We open to the flashing lights of still photography as Gravy stands center-ring in the middle of a huge ass wrestling arena packed with tens of thousands of screaming fans—












































—All screaming his name!?











Micheal Graves stands tall, feeling like he's the fucking KING of the world.


The crowd was going nuts! What fucking world is this that ANYONE would be cheering MichEal Graves like he's the best thing since sliced bread?

Sliced Gravy!

At ringside, wrestlers from all over the world poured from the back, giving him nods of respect and fist bumps. 

He lifted his arms, soaking in all the love, feeling on top of the world.

Life was perfect…

Maybe too perfect.

Then, out of nowhere, this one voice cut through the love.

“YOU’RE A JOBBER!”

Oh snap! Suddenly, it's like someone scratched a record, and everything, all the fanfare, all the love, all of it, it just stopped. 

”Who the fuck!?”

Graves' eyes darted around the crowd, trying to zero in on the source of the most heinous insult.

But the arena had gone eerily silent as every eye in the crowd fell on him.

Suddenly the voice cut through the silence again! “The only thing more trash than your wrestling is your damned character!”

“Show yourself you fucking coward!” Graves shouted back, ready to confront whoever dared to sour this perfect moment.

Suddenly, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and there, standing in the center was…













Oh fucking Goddamn! 
















Really!?












This shit AGAIN?








”YOU!”








Same build.






Same scars.






But the look in his eyes was different—less glazed with a wild spark.

“You think this is the real deal? You’re living in a fucking fantasy, pal! You know damned well Doc steam-rolled your ass and now you're suffering the Devil’s scorn!”

Gravy scoffed at his twin's words. “The Devil’s scorn? Look the fuck around, man! Everything was fucking golden until you decided to crash the damned party!”

The twin Graves just smirked. “Oh, please. This? This is your mind trying to escape the truth. You got rolled over, and now here you are, trying to convince yourself you’re something you’re not. A winner!”

Graves clenched his fists in a mix of rage and despair. “I’ve worked my ass off to get here! I clawed my way out of Hell! I whipped Dolly Waters! I harvested souls for Satan and supplied Children to demons! I’ve earned my Goddamned spot!”

“Earned? By whose standard? Certainly not by anyone who… well, no… Certainly not by ANYONE EVER! You’re a pretender, Gravy-baby, and YOU know it! I KNOW that YOU know it as well as I know it, but here you are hiding from the inevitable realization that YOU JUST...SUUUUUUUCK!!!” The twin’s words were like venom rushing straight to Gravy’s heart.

Suddenly the arena began to change, the silence turning to jeers, the lights dimming until only Graves and his doppelganger were illuminated in the ring. 

“Look at you, so unloved, so deplorable, so HATED. And you've run. Run for so long, run to the point that you now find yourself—arguing with yourself, because deep down, you know the truth—You can't even stand yourself.” The twin laughed mockingly at Earth 616 Gravy.

Graves looked around the ring, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare, but there was no escape from this relentless attack on his ego, his career, his very being.

“This isn’t real. You’re not real!” Graves shouted, more to convince himself than his tormentor.

“Oh, but I am. I’m the voice you try to drown out with substance after substance. I’m the doubt that keeps you awake at night, wondering if you’re really as good as you pretend to be. And spoiler: You’re not.” The twin moved closer, his face inches from Graves, forcing him to confront the physical embodiment of his insecurities.

The ring began to spin, the ground beneath them cracking and splitting, revealing a bottomless abyss. Graves felt himself losing balance, the world he knew, the identity he clung to, all falling away into darkness.

“You suck so much that even you can’t stand the sight of yourself. How pathetic is that?” The twin’s words were the final push, sending Graves tumbling into the abyss, the laughter of his doppelganger ringing in his ears as he fell.



































With a jolt, Graves' eyes snapped open, the twins laughter still ringing in his ears as he gasped for breath.

For a moment, he lay there disoriented.

In time, the harsh reality of his surroundings began to set in as he realized he was huddled against a door in a narrow, dimly lit alleyway. The small awning above did little to protect him from the night's chill and the occasional drizzle that had soaked through his clothes. 

How did he get here?

What happened to the money? 

The sex trafficking business?

Gravy reached for his phone.

No phone.

At least, he thought, it could have been worse, he could be wetter.

He coughed violently, realizing just how far removed he was from the glory and adulation of his dream turned nightmare. 

His body felt heavy, his limbs stiff.

With a groan, Graves pushed himself to his feet, his muscles protesting with every movement. 

He leaned heavily against the wall for a moment, gathering his strength. The hunger hit him then and his belly grumbled in pain. 

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the remnants of the nightmare, he stumbled down the alley towards a familiar sight.

A large, overflowing dumpster that had become his source of sustenance more times than he cared to admit.

Diving into the dumpster, Graves began to rummage through the trash, searching for anything remotely edible. 

His hands felt numb as they sifted through the garbage, grasping at discarded wrappers and half-eaten meals. 

The smell didn't bother him as much as it used to, he had grown accustomed to it.

Finding a somewhat intact, sandwich, Graves paused, inspecting it under the dim light. A few bites were missing, and it was hard to tell how long it had been sitting there, but it didn't matter. Hunger had a way of stripping away any pretense of choice.

As he took a bite, the taste of stale bread and soggy lettuce filled his mouth. 

It was stomach turning, but fought it down, because right now, it was enough. Enough to keep the hunger at bay, enough to keep him alive.

Swallowing his small disgusting meal, Graves leaned back against the cold metal of the dumpster, his mind running rampant. 

The nightmare was so vivid and accusing that it had shaken him to his core. 

"You've sunk lower than even the devil cares to tread. You're less than nothing! A disgrace! An absolute void of worth! A miserable excuse for existence!"

And followed him into reality as these things often do. 

"No..."

Graves clenched his fist as his resolve strengthened.

"I will rebuild myself and stand atop the mountain once more!"

Graves makes his way through the dimly lit streets of the city. 

The sting of the cold night air and the dull ache of hunger are constant companions on his journey, but tonight, for the first time in weeks, his steps are driven by purpose.

He reaches Sullivan's Sports Bar, the neon sign buzzing like a beacon in the dark.

Graves slips through the crowd unnoticed. 

His makeshift disguise—a thin, glue-on mustache applied over his luchador mask—somehow seems to draw little attention from the patrons.

Graves approaches the bookie, yet, as Graves stands before him, the absurdity of his disguise does nothing to betray his true identity. It's really fucking wild. Clark Kent ain't got shit on Gravy!

"Excuse me, good sir, I would like to place a small wager."

The bookie leans in, intrigued by this mysterious masked patron with the sexy thin mustache.

Bookie: "What's the wager?"

Graves reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled $10 bill—the last remnant of his worldly possessions. 

He lays it on the counter.

"On round one of March Madness, I'm betting on—"



“March Madness? Well, it is March, and I'm pretty fucking mad, so the event seems fitting to win!”

“Kieran King, you done stumbled into what you think's a grand ol' adventure, huh? Like one of them Dungeons & Dragons games, except here's the thing: to me, that's just a bunch of nerds rollin' dice to see who gets to pretend to be the elf. You, prancin' around with your fairy tales or what the fuck ever, tryin' to play make-believe in a world that don't give a damn about your +5 Sword of Slaying or whatever the hell you think you're wieldin' over me!”

“Despite all of my vast accomplishments in the ring, I've been catching fucking hell over dropping the TV title to loser-ass Doc who went on to drop it to loser-ass no-name, no-talent, nobody!”

”Everybody's a critic, especially when they're perched safely in their tower of bullshit, but let me lay down some reality for you all – most every joker in this madhouse is batting around the .500 mark. Yet, here I am, singled out, like I'm the only one who's ever tasted defeat. Fucking classic.”

“Oh, look at Graves, he lost his belt to Doc, as if stepping into the ring with legends and living to tell the tale is some kind of high mark against me. Hell, I'd like to see half of these dummies backstage try to stand toe to toe with some of the monsters I've faced and not have their precious kingdoms turn to dust. But no, it’s always Graves this, Graves that.”

”Get fucked.”

“I know how the game is played. I'm the villain, the punchline, the cautionary tale, but guess what? Every time I'm knocked down, I get back up. You can't kill what's already dead inside, and every loss is just another scar, another story, another reason to keep fighting. So go ahead, make your assumptions, laugh it up. Just remember, I'm still here, still fighting, still crazy enough to think I can win this whole damned thing.”

”And win or lose, that spells disaster for you Kieran King!”

”Heh, maybe it’ll be your night, maybe not. Either way, the next night ain’t gonna feel so nice.”

“Kieran King, you really think you’re marching into some epic tale, huh? Stepping into my ring like you’re the hero? Well, news flash, you’ve just crashed the wrong party. It’s a freakin’ nightmare here, and guess what? I’m the monster. You’re in my hell now, a place so twisted, it’s gonna make your head spin. I’ve got plans for you, dark, messed up plans. Plans that’ll make you wish you never left your fairy-tale castle!"

"Who the fuck even are you anyway? Some shit bag from canceled-ass Madness! No way you beat me! I'm the pest that keeps grabbing the goodies! I may not bring substance, but I bring the pain!"

"You think your ass stands a snowball's chance of advancing past me!?"

"FUCKING PLEASE!"

"Not even the floor can save you from what I have in store!"

*Editors note: After taking a hard bump to the outside, Micheal Graves blamed the floor for coming up short against Raion Kido when he challenged for the Universal title.

"March Madness, Gravy-Dolly rematch! Nobody else matters!"

"Losers and fucking clowns, all of you!"

Graves turns to leave, but take pause and faces the camera once again.

"Well... That's not entirely true..."

"There is one who could stand to spoil my plans for March Madness..."

"'American Nightmare'—You've only just begun to dream, but should you stand in my way, I'll introduce you to that in which REAL nightmares are made!"

The camera cuts and we fade to...





























"Ha, sure, you REALLY sold them with that dogshit!"

Graves smirks "It'll do the job."

"And what was that shit with Razor, anyway? You seriously see that joker as a threat?"

"Nah, I just like to boaster the jobbers egos. It's even more delicious when they crash and burn!"

Both versions of Graves erupt into wicked laughter together, as the scene closes for real this time.