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(Gravy_Xtreme_5000) · (10-17-2026)

Sitting deep in an ice bath, our hero, Micheal (I don't heal so fast anymore) Graves.

Purple bruises cover his ribs. The damage to his face is covered thanks to his mask, but many cuts are visible across his shoulders and back.

Graves' cardboard Universal Championship sits on a chair, protected by a clear plastic garbage bag.

"'Big Money' Ghost Tank! People been comparing us for years."

Graves starts counting on his fingers.

"Big. Mean. Violent. Controversial...

Handsome."

He deadpans.

"Okay, that one's mostly me.

But I get it.

You put Micheal Graves and Mister Oz next to each other and, from far enough away, we kinda look like the same asshole.

Couple big bastards who've spent most of our lives breaking shit, pissing people off, scaring children and disappointing our mothers."

Graves motions the camera to come closer.

"Get closer.

Because this's the part where shit starts changing between us.

I know you, Oz.

Hell, I've practically BEEN you.

Ghost Tank.

Oswald.

Broken.

Big Money.

Savior of Chicago.

Pick a fuckin' name! I've been man, woman, robot, homeless, and so much more...

Never not been me!

'Dark Warrior' Micheal Graves!

Your money helped pay for the stupid shit WE did while I was running around spray painting #JoinBOB on people. So when I tell you I know you?

I ain't guessing.

I watched you do it while I was doing it right beside you.

I've watched you do it ever since.

And you know what finally hit me?

The fact that you never evolve.

You molt.

That's all.

Shed one skin, crawled out wearing another one, but nothin' changed about the man wearing it.

New name.

Same giant angry bastard underneath wondering why everybody else don't see the legend he sees.

I know because I was under the refrigerator with you askin' them very same questions.

Maybe that's the comparison everybody keeps makin'?

We're just a couple of cockroaches...

Think about it!

Why do you think they booked this match?

They've poisoned us.

Stomped us.

Burned the buildings down around us.

Changed owners.

Changed generations.

Changed damn near the entire fuckin' company.

And somehow, with the whole world rooting against us...

There we are.

Still crawling around the kitchen when the lights come on.

Difference is, I eventually accepted what I am, and people seemed to accept me for it.

Weird...

But not as weird as you calling yourself a fuckin' savior."

Graves glances toward the Universal Championship.

"I used to do the same shit, ya know?

Needed everybody to know how dangerous I was.

Thought fear and respect went hand in hand.

Burned bridges just so I could stand in the smoke screaming LOOK WHAT I FUCKING DID!

God, I was exhausting.

Still am, probably!

But I stopped needing to turn surviving into some grand fuckin' mythology. Sometimes you survive because you're special, and sometimes you're just really goddamn hard to kill.

Hell, Judd Hollow shoved your fucking head through a steel cage and here you stand.

See?

Cockroach.

You sure as shit ain't a phoenix!

Phoenixes rise from the ashes."

"You just keep crawling outta the rubble like a fuckin' pest."

Graves looks toward the Universal Championship again, more lost in thought than anything.

"You and me, Oz.

We're two guys this place has tried to stomp out for years, and now somebody finally went and got smart.

Cockroach Motel.

Don't even gotta kill the fucker.

Just lock him in a room and call it a night.

Been there.

Done that.

Ain't no goin' back!"

Graves lifts himself out of the ice.

"And you're gonna be a pain in my ass.

I already know it.

Too big to drag anywhere easy...

Too stubborn to keep your ass on the floor when I put you there...

Too high on your own farts to make any of this simple...

Good!

It wouldn't feel right if a cockroach just rolled over and died."

Water pours off him onto the floor as he reaches for a towel.

"Any other week, I'd probably have fun with this.

Beat the hell outta each other in some roach infested shithole, see which one of us smells worse when it's over...

That makes for good television."

He starts drying his shoulders.

"But then Charlie Nickles went and fucked up my mood.

I gave Charlie something he didn't even ask for.

My title.

That match didn't need this belt attached to it.

I attached it anyway because I knew I could beat him.

And then I did beat him.

He got every chance in the world to take this from me.

Couldn't do it.

So what happens next?"

Graves' grip tightens around the towel.

"A few days later he went looking for somewhere soft to stick the knife.

He wanted to send me a message.

Well, message fuckin' received!"

Graves drops the towel.

"I've spent a lot of time since then thinking about what I'm gonna do when Charlie and I are standing in the same room again.

None of it's healthy.

But he ain't standing in front of me this week.

You are."

He walks over to the chair and tears the garbage bag away from the Universal Championship.

"So I'm gonna take all that shit Charlie put in my head and work through some of it on you.

Sorry.

Then I'm stuffing your big ass in that room."

He throws the championship over his shoulder.

"And while you're in there all to yourself?

Molt some more.

Fuck, invent a whole new you.

Maybe 'King of Room 6, Savior of the Ice Machine'.

Believe in the continental breakfast!

Won't matter.

Whatever shitty version of you that comes next is gonna be on the wrong side of the same locked door.

Then I can go back to thinking about Charlie Nickles."

He starts to walk off, then glances back.

"And hey, don't take any of it personally.

Actually...

Oz... take everything personally.

And thank your old pal Charlie for what comes next..."
..............................

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