STRONK GODSON
· Character Development Promo
· Dec 11, 2024
STRONK MUST GO (PART 2)
STRONKY TALK
STRONK had no idea what the two small boxes were—each with something sticking out at one end and one big, clicky button in its centre. He had demanded a way to communicate with his beloved Mama Dick anytime, anywhere—a lifeline of sorts—and the intern tasked with fulfilling his request thus delivered: two small boxes packaged in a larger box with a see-through lid.“HOW?”
“You give one of the walkies to your friend—uh, Mama Dick, right?—and keep the other for yourself. Then you press this button, talk into it, and Mama Dick will hear you.”
The intern watches as STRONK nearly breaks one of the walkies, jamming his thumb violently into the “talk” button, leaving a hairline crack in the plastic.
“HELLO. MAMA DICK. COME IN, MAMA DICK. STRONK DOES NOT LIKE THE FANCY WORK. COME AND GET STRONK NOW AND STRONK AND MAMA DICK WILL CRUSH FRAIL HUMANS AGAIN BUT BETTER THIS TIME. GOOD BYE.”
STRONK sits there, satisfied, waiting for Mama Dick to answer… from the walkie lying on the ground beside him.
“Like I said, you’ve gotta—”
“NO. QUIET. MAMA DICK MIGHT START TALKING. AND MAMA DICK DOES NOT LIKE TO BE INTERRUPTED.”
No, he absolutely does not. STRONK once witnessed Fred snatch the wig off a blind cancer patient who had the audacity to “shoosh” him while he was talking during a movie. What the hapless woman didn’t realize was that Fred was narrating the film for STRONK, whose brain struggles to process moving pictures. Her actions were rooted in ableism, and she deserved to be called out. And Fred did just that—brutally and without remorse and with a fistful of fried red hair. Plus, the damn girl was blind; she could’ve benefited from Fred’s narration.
The intern folds his hands and waits patiently, watching as STRONK stares intently at the walkie, hope flickering in his eyes as he grips it tightly in his massive hand.
—
SMOL BOI
The first of STRONK’s requests was for walkie-talkies. He didn’t know exactly what to ask for, but that’s what they delivered. His second request:A scale.
Not a digital one—the glowing numbers made no sense to the STRONKEST Man Alive. He needed an old-fashioned analog scale, the kind where you slide the counterweight until it balances.
The Elmer Group begrudgingly complied again.
“Mr. Godson,” says an intern—different from the one who had explained the walkie-talkies—wheeling the scale into the boardroom. “Your scale. Let’s be quick about this; we have copy to produce.”
STRONK grunts, stepping onto the scale. He adjusts the weight until it balances, his brow furrowing as though he can’t believe what he sees. But deep down, he already knows. He feels it in his musculature and even in his bones.
He feels depleted.
Small.
Like he’s wasting away.
He’s been here before. Conor Fuse had nearly killed him with a blunt object swung repeatedly into his head. That hospital stay—comatose, away from his beloved weights and “supplements”—had dropped his weight from over 300 pounds to a frail 220. It had taken months (and a Super Secret Growth Serum administered without his consent by his now-deceased manager, Abdullah Choi) to claw his way back to his peak: 307.1 pounds.
He couldn’t go through that again.
But the scale doesn’t lie. He’s practically skin and bones.
“WHAT DOES IT SAY?”
The intern leans in, adjusting his glasses. “305.8 pounds, Mr. Godson.”
“IS THAT MORE OR LESS THAN 307.1 POUNDS?”
“Less. Insignificantly less.”
Not knowing what “insignificantly” means, STRONK assumes the worst. He steps off the scale, turns, and in a fit of rage tries to flip the boardroom table. What he doesn’t know is that it’s bolted to the concrete floor.
Realizing he can’t lift even a table, he falls to his knees, chest heaving, staring down at his arms. In his warped, body-dysmorphic mind, they look like Coral Avalon’s.
And all seems lost.
“Now, with that out of the way, what kinda STRONK Thoughts spring to mind when you hear the words: Athletic Greens?”
—
11,785 TOMORROWS
“NO. NO MORE TALK UNTIL THE TALKIE TALKS THE TALK OF MAMA DICK.”“We already told you—the walkie-talkie has been shipped to your friend, or mother, or lover, or… whoever Mama Dick is,” says another intern, a new one STRONK hasn’t seen before. His voice wavers between forced patience and barely concealed exasperation. “It should’ve already been delivered.”
STRONK glares, his fists clenching at his sides. He brings them up and plants them forcefully on the boardroom table. His breath comes heavy, the weight of uncertainty pressing against him.
Then, from across the room, another voice cuts through.
“Have you ever considered,” an intern asks, tone sharp, almost pitying but not really, “that maybe… Mama Dick doesn’t want to talk to you?”
STRONK’s jaw tightens, his gaze directed toward the table in front of him. He looks to speak but is interrupted by the arrival of the Elmer Group’s President and CEO.
Grayson Blackwell strides into the room with polished confidence, exuding an unmistakable air of superiority. His freshly pressed, immaculate suit hugs his mature yet athletic frame. Taking a seat at the boardroom table across from STRONK, he clasps his fingers into a steeple and peers over the rim of his Oliver Peoples glasses with calculated scrutiny.
“I’ve been told you’ve been a bit… out of sorts… as of late,” Mr. Blackwell says. “Is this true?”
“STRONK DOES NOT WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE.”
“And I do? You think I’d rather be here and not, say, on my yacht off the coast of Greece? This is a job, Mr. Godson. You accumulated debts. Debts you must repay.”
“STRONK WILL GO BACK TO CRUSHING HUMANS. STRONK HAS BEEN TOLD STRONK EARNS MONEY FROM CRUSHING HUMANS. STRONK DOES NOT NEED THE MONEY BECAUSE STRONK HAS NEVER HAD THE MONEY.”
“And risk you getting injured, maimed, or hospitalized for an extended period of time?” Mr. Blackwell scoffs, his laugh dismissive. “The very idea! That kind of risk isn’t worth the reward when we can have you—a veritable cartoon character come to life, a walking, talking meme—providing endorsements to our clients from the safety of the Elmer Group offices. That’s where the real ROI lies, not in you dabbling in… professional wrestling.”
A nameless intern squeaks: “Gross.”
“BUT—”
“But nothing,” Mr. Blackwell snaps. “This isn’t a mutual business relationship. You owe my company millions, and you’re working off that debt one STRONK Thought and paid appearance at a time.”
“WHEN WILL STRONK BE FREE?”
Mr. Blackwell turns to an intern seated further down the boardroom table, typing on a laptop. “Gregory, what does the model say?”
Gregory glances up. “At this rate, Mr. Godson will have fully repaid the Elmer Group by… March 18, 2057.”
STRONK blinks.
“TOMORROW? THE DAY THAT IS NOT TODAY?”
“More like…” Gregory quickly updates an Excel formula. “11,785 tomorrows. With a little bit of hustle, though, you can likely chip that down to under 10K.”
“Do you understand, Mr. Godson? This is your life now. Accept it. Acclimate. Become the best STRONK you can be—right here in this boardroom, promoting our clients’ products and services. You used to crush humans; now you crush quotas. It’s just a shift in mindset.”
STRONK doesn’t know how to “shift his mindset.” He has only one mind, and it’s consumed by the instinct to lift heavy things, eat meat, and protect his stablemates. He says nothing, lowering his head even further, catching another disheartening glimpse of his shrinking biceps. A slow, heavy sigh escapes him.
There’s no going back to the world where he slams people and chokes them unconscious. The path, if it exists, is invisible to him. He feels trapped, utterly lost. He doesn’t even leave the Elmer Group office tower, except when shuttled to media obligations. At night, he sleeps in a cramped, windowless room that once housed the company’s servers. They feed him just enough to keep him functional, but not enough to fuel any rage. He’s kept weak and compliant, like a beaten dog that has given up on freedom and resigned itself to servitude.
He stares out the large, floor-to-ceiling window, some forty stories up from the bustling streets of whatever city he’s in, and a murky, water-logged image enters his subconscious: