Fuck Boi Texts

  (12:36 am) Baby. Baby you up? 😘 😘 💋 Babyyyyyyyyy Baby Bay Randi Randi Randi Randi …RANDIIIIIII!!!! Bae, guess what Bae guezzwha Bae Baeeeee HEY ANSWER ME lol just kiddin 🤑 🤑 🤑 R u ok R u even alive lol Bae guess what

(12:36 am)

Stop texting me

that many times

in a row bitch.

What u want

Lowell?

(12:37 am) Netflix and fuck? 😍😍😍😍 🍆💦😽😽   (12:44 am) 😢 😢 😋 😺 (12:45 am)

That depends

Did you get

stronks jizz

(1:05 am) not yet

(1:07 am)

Then u aint got

no binness textin

me.

(1:35 am) 10-4. I love u. more than that? I got ya back. Ya 12 and ya 6. U the only reason I'm aliiiiiive gurrrrl 💓✨👾🎉

(1:36 am)

fuck off.

Hands Free Bust

After STRONK rescued Fred Dick from being trapped in the Port-o-Dick, the two walked back to the dilapidated soup kitchen which they had re-branded as the BDS Dojo. Fred had spray painted the words, “BDS DOJO” in gold outside the building, which was actively falling apart beneath the California sun.

Now, arriving at the Dojo, they find Lowell. He is shaky, crying, nervous, and on the verge of vomiting.

“I need a favor,” he says to STRONK. He looks at Fred, “And please, just don't ask any questions.”

“I don't give a shid,” Fred says.

“Good,” Lowell says. “STRONK, I need to… Well, there's no non-awkward way to say this. I need a sample.”

“OKAY.”

“Of your jizz.”

“WHAT IS JIZZ?”

“Baby batter.”

STRONK shrugs.

“Cum.”

STRONK shrugs

“Splooge.”

STRONK shrugs.

“...Ejaculate.”

“OKAY.”

Instantly, STRONK busts a nut in his pants. To be clear, he does not touch himself. Hands free. Upon completion, STRONK simply unbuttons his trousers and steps out of them.

“Thanks buddy,” Lowell says. “I want you to know, I appreciate this. You're a true steward of Love, my Bog King.”

“OKAY.”

Fred, with wide-eyed amazement, watches as Lowell takes the pants and runs away. He places a hand on STRONK’s shoulder.

“Did you just… hands free bust right into your pants, STRONKY TONK?”

“YES.”

“Could you… could you maybe teach ol’ Fred yer technique? I… I must know.”

STRONK looks at Fred. His eyes suggest an emptiness, but his tone is foreboding.

“THE ABILITY TO EJACULATE HANDS FREE HAS ALWAYS BEEN IN STRONK’S ARSENAL. STRONK’S INTUITION AND 16% NEANDERTHAL DNA TOLD STRONK HOW TO DO THIS. MAMA DICK DOES NOT HAVE STRONK’S INTUITION AND MAMA DICK DOES NOT HAVE STRONK’S DNA. MAMA DICK WILL HAVE TO TRAIN IN THE ANCIENT, NEOLITHIC ART. DOES MAMA DICK HAVE THE COMMITMENT? DOES MAMA DICK HAVE THE WILLPOWER TO LEARN?”

Mama Dick daps up STRONK.

“Hell fuggin’ yeah.”

“THEN LET MAMA DICK AND STRONK BEGIN.”

💔

(10:44 am) Left the sample @ rendezvous point.

(10:50 am)

Got it. Tyyyy

(10:50 am) Wanna fuck? 🍆 💦 🍆 💦 🌊 🌊 🌊😺

(11:00 am)

Nah.

(11:00 am) Ok when can we get up   (11:30) hello? Baby? Babygirl? … …….. BAYBAYYYYYYY

(11:31 am)

We aint getting up

no more Lowell.

We done.

(11:32 am) LMAO!!! Ur hilarious baby. So funny. 🤑🤑

(11:32 am)

nothin funny babe

(11:33 am) R u being fuckin serious right now (11:37 am) ANSWER ME BITCH just kiddin u aint a bitch Please don't do this

(11:38 am)

Yes Im srs

I used u Lowell

U think I luv u

lol bitch! I dont

Know u.

(11:38 am) U just like everyone else

(11:40 am)

Yup. Used ya.

Just like ur mama

Just like ur spiders.

(12:15 pm) I hate u. U fkn bitch U cant tell me what we had aint real. BABY PLEASE (12:29 pm) So u just gon ghost me now? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU F BITCH (3:30 pm) Was just listening to this song. Made me think about u 💔 youtu.be/CkfOJy3TJdw?si=Runl_bjUplGoacUC

(7:25 pm)

pussy boy music lol

Boner Enlightenment

For two days, STRONK taught Fred how to do cock pushups, dick curls, and nutcrackers. They did Trouser-snake Burpees and ran cock relay races.

They meditated for hours at a time. They trained relentlessly in between sessions.

During this time, STRONK knew that Fred had forgotten about their tag match, his Warchamber match, and focused solely on ejaculating.

But STRONK had not forgotten. And during the training he focused all his mental energy on winning the tag belts, believing in his heart that for every cock pushup and trouser-snake burpee, Fred was becoming a stronger tag team partner.

Then, in the forty-eighth hour...

It happened.

Fred, deep in meditation, thought of Randi.

He thought of the side of her boob.

So soft and nice.

And then, Fred felt it. The incoming expulsion of love-goo.

He shouted what he'd shouted every time he’d busted a nut in his entire life.

“HEEEEY LUK AT ME ERRBODY I'M BOUT TA KOOOOOOM OUTTA MY CUUUUUNNNKK!!!”

…

It was finished.

Fred had reached Boner Enlightenment.

GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD

Clanging, banging, crashing, smashing—the kind of chaotic symphony only a drunk could conduct in total darkness. The final note, a sharp crescendo: toe meets immovable object.

“FUCKING MOTHERFUCKOWWWWW!”

A match strikes, casting shadows across the dingy motel room—just off the highway, not far from Fred Dick’s ex’s latest hovel. The bedside table is overturned, a busted toaster imprints the cheap carpet, shards of glass glint like jagged little threats embedded in the fibers.

The whole scene looks like a crime doc awaiting narration.

Standing in the wreckage is Lowell Dot Com—gaunt, barefoot, grossly sweaty, yellow-white undies sagging. His bloody, busted-to-bits toe hovers off the floor, chest heaving, eyes wild and darting around the chaos.

The match dies. Darkness swallows him again.

“Fuck!”

He fumbles for another match, fingers shaky.

A spark, then another brief flare of light illuminates the small room.

Stepping up onto a chair, he slides his head through a noose tied to the ceiling fan. He wonders briefly if the fan will hold, but remembers: he’s a skeleton. Ain’t no meat on these bones. Real heroin chic. Ninety-nine pounds soaking wet, holding a five-pound dumbbell.

It’ll hold.

His eyes trace a crude, slapdash Rube Goldberg machine constructed in a frantic, careless hour. Every connecting piece defies all logic.

Mismatched objects form a chain reaction: a flicked switch tips a crooked lamp, sending a half-empty whiskey bottle rolling into a soap bar balanced on the edge of the TV remote. The remote drops, triggering a fan, its belt brushing the mini-fridge door. The fridge slams shut, jolting a coffee mug, which tips, spilling cold piss onto a stack of crumpled magazines. The wet pages crinkle, somehow shifting a wire coat hanger. The hanger falls, pulling a string tied to an hairdryer. The hairdryer teeters, clunks against a pair of scissor, which snap shut, slicing the frayed noose wrapped around his neck, freeing him after enough time has passed to make everything look like a shoot.

The match burns down to his fingers; he winces as darkness returns.

Maybe using all the lightbulbs to build this ridiculous contraption wasn’t the brightest idea…

Anyway, in a perfect world, it works. Just does. It works exactly as intended. Now, normally you’d test it. Make absolutely sure. Leave no margin of error. You know, given the heightened stakes.

But when you’re a quart of tequila deep, brain rotted by opiates, in a constant state of rabbit starvation, there’s no slowing down.

No brakes.

What the hell are brakes?

You don’t think—you just go.

You don’t worry about “oh, will the scissors even have the jaw strength to sever a rope intended to hold a human body, however malnourished?”

Nope.

Not when you’ve got something to prove. Not when you need them to feel it, deep in their bones. To regret every moment they played you for a fool. Not when you’re standing at the edge.

“Oh, silly me—y’know, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on and filled with spiders—of course I forgot to—”

Stepping off the chair, he nearly hangs himself but catches it just in time, pulling the noose off and walking to the phone perched on a tripod. Hits record. Then returns to his mark, standing on the chair, like a prisoner awaiting execution.

Back into the noose goes his head.

He looks into the camera. He doesn’t need to force himself to cry; the tears are already streaming down his bony cheeks.

“Randi, I want you to know… I loved you. My lil’ creepy crawlies, they loved you. They loved when I’d be on top of you, thrusting away, powerful thrusts, and they’d get to take a daytrip to the coastal town of your sweaty hitters. We were going to start a family, you and I, and my blood was going to finally live on outside the national criminal database.” He shakes his head, wipes his tears. He looks angry now. “But you ruined all that. You made me want to deprive this world of me. Of me! …And that’s a terrible, unforgivable sin.”

He lights another match to ensure she (and everyone else to whom he intends to send the video) can see his face.

“Goodbye, cruel world!”

He steps off the chair, toppling it over behind him.

The noose cinches tightly around his neck. His eyes bug out, face turning first a deep shade of red, then blue. His feet kick furiously beneath him, just above the floor, so close but yet so far.

He reaches out and somehow manages to connect with the switch, setting off his Rube Goldberg machine:

The flicked switch tips the crooked lamp, sending the half-empty whiskey bottle rolling into…

Nope. Missed the soap bar entirely.

Lowell sees this and begins to panic even more than before. His feet kick harder as he tries hitting the switch again, a thoughtless move by a desperate man because the contraption can only be triggered once and it didn’t work the first damn time. He tries relieving some pressure on his neck by hooking his fingers in the rope and attempting a quasi-pull-up, but his track-marked noodle arms prove much too weak.

It doesn’t take long before he goes limp.

The ceiling fan is somehow visibly undamaged.

The phone continues to record. The motel room is silent.

The door abruptly opens and a middle-aged woman smoking a cigarette pushes a cart inside, announcing, “Housekeeping!”

She flicks on the ceiling fan but doesn’t notice the thing dangling from the ceiling fan, not even when said thing begins comically swinging around, and instead moves quickly, as if on auto-pilot, something she’s done thousands of times before, to the blackout shades, drawing them wide open.

She turns, notices Lowell, and takes another drag off her cigarette.

She sighs and nonchalantly gets on her phone, dialing a contact. “Barbara? Yeah… We got another’n.”

Nodding, she responds after a short pause, “Got it. Clean around him for now. Thanks.” And hangs up.

A tiny spider crawls up over the camera lens of the phone.

It winks at us.

Okay, it doesn’t, but imagine if it did, right?

That’d be cool.

“Bill gon’ have to fumigate again.”

Boner Promo

Through holes in the dilapidated soup kitchen’s ceiling, a powerful sun ray, divine in appearance, shines itself down upon Ol’ Fred and STRONK! Godson.

They are naked, save for spoiled and stinky bed sheets that they wear as togas, in order to more freely focus on the wiener itself.

It seems they almost levitate off the ground as they sit criss-cross applesauce, arms on their hips like they're very mad at you.

"Fur a long time neow... I been studyin', longer than I'da ever studied any'tang in my whole life... For forty-eight hours, I studied the ancient, neolithical martial art of no hands bustin', which STRONK doth possess via his DNA. And now, ol' Fred done achieved boner enlightenment. I understand hard rods same way the Lord understoodeth and doth still understandith the universe. So believe ol Fred when he tells ya...

"The four of yew. Have gots to be. The four. Biggest. BONERS. THAT FRED EVER LAID HIS EYES ON!!!”

Fred's eyes roll into the back of his head as he tilts it back and up towards the dilapidated ceiling.

“ANNA DANIELS!!! ROBBY (gasp) WILL-YUMMM!!” Fred gasps again. “Fug MY MOTHAFUGGIN tag team??? Hell naw! Fug. YO MOTHAFUGGIN tag team. Anna, you little smart ace fuggin time martian. ‘Euuuugh, we've seen too much SHID to care about all this SHID because we can travel interdimenshin’ly and quantum physic’ly!’ Kiss my ace ya fuggin nerd. And bee-tee-dub? NEWFLAAAASH, Willllll-yums. They have medicines to keep you alives now. It's called: Gace. Station. Boner. Peeyils.”

Fred smiles, his eyes finally return to normal.

“FYTT, bottom line's dis… YO ACE, IS GRACE, AND I'M GONNA POLLERNATE IT WIT’ MUH HANDS FREE BUSTS!!!”

Fred moves on. Makes a fart noise.

"Twins. We get it, mang. It's funny. Funny how? Funny how you two been hangin’ with a goat named after a traitor against the USA in Max Kael, meanwhile, you got TWO GOATS in the ring wijja come Ultra Violence, TWO GOATS WHAT DONE BECOME ONE, the eventual GREATEST TAG TEAM OF ALL TIME -- but you can't leash us, ya mama’s boys. Nawwwww we ain't no rally pets! We dem Big. Dick. Stallions. And now we Bust. Hands. Free. And all yew two is, is a couple goat fuggers wearin' masks to hide yo’ shamed faces. But these GOATS right here? You can't afford a piece of this ace. NO SUHHH!! Not even in your dreams. And we yo worst MOTHAFUGGIN nightmares, pussy-ahh boys... Fug-ahh boys. Bench-ahh boys. Tell ‘em STRONK!”

STRONK looks at his fist, big and calloused. He’s a motherfucker that’s all about the ill-advised clean-and-jerk. Indestructible. Back muscles uncrunchable. The Bog King feels no pain.

“WHY?”

Godson stares forward, nothing behind his eyes.

“WHY DO STRONK AND MAMA DICK HAVE TO DESTROY MORE FRAIL HUMANS? STRONK AND MAMA DICK HAVE DESTROYED MANY HUMANS, FRAIL AND NORMAL-SIZED AND SOME BIG. THE PRIME WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP TOURNAMENT OF SUMMER 2024–WHICH IS A YEAR—IS A GRAVEYARD THAT SMELLS LIKE MID-TIER ATHLETICISM. SMALL BODIES TRYING TO DO BIG BODY THINGS.”

Godson dips his head. He shakes his index finger, addresses his opponents.

“ROB WILLIAMS IS A SOFT BODY WITH A LOT OF PROBLEMS. THERE IS NOTHING INTERESTING ABOUT ROB WILLIAMS BUT ROB WILLIAMS’ PROBLEMS. WHICH ARE MANY AND NOT FIXABLE. ROB WILLIAMS IS TERRIBLE. YES.

“ANNA DANIELS—STRONK WILL CHOKE ANNA DANIELS AND EAT A TURKEY LEG AND TAKE A NAP WHILE CHOKING ANNA DANIELS.

“THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS ARE WORSE THAN ROB WILLIAMS. STRONK DOES NOT TRUST ANY HUMAN THAT HIDES THEIR FACE. STRONK WILL CRUSH THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS AND… THERE IS NOTHING ELSE THAT STRONK CAN THINK TO SAY ABOUT THAT. YES.”

Suddenly, a drone flies into the BDS Dojo from a hole in the ceiling

Its side decal reads: THE ELMER GROUP

It delivers a letter to the floor in front of STRONK and flies back out from whence it came.

STRONK hands the letter to Fred, having always found words to be unimpressive and small.

Fred opens the envelope and reads the document inside, its notary stamp protruding through the paper.

“STRONK… This is bad, bud.”

“WHAT?”

“You owe a lotta money to some guy named Elmer.”

“MAKE THE DYING SKINNY BOY PAY.”

“...Th-…This…” Fred stammers. “A-a-ain't nobody got that kinda money, son.”

STRONK looks at Fred, his eyes empty, yet questioning.

Fred answers them. “We gotta fly out and meet these sumbenches.”

CHANGE OF MANAGEMENT

STRONK and Fred Dick sit side by side at a long boardroom table, Fred in his worn-out Bulls jersey that smells like an outhouse, and STRONK clad in nothing but a tight pair of black shorts and the Bog King crown.

Five suited men sit across from them. The man in the middle—mid-fifties, white hair neatly combed back, AP Offshore on his wrist—smiles, revealing teeth so perfect and white you question how they can possibly be real.

He seems to stare through the Big Dick Stallions while beaming and gesturing to the various energy drinks on the table.

Fred notices how the four other men seem to have a permanent smile etched onto their face. He tries to catch one of them blinking, but quickly loses interest.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man says. “My name is Grayson Blackwell. We here at the Elmer Group, a wholly owned subsidiary of JLG Holdings, have been following you for some time now. We’re very impressed. You’re incredibly popular on the Internet.”

“OKAY.”

“Yeah,” Fred says, “Me and STRONKY Baby here are pop’lar as shid. Talmbout… chiggs dig us, dawgs wanna be us.”

Mr. Black, ignoring Fred, continues: “We feel the limiting factor for you has been inadequate management. There are Fortune 500 brands out there that would love to partner with you. You should have a significant social media presence. You are on the cusp of winning you first championship. How you manage your career moving forward is vitally important. We can help you seize every opportunity and turn yourself into a powerhouse brand.”

“Lookit, only thangs Fred Dick wanna endorse are: pussy crystals… and gum.” Fred cracks open one of the many energy drinks and takes a sip.

“Now, given the circumstances with your manager—former manager—Mr. Dustin Graham, we’ve acquired all of your debt. Three million dollars.” Mr. Blackwell listens as a man beside him leans in, whispering something in his ear. “Three point two million dollars, to be precise. No collateral.”

“WHO IS DUSTIN GRAHAM?”

“Right. You probably know him as Lowell. Lowell Dot Com.”

“WHO?”

“The skinny boy that stank, got spiders crawlin’ out his ears and other such nooks ‘n crannies—lil’ fuggin’ bitch boy loser,” Fred clarifies. “What happened to him? Where he at?”

“He’s deceased,” Mr. Blackwell answers. “I’m sorry to be the one to deliver this news.”

Fred throws his head back and laughs. “Doubt it.”

“I have a copy of the death certificate.”

“Naw.”

“Mr. Thompson viewed the body.”

Mr. Thompson, the nearly identical suited man on the far left of Mr. Blackwell, affirms with a robotic nod.

“I don’t see it,” Fred says. He begins looking all around the room. “Where ya at, piss boy!? Come on out! Jig is up!”

Fred tosses a condescending eye at Mr. Blackwell. “I betcha he’s got us on some kinda fugged up MTV prank show right neow.”

Fred pulls a switchblade from his pocket, points it at Mr. Blackwell. “You tryna embarrass us, Mr. Blackwell? You in cahoots with Dot Com to make us look like FOOS on the teen music channel? Don’t lie to me neow. If I even think yer lyin’ to my ace?” Fred mocks cutting his own throat. He gargles his spit, uses his hand to mime blood spurting from his jugular. Then from his butt. Jugular. Butt. Jugular. Butt. All the while, gurgling spit.

Mr. Blackwell tents his fingers. “I assure you, we have no affiliation with Mr. Graham whatsoever. We’re here simply to offer you a business proposal.”

“Well, out widdit neow, boy!” Fred shouts, becoming impatient. “We ain’t got all day!”

The businessmen confer with a single look amongst each other, nothing spoken.

“Mr… Dick, is it?” Mr. Blackwell says, for the first time addressing Fred directly. “Would you mind waiting in the lobby so that my associates and I can speak privately with Mr. Godson?”

“I see what this is! This is a DAGGUM corporate prick job. You tryna divorce my derriere from my boy. Well guess whut, it ain’t gonna happen.”

Mr. Blackwell reaches under the table. Presses a button.

“Mr. Dick, I understand your... hesitance to accept our presence in $TRONK’s life. Normally, we'd be willing to discuss a buyout.”

Four armed security guards walk in.

“But you’re white trash, Mr. Dick.”

The officers seize Fred by his arms, carry him towards the door.

“STRONK,” Fred pleads. “WHATEVUH THEY SAY... DO THE OPPOSITE!!!”

With Fred gone, Mr. Blackwell produces a stack of legal documents, pushing them across the table to STRONK. “It’s boilerplate. Standard agreement. You sign with us, we clear all monies owed off the books, and we take ownership of the $TRONK trademark and brand. Along with your entire existence.”

“BUT STRONK IS STRONK’S NAME,” Godson says, visibly confused.

Mr. Blackwell smiles. “Well, Mr. Godson…” he says, “it could be our name.”

STRONK looks at the agreement, which must be… at least three hundred pages of dense legalese. Then at Mr. Blackwell and his associates. He’s more in over his head than when he walked across the Atlantic Ocean.

“OKAY.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Blackwell hands STRONK an expensive fountain pen and carefully removes the Bog King crown from STRONK’s head. “Now, about the quality of people you surround yourself with…”

fin.