Bloodletting

Obsession

The dim glow of a solitary lamp casts elongated shadows across Lowell’s reading nook. His gaunt frame hunches over a cluttered desk, the surface littered with empty whiskey bottles and crumpled papers—credit card past-due notices, mostly.

Oh, he has the money (STRONK’s money) to pay his bills, but when you’ve spent the last twenty years of your life being a delinquent debtor and horrible credit risk, old habits die hard.

With a trembling hand, he pours another glass of the amber liquid. He runs splayed fingers through the fried mop of thinning hair that sits atop his head. The room is silent, save for the scratch of his stupidly expensive quill against stupidly expensive paper and the occasional drawn-out snorrrrrrrrt! acting as interludes or pit stops to his creative process.

Lowell’s handwriting is erratic, the ink smudged in places where tears and sweat jeweled on his brow have fallen. He writes:

“Dear Donny, I hope you get this, man. I hope I can trust the US Postal Service… but I know I can’t. They’ve had it out for ol’ Lowell since… well… I shan’t get into that right now! 

“I hope you’re in good health. You know I think you’re a cool motherfucker with the best head of hair since Uncle Jesse. I mean, have mercy, Donny! But why, oh why, must you stand in the way of my ambitions? STRONK is a beast—a juggernaut—and here I am, torn between loyalty and opportunity. Do you understand the power, the money, the respect, the poontang at stake? Do you even care? I do. I care more than anyone else.”

Lowell’s hand trembles, spilling whiskey on the letter. He doesn’t notice, his mind consumed with visions of what could be. “Don, you have no idea how much I’ve sacrificed. How much I’ve suffered to get to where I’m at. STRONK is a tool, a means to an end, but you… you’re an obstacle. And for what? Some misguided sense of justice? Some petty rivalry? The fact that—as I and everyone else remember it—you and I were neck-and-back back in the day. Two rivals that’d run a friendly fade and then go screw ring rats while robo-tripping. We could be so much more, Donny. Together, we could rule this industry and other industries too, founding billion dollar companies like my super amazing and innovative GRIME Hydration Beverage idea. But you keep… not engaging with me. Why? Why do you force my hand? Why do you make me choose? Why must you make things more difficult than they need to be? You’ve had the Five Star Championship long enough; forfeit the title to STRONK Daddy and let’s go make a TikTok together, okay?”

He pauses, taking a long gulp from his glass. “It’s not fair, Don. None of this is fair. But I suppose life isn’t fair, is it? I just want you to know that no matter what happens, no matter how this ends, it was never personal. It was always about the bigger picture. The future. My future. Our future.”

Lowell spends hours in that nook, obsession having fully taken hold of him, writing and rewriting his letter. Each draft is more intense and delusional than the last, filled with a contradictory mix of passionate declarations, vitriolic accusations, and ego-stroking predictions.

The ink smears as his tears continue to fall, creating a chaotic, almost manic scrawl that mirrors his state of mind. As he drinks more and more, to the point where his vision doubles, the words pour from him like a faucet of bullshit.

With a final flourish, he signs the letter and folds it neatly, tucking it into an envelope.

He takes a deep breath.

He throws the empty whiskey bottle against an adjacent wall… but instead of dramatically and satisfyingly shattering upon impact as one would expect, it plunges into the drywall and sticks halfway out. “Damn you, Donny Wintz,” he mutters, his voice a low growl. “Damn you straight to hell…”

Outside, the city of Miami sleeps, unaware of the turmoil brewing in that tiny nook. Skyscrapers stand tall as the world rests. But not Lowell. He is a man possessed, driven by a need to dominate, to control, to prove himself against the one man who stands in his way…

The Shillin’ Villain reaches into his desk drawer, producing another bottle—this time, oh no, tequila. He unscrews the cap, takes another hearty swig, and… rips the envelope containing the letter he’d just finished writing in half.

He can do better.

Must do better.

Don Winters needs to understand. Don Winters will understand.

There’s still time… —

Bedtime Routine

Lowell stumbles into the bathroom sometime after 4 AM, his movements unsteady from the whiskey, clutching at the walls to keep him vertical. The harsh fluorescent light reveals the shallowness of his cheeks, hollow eyes, sickly pallor. He stares at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, a twisted smile playing on his lips.

With practiced ease, he removes his hair, lifting it off of his head as though it were a Russian hat, revealing a bald, scarred, discolored scalp.

He began wearing a hair system in his early thirties (back then, the creepy dude behind the register just called them toupes), but never properly maintained it and has never purchased a replacement. It is long past the end of its useful life. He sets it down carefully on the counter, then reaches for a small, unmarked jar of viscous red liquid.

He pours a generous amount into his palm and begins to rub it into his face, the smell pungent and metallic. The vision staring back at him in the mirror is that of a child’s worst nightmare come alive.

He grins at his reflection, his teeth yellowed and decaying. One of them wobbles slightly, and he frowns, reaching for his toothbrush. He pours a bit of the red mystery liquid onto the bristles and begins to brush, slowly and gently at first but quickly increasing in aggressiveness, the taste bitter and unpleasant on his tongue. But he doesn’t stop, not until his gums bleed and his smile becomes crimson-smeared and dangerously demented.

Satisfied, he rinses his mouth and spits into the sink, watching as the blood and saliva swirl round and round down the drain.

Lowell looks back at his reflection, his grin even wider now. “Another day, another dolla’,” he says, turning off the light and walking into his bedroom.

He takes off his clothes, revealing a body that is a testament to years of neglect. His skin is ashy white and stretched tight over his bones, his ribs protruding like a cage. He looks like he was locked away in a cramped space like a factory farmed chicken, and fed a minimalistic diet of water and sawdust.

He stands in front of the mirror, staring at himself, seeing not the wreck of a man he has become, but the vision of power and control he so desperately craves.

Lowell’s body dysmorphia is the exact opposite of STRONK’s; whereas STRONK is massive but sees himself as never being big enough, Lowell’s distorted view of himself is a slightly underweight (sure) but extremely attractive alt sex symbol ICON.

He opens a bedside table drawer and pulls out a syringe, filling it with more of that strange red liquid. With practiced precision, he injects it into his arm, feeling the rush of whatever concoction he has created coursing through his veins.

It’s a dangerous game he plays, but it’s the only thing that keeps him going, that fuels his delusions of grandeur, that makes them feel like they can be realized one day.

It’s one thing to have a STRONK…

It’s a whole other matter to be a STRONK.

It’ll take time. How much time, he doesn’t know. Can’t reliably estimate it. This is uncharted territory, after all.

But as impatient as he typically be, he can wait. —

Father’s Day

Standing in POWER-DOWN Mode in his unfurnished bedroom, STRONK’s thoughts flicker like old, faded photographs, lacking clarity and purpose. Faces with no names, places with no meaning. The emptiness of these memories weighs heavily, yet STRONK, devoid of human empathy, cannot grasp the sadness or the loss. The hollowness is simply a state of being, a void that neither troubles nor comforts, existing in a realm where emotions are alien concepts.

Don’t think—JUST DO THE THING.

One memory hits STRONK like a noodle-armed punch to the eight-pack.

Barely felt it, that is, but it did register.

It’s Father’s Day (Lowell had made a fuss earlier about not receiving the Bugatti he wanted or “even so much as a stinking card!”), and he finds himself unintentionally thinking back to his childhood. Doesn’t know why, the memories just crystalize in his head.

He remembers the man who had made his life a living hell.

Gordon Godson was a brute, a man who believed in tough love and pretty much nothing else. Punishment was the only parental technique he understood.

STRONK remembers the day he was forced to put down the family dog. He was six years old, and Gordon had handed him a large rock from the garden, telling him bullets “cost too damn much to waste on a dirty old mutt with busted hips!”

The dog’s eyes had been trusting, innocent, and STRONK had felt something break inside him as he did what his father commanded.

It was also Christmas. Not that Christmas was something they celebrated in any traditional way. A racist Santa Claus statue placed on the family credenza and a higher likelihood that Gordon would drink himself unconscious early and not lay a whooping on him. That is about it.

Another memory surfaces: of a hunting trip. STRONK scared off the deer they’d been tracking for an entire afternoon, and Gordon was furious. That night, when they returned home, Gordon beat STRONK bloody and raw with a coat hanger, and then sat back and watched two straight hours of Wheel Of Fortune.

The lesson was clear: failure was not tolerated. Mistakes weren’t allowed.  —

Legal Letter

The letter arrives in the morning, an ominous harbinger wrapped in a thick envelope.

Lowell, a man whose charm is as oily as his pockmarked face, eagerly tears it open. It was from a law office—maybe his lawsuit money finally came in?

Lawsuit money means quitting this shit YESTERDAY and dying at the end of a week-long bender in Vegas.

His eyes scan the contents, and as he reads, his face twists into a grotesque mask of rage and indignation.

“Restraining order?” he mutters, his voice escalating to a shrill crescendo. “He’s threatening me with a restraining order? I thought that was just silly-billy Jabber bantz—just best boys talkin’ trash!”

He bursts into the living room where STRONK is sitting, the letter clenched in his fist like a weapon. STRONK looks up with an unconcerned, blank expression on his face.

“You see this?” Lowell spits, waving the letter about frantically. “This is what he thinks of us! This is how little respect he has for us! And look, I could maybe see him being a little… um… creeped out by what’s in the half dozen letters I wrote last night, but I haven’t even mailed them yet! All the stuff about his genitals, the 1940s Germany stuff, the things I told him about my time on the streets, my kinks, HE HASN’T EVEN READ THAT! And now, he never will!”

The Shillin’ Villain paces about, crumpling the letter in his hand. “You wanna restraining-order me, just fuckin’ do it! Don’t send a letter saying you will if I don’t quit sending you unsolicited shirtless glamshots!”

“DON WINTERS IS A PRIEST WHICH IS A HUMAN THAT DOES LOWELL DUTIES FOR A NOT-HUMAN THING THAT LIVES IN THE SKY. A PRIEST ALSO HELPS HUMANS AND GIVES HUMANS AND STRONKS SOUP AND THE SOUP WAS CHUNKY AND HOT. PRIESTS ARE GOOD.”

“I don’t know what he is, but I’ll tell you what, I’ve had enough! STRONK, I want you to destroy Don Winters. Annihilate him. I don’t want you to hold back—Don Winters is my friend… no longer!”

Lowell’s eyes glisten with a manic fervor as he thrusts a glass of meat juice into STRONK’s hands. The liquid inside is thick and murky, resembling something that might ooze out of a garbage disposal on a bad day.

“Drink this,” Lowell commands.

You don’t need to tell STRONK twice; he downs it in a single gulp. He knows he has to be strong. He has to be ready. For the Five Star Championship match at Tropical Turmoil. His first title opportunity since debuting in PRIME.

For the future.

Lowell watches him with an unsettling intensity. Deep down, as has been established many times now, he’s a true scumbag manipulator, driven by a toxic mix of insecurity and misplaced vanity. His life is a carefully constructed facade, and when someone threatens to pierce that facade, he reacts with the venomous wrath of a cornered snake on meth.

This restraining order—or rather, the threat of one—from Don Winters is more than just a legal document. It's a personal affront, a challenge to his authority and self-worth, and a kick to the balls of their supposed friendship. His mind races with vengeful schemes, each more elaborate and diabolical than the last. He imagines Winters brought to his knees, begging for mercy that will never come.

Lowell paces back and forth, muttering curses under his breath.

STRONK watches him, understanding… well… none of what he’s talking about. The only thing he hears is: Don Winters is a bad man. Don Winters must be destroyed.

Lowell stops pacing and turns to STRONK, his eyes narrowing. “Do you know why I picked you, STRONK?” he asks, his voice low and conspiratorial. A strangely contradictory statement given that Lowell, by his own words, did not choose STRONG; he was asked to look after him. “Because you’re loyal. Because you’re strong. But most importantly, because you understand what it means to fight for your place in this world. We’re not so different, you and I.”

STRONK nods. He looks his manager up and down; STRONK literally eats more than Lowell weighs on a daily basis. While Lowell struggles to carry grocery bags, STRONK, just last week, deadlifted a Lincoln Continental. STRONK’s calm, stoic demeanor gives the impression he is unshakeable, unlike Lowell, who is easily set off by any little slight.

The pill Lowell ingested before stomping into the room finally takes effect, and he feels the rage within him begin to subside.

“I’m just gonna talk to him about all of this on show day,” Lowell says. “I don’t have the energy to write another letter.”  —

Runaway

The night STRONK ran away from home, he escaped the oppressive confines of his childhood house for the first time. The silence of the surrounding forest was suffocating. As he slipped into the night, the cold air bit at his exposed skin as it was winter and he did not own a jacket. Each step was tentative, the ground beneath his feet feeling foreign and unstable as he walked for hours in the dead of night, driven by fear, anger, and a desperate need for freedom.

The city was a labyrinth of unfamiliar streets and alleys, and soon STRONK was hopelessly lost. His shivering intensified as the night wore on, the chill seeping into his bones. Exhaustion clouded his mind, but he pressed on, propelled forward by the thought of never returning home. Every shadow seemed to hold a hidden threat, and every sound made his heart race.

Eventually, he found himself before an old church, its doors slightly ajar, emitting a warm, inviting glow. He hesitated, torn between the desire for warmth and the fear of being turned away or perhaps viciously beaten with a tire iron.

Summoning his remaining courage, he stepped inside. The scent of incense filled his nostrils, and flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls. A young priest, dressed in simple robes, noticed him immediately and approached with a gentle smile.

The priest offered him a seat near the altar and asked his name. STRONK, reluctant, eventually said, “STRONK RAN FROM A BAD HUMAN.”

The priest’s eyes were filled with compassion as he listened. Over a warm meal, the first STRONK had had in days (and devoured in mere seconds), the priest encouraged him to speak freely. But STRONK remained silent save for one or two word answers.

The priest said he knew the world was a cruel, unforgiving place, especially for someone so young and unprotected. He offered words of comfort, trying to instill hope and faith in STRONK’s weary soul. He spoke of God’s love, of strength found in faith, and the importance of never losing hope. But STRONK, though grateful, found it hard to grasp these concepts. The realities of his life had taught him to be wary, to trust only himself, and expect the worst.

That night, STRONK slept on a pew, wrapped in a blanket provided by the priest. It was the most peaceful sleep he had had in a long time, but even in his dreams, the fear and uncertainty lingered. The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, STRONK woke with a renewed sense of determination.

The priest offered to help him find a safe place to stay, but STRONK didn’t respond. He turned and walked out of the church, leaving the priest to wonder what the future had in store for the oddly muscular young boy. —

Gimme Dat Plasma, Foo!

In the dead of night, the moon casts an eerie glow through the window, illuminating the scene with a ghostly light. Lowell kneels next to a sleeping STRONK, his hands trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The empty five-gallon STRONKUMMS container in his grasp seems almost absurdly large given what it would be used for. With a crude needle clutched in his sweaty palm, he begins to siphon blood from STRONK’s muscular arm, watching with a perverse fascination as the dark red liquid streams into the container.

Lowell’s eyes are wild, reflecting the chaotic storm brewing in his mind. His thoughts are a tangled mess of ambition, desperation, and a deep-seated need for validation. “This is for the future,” he whispers, more to himself than to the slumbering giant beside him. “For our future. For power. For control.”

As the container gradually fills with STRONK’s life force, Lowell feels a twisted sense of satisfaction mingled with the rush of adrenaline. The rhythmic sound of blood flowing into the container becomes almost hypnotic.

The room remains silent, except for the soft, sinister sound of blood slowly filling the container. The air is thick with tension, charged with the electricity of Lowell’s manic energy. He knows the path ahead will be fraught with challenges, obstacles that will test his resolve. But he is ready. He is determined. And with STRONK by his side, he believes they can accomplish the impossible.

As the final drops of blood trickle into the container, Lowell’s maniacal laughter begins to bubble up from deep within him, echoing through the dimly lit room like the cackle of a madman. The future is uncertain, shrouded in darkness and filled with potential horrors, but Lowell is unfazed. He looks down at the sleeping STRONK, his lips curling into a smile that speaks volumes of his unhinged ambition.

He takes out another syringe and quickly injects his client with the clear fluid inside. STRONK doesn’t move. The spiked meat juice Lowell gave him earlier is surely helping keep the dangerous animal unconscious while Doctor Dot Com works away.

“We will rule this world,” he whispers, his voice dripping with a dangerous mix of ambition and madness.

He gently applies a small bandage to STRONK’s arm and grabs a hold of the STRONKUMMS bucket, walking toward the door. He turns back, casting a final glance toward the sleeping STRONK.

“...I... will rule this world.”