STRONK TWO AND FRED'S GOODBYE

“Often, when you think you're at the end of something, you're at the beginning of something else.” - Fred Rogers Hello.

It's me, again. Reality.

But today is…

Hmm.

Well, today is…

The most bittersweet day I will have in quite some time.

My most worthy opponent, my most adversarial dipshit, the leader of his own personal rebellion against my tyranny…

He's surrendered. White flag and all.

I always knew it would come to this. This, or death. And I almost killed him, if you can believe it. But then, in a moment of severe clarity, he realized some things.

He realized that I could be way worse.

He realized that he and I, despite our differences, had a decent little run there.

I won't lie and say I had a direct hand in his success. Quite the opposite, in fact. I stacked the deck against him. I dealt the cards. It's just every now and then, he still got blackjack.

It's enough to drive the house crazy.

But also, a sure way to keep the gambler at the table.

Safe to say that, in our war, he won many battles — battles no one could've reasonably expected a creature like him to win.

And yet, in the end, Fred arrived at a final realization.

He realized that he could either continue in his rebellion against me, march forward with his career, and destroy everything he loved, even himself, to chase his ultimate goal…

Or he could settle down, have a family, and make sense of the world again.

And Fred, give him all the credit. He happily chose the latter.

I applaud him. I do.

But I can't help but ask…

Why do I feel so sad?

The birth of STRONK TWO took exactly 420,069 minutes.

The doctors and nurses had never seen anything like him.

When Randi pushed, and breathed, and pushed, and breathed, and the crown of STRONK TWO's head became apparent, and then exited his mother, they found it incredibly difficult to get the rest of his body out.

This was through no fault of Randi's. She was a trooper. A fuggin’ soldier. Fred couldn't have been more proud of her in there.

No, this was entirely the newborn baby's fault.

For you see.

He was born flexing.

Like this:

He also refused to stop doing that pose or do any other, less aggressive poses.

His first word, in fact, was “NO,” he said it immediately when the doctors and nurses begged him to stop posing like this so they could get him out of Randi.

The next words he said were “HI MAMA RANDI,” and “HI MAMA DICK,” and, “OH BOY. STRONK TWO AM HUNGRY. SOMEONE BRING STRONK TWO MEAT SAUCE SO STRONK TWO AM EAT UNTIL STRONK TWO AM NO LONGER HUNGRY.”

Fred was all 😻 on account of being a street cat (given) but also in love with this precious bundle of joy.

But actually, STRONK TWO's refusal to stop flexing and showing off his muscles nearly killed Randi.

She was hemorrhaging and they had to remove the baby.

Fred stepped up to the plate.

“Alright neow,” he said. “If everybody in here will SHUT the FUGGUP and do exactly what I say, we might just save my baby mama main squeeze Randi Dick's life. Go get some raw hamburger meat, STAT.”

The nurses looked at each other, and after a moment, one gave in and took off out of the room.

“I don't feel too good,” Randi said with a steroid baby flexing like Arnold Fucking Schwarzenegger halfway inside of her body.

“Sshhh shhh shhshhshshsh baby gurl,” Fred said. “Don't you worry your big ol’ head nary a bit, I'm takin’ care of dis neow.”

And he did.

When the nurse returned with the meat, STRONK TWO's meat sensor began firing on all syllables.

Fred, ingeniously, created a raw, ground beef trail that began just out of STRONK TWO's reach, and ended three baby lengths away from Randi onto the floor.

STRONK TWO became a territorial menace. He crawled out of Randi and ravenously ate the meat. He hissed at everyone who came near him, thinking them competition in this meat devouring game, even though all they wanted to do was cut the umbilical cord.

Doctors called him a medical marvel.

National Enquirer picked up the story, included it as part of a 16 part series on Bat Boys being born across the United States.

Fred thought that was a bunch of bullshid. Said this is why no one trusts the MSM and their corporate billionaire advertisers.

When they got back to the Dick Family RV in the mountains of Northeast Georgia, Fred thought that, hey, he needs to enjoy this. Life ain't ever gonna get better than this right hyunh.

He took solace in the fact that he was probably right. And when the occasional fear crept over him that, he could be wrong about that, instead of going to the Boiler Room and turning himself into a fucking spaceship to hide from the Reality of his situation, he thought instead that it was all the more reason to enjoy it all.

And if things got worse, and would never be this good again?

If it was some kind of false peace?

Well, at least he had an idea of what the word really meant.

Miguel and Toddrick had been locked in their cages for a few days when Fred and Randi finally returned home with what Fred called “his Alien baby grandbaby.” Randi just called him “her angel.” The difference didn't seem so stark spoken aloud, as they both spoke in googoo gaga baby voices when they said.

But, once Randi had got a bottle of meat sauce in the baby's mouth and hushed him for a nap, Fred freed the Lasagna Boys from their cages.

“Fellers, you got a choice to make. And I'ma letcha make it on your own. No bullshid. No mental gymnastic tests. No fuggin… Fred Dicks Famous Psychological Sudoku Torture Games,” Fred said.

“Oh thank God,” Miguel said.

“Not necessary to interrupt me there, Miguel you fuggin… lil pussy foo foo ace muhfug. Goddammit, I'm all heated now… okay. Look. I gotta make a nursery for the baby, and dat means the kennels gots ta go. Therefore, if you'd like, I can fuggin… just let ya go. Ya know? Like… y'all done served me well. Made names fer yaselves. Became big boys who do big boy thangs, lawd yes. So look… y'all wanna stop bein' fuggin… super cool Lasagna Boys and go back to bein’ fuggin’ arena janitors in Minnefugginsota, hey, go on ‘head. I don't blame you. All dat bein’ said, tho? If y'all wanna stay Lasagna Boys we could like… I dunno. Build a lil teepee in the backyard or somethin’. Just lemme know. Y'all ain't gotta decide today, but y'all do gotta get tha fug out today.”

Toddrick pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Oh, yeah, get an Uber,” Fred said, teary-eyed, but nodding. “Good call. Smart call.”

“Actually,” Toddrick said. “I'm gonna call Jeff Bezos a bitch on Twitter and then buy a teepee off Amazon.”

Miguel smiled at Toddrick. Then they both smiled at Fred.

Fred's bottom lip quivered when he smiled back, so he bit it, and nodded.

Some rasslers, you know when you see them, they gon' have big, long, successful careers. Branson Youngbloods. Ivan Stanislav.

Wade Everett.

Others, you figure, they'll be gone shortly after they say hello.

I never needed to guess which one of those categories my big ol’ ace fell into.

Reckon to pull an Intense title run and rookie of the year out of it wasn't the worst possible outcome, neow was it? Co-founded the Whoresmen. Became an existential threat to legends in this business like Paxton Ray, Clay Byrd, RIA, and many others.

Reckon that's gettin’ half a dollar out of a career everyone thought wouldn't be worth a wooden nickel.

Now, in my home state's capital, in my BABY BOY'S HOMETOWN… My rasslin’ career comes to an end.

So Wade this ain't my normal piss and vinegar chips, bud.

I just want to ask you for a favor.

Help me make it memorable, Wade.

Help me make it worth a damn.

My whole life, it's all I ever wanted. Was for folks to thank, ‘hey, maybe this feller is worth a damn. Maybe the times we spent on him was too.’

Two years is a long career for a fugger who rassles my style. It's suicidal, doin’ what I do. In fact, I only recently realized that's part of my problem, and I have to stop.

But I gotta do one more, feller.

I gotta do one more because I'm signed for one more. I gotta do one more because it's in the A. I gotta do one more because I just had a son.

I GOTTA DO ONE MORE!!!

…or should I say,

I only get to do one more.

:(

…So, I'm beggin’ ya.

Just pretend, for one night, like you only get to do one more too.

Gimme that, big boy.

Gimme that, and I can retire a happy man.

But if you don't fuggin’ gimme dat?

…I will fuggin’ wait, for years, decades, until I pass the fug away.

And then I'll haunt your ugly ace children. Whisper fard and shid and penisfard jokes to ‘em in the night. Poltergeist the fug out of their shid. Raise hell and possess dey grandbabies, make dey heads spin in circles and do all dat crazy devil shid. Maybe I'll even bring a ghost monkey paw into the house, see what comes about from that.

Don't make me do that, Wade.

Don't make me haunt yo’ muhfuggin’ kids.

...And when I'm gone?

Tell the world my tale.

Tell them of a man named Fred who used to rassle and win matches and be a mean cuss who became a manager with a large portfolio of talent.

Tell them of a man who went on legendary adventures with an alien body builder on a quest for a Muggsy Bogues bobblehead.

Tell them of a man who became one of da greatest Intense Champions of the ReVival era.

With nothin’ but a four loko, some spray paint, and a muhfuggin’ dream.

Tell my story, Wade.

And gimme a great match.

…or else I fug up your entire genetic line with A24-esque psychological fuggery.

Choice is easy.

But it's yours. “If you're brave enough to say goodbye, life will reward you with a new hello.” - Paulo Coelho