Two science-types. They told me the straps were for my safety.

They were obviously lying, but I didn’t fight 'em.

Not that it didn't cross my mind, but I knew I'd be dead before I made it ten feet out. 


My restraint seemed to disappoint them more than anything. They finished strapping me down.

Above me, the light was blinding, but through it vaguely, something moved. 

Slowly. 


Whatever it was, they wanted me watching it. Measuring it. Fearing every millimeter it crept towards me and questioning whether it were real or all in my head.

I had been here as long as I can remember, but didn't know where I was, or why. 

All I knew for sure, was that this was no life worth living. Injected with unknown fluids, tortured, beaten... what was it for? What was their goal?

I was left alone.

Hours passed. 

Or maybe minutes? 

Days?

The room refused to cooperate with time, but he thing above me continued its descent so slowly that I couldn't be sure it was moving at all, except it definitely was lower than when it had started. 

I struggled against my restraints, fueled by the anger of my stolen life. Was I born from a test-tube just to serve their purposes? Or could I have family out there?

If I remained here, I'd never know.

I jerked and I pulled, unable to break free. 

Maybe it's for the best. I'd never survive the soldiers outside the door...

No! 

I just needed to push... a little... harder—


Disappointingly, it was my arm and not the strap that bound it.

A wild, animalistic desire to live took over, and I ravaged my body to no end, and no escape.

Eventually I recognized my plight. Came to terms with it even, and I was left with nothing to do but wait.

As I calmed, my bones seemed to mend. I began to study the device. I learned it's rhythm, learned how the air changed as it swayed, the slight clicks before it would lower to its next stage.

That’s when I realized their mistake.


Once I understood what they had done to me, once I understood the pattern of their device, once the wait became predictable, my situation lost its teeth. Not even the straps were a bother anymore, because by that point they had told me everything I needed to know.

Above me, the mechanism kept swinging. Below it, I laid bored.

They came back later. Whispering: "Something isn't right, it should’ve broken him by now."

They checked my restraints and sped the descent.

Still, I didn’t scream.

I just waited. 

That seemed to piss them off proper. 

They ended the experiment and prepared to return me to my room.

Me? I was just waiting for them to realize they were no longer in control.

And the moment that truth settled in, the room felt very small.





The usual spot—SOMEWHERE DARK!

Graves is sitting.

Camera’s on too early.

"Jesus! Already?.. Okay, fine!"

He squints.

"So. Chastity match..." A snort. "Yeah. Sure. That’s where we’re at now. Strap Graves into a medieval mousetrap because... well, why would dick-licker do this?"

His eyes search the dark for answers.

"Hundreds of matches under my regular belt."

His eyes dart left.

"Never restrained in such a manner before..."

His eyes dart right.

"What's different now?"

His eyes dart forward.

"Summer Page."

Pause.

"Lamb to the slaughter."

He shakes his head.

"You ever notice nobody hates you? That’s not a compliment..."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I see you've grown tired of languishing in the mid-card. You're working hard. Rising up. Even got your own back pocket title shot. Watch-out somebody don't cut your face off and take it."

He spits.

"Why am I forced to wear this?"

He holds the torturous device up for you to see. 

"Because they fear ME!"

He smiles... it slips.

"Not you." A shrug. "They don’t fear you. The fans, the office, the boys—NO ONE! 

Sure, some may respect you.

Some may befriend you.

Some even cheer for you.

But none of them FEAR you. 

They only fear what happens to you when I don’t get babysat."

He lowers the device, letting it clank onto the floor.

"They HATE me.

Always have.

Even as they try to paint me into a cartoon caricature of myself, they tremble in fear, wallow in hate, and seek to shackle me, restrain me—CONTROL ME!..

Always have."

His eyes search the darkness once more. 

"In the past, perhaps it's worked?"

His eyes center once more.

"There's no denying that I've played the fool, been the clown."

A long nasally breath. 

"Funny thing about clowns." A smirk. "Everybody laughs… until they realize they’re locked in the room with one."

He scratches at his head. 

Stops. 

A large clump of hair falls out. 

He stares at his hand like it just betrayed him.

"Let them laugh!" A reassured nod as he tosses the clump of hair. "Let them think they solved the riddle of Gravy!"

He leans forward again. Far too close now.

"Then let them explain why Summer Page was Dry-Skull-Fucked to death on Anarchy!"

He jolts to his feet, kicking the chair and thrusting his hips with the heavy metal chastity belt pressed firmly against his groin.

"Dick-Licker thought he put a restriction on me? Thought he could control me?"

His breathing changes. Low, short, wrong.

"THINK AGAIN!"

Graves stands there a moment, fists balled and shaking.

"BLUNT-FORCE TRAUMA!"

Then—A laugh!!

Short. 

Broken.

"You see!?" A shake of his head. "That’s the part they never think through."

He paces.

"A lock is for an honest man, and... control is just an illusion!"