE COLD OPEN

A French traffic jam.

Ever seen one?

Non?

“C'est un désastre de poulet!”

“Éloignez les poulets de ce putain de chemin!”

“Nous travaillons pour dégager la route!”

The Autoroute, an otherwise efficient highway system, blocked entirely on one side.

French authorities, working hard to clear no less than one hundred chickens, some fine, some injured, and some massacred, from the Autoroute.

An animal transfer truck, turned over on its side, totally ablaze.

The Paris Fire Brigade, pushing their way through traffic to put it out.

…Who did this?

What kind of stupid motherfuckers did this shit?

—

FRIDAY NIGHT - REVIVAL 47

Ahahahahahaha.

AAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

You should have listened to me, Fred.

For Reality knows all.

Haven't I continuously warned you about your delusions? Haven't I made every effort on my end to stop you from pursuing your silly, childish dreams?

I informed you that you stood no chance going against the likes of Paxton Ray.

And now, here you are. Lying on the floor of the bathroom, bleeding, covered from the chin up in toilet water.

And best of all? Crying.

Crying. Like the loser. You are.

Boo hoo, right? Poor Fred, right?

Wrong again, Fred.

No one feels sorry for you. You sorry piece of human garba–

My monologue is interrupted as the bathroom door swings open. This infuriates me. Yet somehow my rage only increases as I see the man who enters.

“STRONK KNOWS STRONK DOES NOT HEAR STRONK’S DAWG CRYING IN THE POOP ROOM STALL.”

STRONK Godson.

The man who was brought into my world, a world which has always been defined by my rules, and yet ignores them completely.

I'm not even sure he knows the rules exist.

But ignorance is no excuse. STRONK is a terrorist against the State of Reality.

One day, STRONK Godson will be punished severely by me.

One day, I will flog him mercilessly.

One day…

“I'm afraid you do, STRONK…” Fred says, standing from the bathroom floor. He swings the stall door open, and STRONK sees Fred’s eyes, full of tears.

“I'ma damn fraud, buddy.” Fred’s bottom lip quivers as he struggles to say the words, “I'ma… I'ma fuggin loser.”

“WHY DOES STRONK’S DAWG THINK STRONK’S DAWG IS A LOSER?”

“Cause… cause… cause Paxton Ray beat on me and made me look stupid in the bathroom! He whooped my ass, STRONK… But even worse… He… HE…”

Fred can't stop the waterworks any longer.

“HE EMBARRASSED ME!!!”

Fred falls to his knees and wails. He looks up at the bathroom ceiling, and shakes his meaty fists at it.

“THIS IS YOUR FAULT GOD!!! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!!! NOT MINE!!!”

“STRONK’S DAWG HAS VERY IMPRESSIVE MEAT HANDS.”

Fred looks up at STRONK. The way the fluorescent bathroom lighting shines down upon him, to Fred he appears like some kind of fucked up John the Baptist, or like a… Jesus H. Schwarzenegger or… Jean Claude Van DAAAAAMN.

“You really mean that?” Fred asks, looking at his hands.

“YES. STRONK'S DAWG HAS A WOUND IN HIS HEAD MEAT. STRONK'S DAWG NEEDS AN ICE HARD MEAT SICKLE.”

STRONK scoops Fred up off the floor and carries him like a bride out of the bathroom.

“Do you… have… an ice hard meat sickle, STRONK?”

“ALWAYS.”

Fred looks up at STRONK and smiles.

STRONK looks down at Fred, almost emotionless.

And I, Reality, look at them both, and vomit in my mouth.

—

INTERLUDE I - BACKPACK BONES

Now, you’re probably wondering where Lowell is in all of this? Isn’t a ratchet-ass piece of clingy shit like him supposed to be attached at the STRONK Man’s hip 24/7?

Well, lemme tell you… less than two weeks on the job, my fuckhead cousin decides to take ‘personal time’? Needs a sudden ‘vacay’?

Just sayin’—when I had the job? No sick days. No Christmases. No Easter. No funerals.

No, my slacker cousin flew to Michigan to, I guess, jerk off on the tombstone of his ex-cell mate’s wife. The guy came in (supposedly)—hear Lowell tell it anyway—and because he was cartel affiliated and killed a cop or something real dope like that and had, FUNNY ENOUGH, that exact same cell and bunk when he was there just before Lowell got put away, he wanted Lowell to take bottom bunk.

Lowell did, of course; getting your head shoved in a freshly used toilet will do that. But I don’t think he ever forgave him. Even after six straight years of leveraging a connect in the mail room to commandeer his cell mate’s wife’s panties and wear them thangz throughout Taco Tuesday and beyond before final delivery—I mean, you’d think that’d square ‘em, right? NOPE.

So, yeah, Lowell’s planning to commit a sexual crime in a graveyard midday during a work week as a form of cosmic payback, and that leaves STRONK unattended with Fred Dick for a day.

I would… never have allowed this.

Under my watch? Fuck no. 

As a home-cook scientist, I know my chemicals—you don’t mix the ones that BLOW UP or START FIRES if your lab is made of fuckin’ paper mache!

PRIME is PAPER MACHE.

Fuckin’ idioyooooots…

Oh me?

YEAH.

The Ghost that’s seated … DOWN.

I guess I gotta watch these two morons fuck around for a while until a depleted Lowell Dot Com returns…

—

THE RAMADA PARIS TOUR EIFFEL

STRONK effortlessly carries Fred across the threshold into the hotel room, the big man slung across his arms. Gently laying Fred down on the bed, he crouches into a half-squat, as Dick rolls over, his wrist curled back and resting across his forehead dramatically.

STRONK walks into the kitchen and returns seconds later with a gigantic frozen tomahawk steak. He rests it against the lump on his fellow Poor Whoresmen’s noggin.

“I’m grateful for this, STRONK,” Fred says, gazing up into the Beast of the Deep’s blue eyes, the sun beginning to set in the background through a small gap in the drapes. “I’m grateful for you. Ya take good care’a ol’ Fred.”

“IS STRONK FRED DICK’S MAMA?”

Fred, his eyes closing ever so slightly, his eyebrows unusually slick, lets the question air out for a moment. It was a smart question. The right question. But it was the wrong question: because that cocksucka was backwards.

“No,” Fred says, a bent smile barely creeping through, “y’aint.”

STRONK frowns. He got it wrong.

Another test failed.

But Fred lifts his chin.

Looks him dead in the eye.

There may have been tears, I dunno, couldn’t tell, angle was all fucked up and the room was dimly lit, too.

“Y’aint... my mama, STRONK...”

“OKAY.”

Fred’s smile fully manifests… and damn it, real tears motherfuckin’ confirmed.

“I’m YOUR Mama, STRONK.”

“OKAY.”

—

SATURDAY

Have you ever woke up early on a Saturday morning, made a nice, tall, ice cold glass of meat juice for your son, and maybe brewed yourself a little coffee, and perhaps created some delicious gummies in your Dr. Dreadful Food Lab, and watched the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower, cranking your mental hog, so to speak, about the glory of God, and how he paints the sky so many pretty colors?

Fred Dick is doing so for the first, and possibly last, time.

“MAMA DICK,” STRONK says, stretching as he climbs out of bed, his muscles rippling like an earthquake in the Atlantic.

“There he issss,” Fred Dick says, revealing the tall glass of meat juice on the rocks.

“Drink up neow, you a growin’ boy aintchu?”

STRONK looks at the glass. Drinks it in a single gulp.

“STRONK ENJOYS THE WET MEAT.”

“Praise God,” Fred says. “So look here son.”

Fred has a seat on the bed beside STRONK.

"So I'm thinkin' right,” Fred says. “Paxton Ray, Sage PonSPLIFF, they wanna suck on grass—but I say it's high time we make 'em suck on ass."

"YES."

"I'm talking big ol septic truck. I'm talking driving that bad boy to the ring. And I'm talking spraying those bastards point blank with doo doo water from a high pressure hose.”

“STRONK WANTS TO DRIVE THE POOP WATER TRUCK.”

“I'll bet you do.”

“BUT STRONK CANNOT DRIVE.”

“You can't drive?” Fred raises his brow. “What did yo pappy teach you anyway, huh?”

“POOP GOES IN THE TOILET,” STRONK says confidently.

“But he didn't teach you how to swerve out of the way of poop in the road? Fuggin deadbeat. Well you're in luck, sweetheart. Because Mama Dick is from the South. That means Mama Dick can drive anything.”

This is a bold faced lie from Fred, of course.

“I want you to go outside and pick a car. Any car you want. Only the best for my boy after all.”

STRONK smiles, and WALKS out of the room and STOMPS through the hotel lobby. Then, he leaves the hotel, and looks out at the street.

Immediately, he sees it. A truck, hauling chickens to or from a farm.

“STRONK WANTS TO DRIVE THE BREAST AND WING AND THIGH AND LEG TRUCK.”

Fred opens the window. Looks down at STRONK. Smiles.

Big thumbs up from Fred.

BIG THUMBS UP FROM STRONK!

—

THE HEIST

“GIVE STRONK THE KEYS TO THE BREAST AND WING AND THIGH AND LEG TRUCK. STRONK WANTS TO DRIVE THE BREAST AND WING AND THIGH AND LEG TRUCK.”

It was, quite literally, that easy.

Sure, they had to do some, as Fred would say, “REAL TRAP SHID.” Did they steal a Sedan to catch up to the chicken truck?

Regardless of what they say, I assure you, they did.

Did STRONK utter the above demand to the driver of said chicken truck while performing one of the top 100 most devastating torture racks in history?

They may deny it. I'm here to tell you, that's what they did.

And so…

Here we are.

STRONK, pedal to the metal in the driver's seat of a chicken truck.

A veritable shitload of chickens in the back.

Fred Dick smoking a fine cigar in the passenger’s seat, the window open, his face in the breeze.

Embers from the cigar fly into the cab.

They burn STRONK to the touch.

He does not notice. And if he did, he would not care.

“STRONK, baby doll,” Fred says. “I think you need to slow this sumbitch down.”

STRONK, barely listening, utters the excitement his face is simply incapable of conveying.

“WOO HOO MAMA DICK. WOO HOO. WOO HOO.”

“Slow it down sweet baby.”

“WOO HOO. WOO HOO. WOO HOO MAMA DICK.”

“LOOK OUT BOYYYYY!”

“WOO H–”

CRASH!

WHOOSH!

Now, that is two, very specific onomatopoeias. The first, obviously, indicates a collision. The second, however, refers to how the chicken truck drove flat over the hood of the car it collided into, ripped from the hitch, and flew into the air.

BANG!

That's when it fell to the ground on its side.

BACAWK!

That's all the chickens that somehow failed to die upon impact, raising hell in the middle of the highway.

BOOM.

That's the sound of the car they ran over exploding.

SUGONDESE.

Ever heard of it?

Sorry… I do apologize. I'm just a little salty.

Because Fred Dick…

“Hey STRONK… You hurt baby boy?”

And STRONK! Godson…

“NO.”

Are going to somehow manage to avoid any consequences whatsoever for what they just did.

“Oh thank you Jesus… Okay boy, put that mask back on. We gotta climb out of this here car, carjack some punk ass Parisian, and get as far the fuck away from this as we can.”

“YES. THAT IS A GOOD PLAN MAMA DICK.”

“Then, we'll have bath time. LAWD KNOWS YO MAMA NEED A BATH!”

—

INTERLUDE II - REALITY CHECK (BOUNCE)

I am… Beginning to suspect that I have lost my grip on things.

For greater than ninety nine percent of the world, one does not simply steal a truck full of live animals, crash it, and walk away clean, without punishment.

Nor do they walk across the bottom of the ocean without dying.

Nor do they force themselves into situations that challenge their insane delusions without getting humbled.

This is not a mere slap in the face of my authority.

No, no. This…

This is a damned insurgency.

This is an uprising.

And I, Reality, am putting my foot down upon it.

The next time these men, EITHER, of these men, challenge my authority?

They will pay.

“Sic semper tyrannis.”

“Down with the tyrant.”

No. Down with those who challenge me.

Down with those who ignore my decree.

You want to see real tyranny?

Well, by the time I am finished with these two…

The word “tyrant” will never have been more Real.

—

BATH TIME

STRONK had never taken care of anyone before.

He barely knows how to take care of himself.

Such is why, since the time the wrestling world first became acquainted with him in February 2022, he’s always had a manager, a handler, someone to look after his day-to-day. Whether it be Shelley Greene / Abdullah Choi, or the brother of Lee Best, or now Lowell Dot Com, he’s always had someone to set a schedule and make sure he adhered to it; to check that he’d consumed enough dairy to ensure his bones stay big and STRONK; to administer his experimental growth serum in the morning and in the evening; to bathe him semi-regularly.

Now, bathing usually consisted of getting hosed down in an arena parking lot post-show with an industrial pressure washer—and STRONK Daddy liked it that way. Quick. Efficient. Slightly painful. Within a few short minutes, all the sweat and grime and blood and mashed-up opponent ooze was cleaned from your meat vehicle, readying it to be dirtied up once again with typical STRONK Life livin’.

Until today, he’s never bathed anyone, himself included. 

But today, he bathed.

He bathed a brother.

He bathed a bestfriend.

He bathed his Mama.

Because bathing is said to be soothing to humans; it’s what humans do (apparently) when they have a bad day.

They have a soak.

And Mama Dick had a bad day.

STRONK didn’t like being in water himself because water gives you fake strength: heavy things are lighter in the water. He’d learned that over the course of his six months walking along the bottom of the ocean. The wet is a damn liar.

It’s also the only truth he’s ever known… but the motherfucker does lie an awful lot!

Hard to get a good pump going in the wet.

But it’s what Mama needed right now… It wasn’t about STRONK.

“Fur coat, no knickers, that’s what your grandmama used’ta say,” Fred says, a damp face cloth draped over his face, as he lounges in a tub of water that was, maybe at one point long ago, a bubble bath. He pulls it off and tosses it aside so he can take a swig from a lukewarm Bud Light. “That, and ‘somebody sluttin’ in the neighbourhood!’, her catchphrase. She was a wild one. Oh, if she could only see me now, she’d choke on her vodka-soaked digestive biscuit, the state I’m in…”

STRONK nods, sitting on the toilet next to the tub, expressionless.

“Fact is, I caught a beatdown in the poop shed, and that’s pretty traumatic—that’s where I do my paperwork, my shiddin’, after all. ‘Spose’ta be a safe space. ‘Spose’ta be sacred.”

STRONK slowly, sensually? fills a turkey baster with tepid, cloudy bath water and squirts it over Fred’s head.

“Now, I ain’t sad ‘bout it none. Sucks it happened, nobody wants t’get bullied along the boards in the crapper. But that’s life, son—that’s karma—that’s the kinda shid the Denisovians talgged ‘bout. We found their cave paintings sayin’ that shid.”

The King Stallion fills the turkey baster once more and drizzles it over his best friend’s / “mama’s” head. Fred closes his eyes, feeling the water cascade down over his face. It’s therapeutic.

“Life wasn’t easy in the 60s, me and yer pa,” Fred says, “we did 8MM pornos to make rent, sold ‘em for a dime ‘er two over cost, not tryna get rich ‘er nothin’ … and it was spicy, and everyone said so, whole neighborhood buyin’ our skin flicks, certified in the streets, makin’ people smile, makin’ people happy, silky loads runnin’ rampant in the gutters, … but then the hippy movement came and ruined all that and so I had to do UFC to yer pa when he got lippy, ya understand me right, son?”

“YES. MAMA DICK MADE SEXUAL MOVING PICTURES. YES. IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME.”

“Dang right it was… it was a better time. Back then, we could afford a two car garage, a frontyard, a backyard, you’d have yer cigarette for breakfast in the morning, couple dranks in the evening… then yer slappin’ someone else’s kid for back talk ‘cuz you’re crossfaded and it’s hotter than the hinges of hell out chyair in the idyllic cul-de-sac. And yer piss mad ‘cuz the kid’s father made you do his job for him, so you take him aside and call him pussy to his face and he ain’t got shid to say, so he goes home from the BBQ right after even though he just got there. Whole thing got yer blood up and the ticker meds ain’t workin’ like they use’ta, but yer alright. It was a better, simpler time.”

STRONK grabs a bottle of bubble bath and squirts an obscene amount into the water, before stirring it with a ladle to activate it.

“STRONK, you’re the sugar sweats on my lemon meringue pie,” Fred says, sinking deeper into the hotel tub, allowing the water to rise to his neckline, taking a deep breath.

“YES.”

Fred sighs and dunks his head under the water. Then he rises back up, squirts bath water out of his mouth, and sighs again.

“One of the darker times in your mama’s life? Well, that was when your grandmama, who is dead and also a mean old BENCH, she made me eat cauliflower.”

Fred's eyes tear up as STRONK’s kind eyes meet them.

“Your mama hates cauliflower. Thinks it smells like dooky, THINK IT TASTES LIKE DOOKY TOO. Well, your dead-ass grandmama made me sit at that dinner table until I ate it all. Worst night of my life.”

STRONK’s brain sputters and grinds, trying to parse through his limited vocabulary. For some reason, he recognizes the word “cauliflower,” and then somehow correctly pairs it with a mental image of the vegetable.

“THE VAGINAL EXPELLER OF STRONK ALSO MADE STRONK CONSUME THE WHITE NON-MEAT. IT WAS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO A HUMAN EVER. AND ALSO THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO STRONK.”

This marks the first time in the King Stallion’s life that he’s had to confront any childhood trauma (giving baths and processing trauma, what a day of firsts); most he just involuntarily forgot long ago. A violent, alcoholic father? Didn’t faze him. A mother that became catatonic and fused to a chair before his tenth birthday? Not a happy memory, not a sad memory, just… a memory. A faded, fragmented one at that.

But being forced to eat a vegetable?

STRONK squeezes the turkey baster, filling it with water. This time, however, he squirts it over his own head, baptizing himself with the purifying water that the King of Wrong Style’s dick, balls, and assho’ has been soaking in like a tangy teabag for THREE STRAIGHT HOURS.

Fred looks at STRONK, cradling his cheek in his hand in a motherly fashion. “But you know what vegetable’s pretty good?”

“WHAT MAMA DICK?”

Fred’s brow scrunches _ever so slightly_.

BluBluBLuppFfRRbBBBBbbbbBBllleee~!

“Beans.”

—

NIGHT NIGHT TIME

Just the sound of the hotel room a/c unit running, and the muffled city streets. To Fred, Paris sounds like a bunch of stupid fucks stuck in traffic, pounding their puds together. He simply doesn't see the charm. The traffic sounds angry, and he has no earthly idea why.

STRONK lies on the hotel bed, somehow shaping his body like a perfect, bone-in ribeye. Fred pulls the blanket over STRONK and tucks him in tightly.

“Would you like a night night song?”

“WHAT IS A NIGHT NIGHT SONG?”

“It's a tune that mamas sing to their baby boys to help them fall asleep real nice and have good dreams.”

“YES. STRONK WOULD LIKE A NIGHT NIGHT SONG FROM MAMA DICK.”

Fred clears his throat, and with a warbly, country mama voice, he sings:

              “You are my STRONK shine,                 my only STRONK shine.                   You lift my heavy                     shid I can't raise.                       You've got big muscles,                          and you are massive.                           Please don't take                            my STRONK shine away.”

STRONK is already asleep by the time Fred finishes, the sweet hint of a grin on his bearded, gnarly face.

Fred quietly shifts himself off the bed and moves to a nearby chair. He places his feet on the ottoman, picks up some yarn and some utensils from the floor, and begins to knit a pair of truck nuts.

                               

               fin.