The camera flickers on.




















Red static…
























Then BAM, Micheal Graves’ ugly mug fills the frame.


He’s holed up in some abandoned storage unit that smells like piss, mold, and life decisions he absolutely does not regret but probably should.

A dying neon sign behind him just blinks “MEAT”, because of course it does.

”VINNIE! LOVERBOY!! YOU GLORIFIED HAIRSPRAY COMMERCIAL!!!
I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!!”

He coughs up chunky flim and wipes it on his cape.

”Been over a goddamn YEAR, dude! A YEAR!! They cut me open like a goddamn Christimas Taco, took my liver, my spleen, one of my nuts…” Graves grabs his junk and momentarily stares with concern. ”Still ain’t sure which one... everything feels lopsided now…” Eyes up! ”Anyway, they sold ‘em to some crypto bro who wanted to live forever. Joke’s on him, he exploded in Bali last week, saw it on TikTok!

But everything didn't come up Gravy over the past year...”

He kicks over a cardboard cutout of "Allegedly Micheal Graves" from his championship run that recently ended.

”While I’m out here stitching my asshole back together with dental floss, some MASK-STEALING COCKGOBLIN uses MY title shot to win MY belt, gets MORE over than me, then suddenly vanishes like a fart in church with ZERO payoff?? WHO BOOKS THIS SHIT, VINNIE?? YOU?? Because you know Goddamn well that I was saving that shot to user in the Age of Obscene—AND HE DID NOTHING WITH IT!”

He grabs the camera, pulling it close as the lens fogs from his breath.

”I’m BEGGING you, Lane. I’m on my knees here, and I'm not even sure I have kneecaps from the organ thing...

Gimme a contract. 

I’ll sign it in blood, piss, cum, whatever fluid I got left. 

I’ll even do the drug tests this time, promise I’ll only smoke the good devil weed now!”

Cut to Vinnie Lane in his office, feet up, eating Flaming Hot Cheetos, watching this on a monitor and laughing his balls off.

Vinnie (on speakerphone): Gravesy baby! Love the energy, dude! Real “return from the dead” vibes. Tell ya what, I’ll give you your contract… but Daddy Vinnie just needs three favors from you, cool? Cool.

“NAME IT, YOU GLORIOUS BASTARD!!!”

Vinnie: “One: You gotta wear the pink tutu in your first match back. That one from the charity show in 17. Yeah, the one with the glitter that never washes out.

Two: You gotta cut a promo apologizing to "Allegedly Micheal Graves, call him “Mask Daddy”, and thank him for keeping your seat warm.

Three: You’re wrestling in a Port-a-Potty Deathmatch. Loser gets flushed.

Literally. We rented one of those fancy Japanese toilets that sings and were just looking for an excuse!”

Graves just stares at the phone for a solid ten seconds. A single tear rolls down the mask, might actually be blood.

”…deal.”

Vinnie: “Atta boy!! Welcome home, you disgusting freak!”

Graves falls to his knees, overwhelmed with joy.

(now screaming) “YOU HEAR THAT ANARCHY?! 

I’M BACK, BITCHES!!! 

ORGANS OPTIONAL, SANITY SOLD SEPARATELY!!! 

I’LL WEAR THE FUCKING TUTU! 

I’LL CALL THAT MASK THIEF “DADDY”! 

I’LL SWIM IN SHIT IF I HAVE TO!! 

BECAUSE THE AGE OF FUCKIN' OBSCENE STARTS NOW!!!”

He grabs a rusty chain and wraps it tightly around his fist.

”Everyone's about to remember why they used to lock the doors when I walked backstage…

BTW, is Dolly Waters still doing the good-girl/bad-girl flip-flop? I’ll knee the indecision right out of her skull.”

He headbutts the camera.

Screen goes black.

The last thing you hear is maniacal laughter over the speaker phone, and Vinnie yelling “SOMEONE GET THIS MAN A CONTRACT AND A BOTTLE OF LYSOL!”

---

ooc: in for whatever