A Santa hat slaps the lens.

"...hold still, you cheap bastard..."

Graves stumbles into view wrestling the too-small hat, finally shoving it on with a rip.

He’s in a stained Santa coat that smells like Taco Bell and tequila puke.

Behind him, half-strung lights, a deflated snowman lying face-down like he owed somebody money.

SANTA GRAVY | WISHES $20 | CASH ONLY!!!

Gravy grins the grin of a man legally barred from Walmart.

"Don’t judge me. My Anarchy contract pays in exposure."

He slaps the table dust flies off it like it’s been sitting in an attic since Oz's last title reign.

"Anyway. Big match comin’ up. Mr. Oz. Last Man Standing. #1 contender spot.

Festive as hell, but before I go folding Oz like laundry, Daddy Gravy’s gotta make rent."

A kid walks up. Maybe ten.

Graves cracks his knuckles.

"A’ight, slugger. What do you want for Christmas?"

The kid whispers.

Graves listens.

Nods.

And Squints.

"You want… a puppy? Kid, how about some advice instead? You have your whole life to take care of some bitch, enjoy your freedom while you have it! NEXT!"

Another kid approaches. Graves leans in again.

"You want daddy to stop hitting mommy? Little man, just tell that bitch to keep her mouth shut and she'll be fine... maybe... NEXT!"

Then another kid steps forward wearing a

Mr. Oz shirt!?



Graves tilts his head.

"Oh, you’re who bought that..."

The kid whispers, and Graves’ chair instantly flies backward as he jumps to his feet.

"You little shit!"

He grabs a microphone from absolutely nowhere, literally, It just materializes.

"CHRISTMAS WISH DENIED!!! Your hero is getting wheeled out on a stretcher after Anarchy! LAST MAN STANDING means somebody doesn’t stand up. And champ? I’ve fallen off rooftops, stages, moving vehicles, marriages, grace, staircases, and heaven itself. Me and the ground? That’s my side piece, and I never hang around for long!"

He points at the kid so hard the very air flinches.

"Tell your fuckin' boy to buy stock in Tylenol, because if he's still experiencing migraines from his first Wargames, he stands to triple his fortune on the beating I'm going to lay into him!"

The kid flees.
Crying.
Possibly shitting himself.
Possibly converting to a religion where Santa isn’t allowed within 200 feet of children.

Graves collapses back into the chair, breathing like the Santa belt is cutting off circulation to every organ that still works.

"Ozzy… You know what's fucked up? A year, some bargain-bin knockoff version of me ran around forming unions, wrestling prisoners, fighting champions, helping vampires, and everybody just pretended it was normal. Nobody said, ‘Huh, weird that Graves suddenly knows big words and isn’t actively bleeding at all times?"

He taps his own skull.

Blood leaks out.

"Well, the guy did go 16-0-2, so maybe I can see how he was sorta kinda half convincing, but no need for second class imitators anymore!

Real Gravy’s back now!

Original recipe!!

The one unmistakable smell of gasoline and questionable choices made behind a Speedway!!!"

He pulls a crumpled flyer from under the table: "Christmas on Anarchy – LIVE!"
Mr. Oz is on it looking heroic, mystical, and like he moisturizes.

*Snort*

"You fake-deep, scythe-fondling fucknut!

Remember when we ran together?

Back when you were just the money and I actually tolerated your try-hard ass?

Good times.

Too bad they ended the second they slid your cosplay-carcass between me and a shot at gold!

Yeah, the one you’re blocking with your $600-billion-dollar ego!

That title shot was ripped right outta my fuckin' cold dead hands, and I'm here to reclaim it!

Good thing for you that we're cool, right?

Yeah, cool in the same way a lit match and a gas leak are cool—right up until they meet and blow the whole fuckin' place sky-high!"

"Ain't nothing gonna save you from the fire! Ain’t smoke. Ain’t mirrors. Ain’t you waving your hands around like you’re summoning a goddamn Blue-Eyes White Dragon."

"This? This is pain school, and I’m the tenured professor with no fuckin' HR department."

"I don’t stay down!

I don’t stay gone!

I don’t stay retired, arrested, concussed, cancelled, or cremated!

I ain’t goin’ NOWHERE until that Anarchy title is MINE, and you?"

He points at the camera like he’s trying to poke through it.

"You’re just the last present I gotta stomp open to get what —I— always wanted!"

He kicks the table over, sending fake candy canes and real cigarette butts flying.

"I hope your insurance covers blunt force trauma, ‘cause Santa Gravy’s comin’ down your chimney with a concussion, a hangover, and a fuckin’ —well, whatever it is—YOU WON'T LIKE IT!!"

He snarls—actually snarls.

"Merry fuckin’ Christmas!"

Then suddenly:

"SANTA! ARE WE NEXT?!"

A whole flock of gremlins rush the booth.

Graves panics.

"Jesus CHRIST, one at a—ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, LINE UP, YOU LITTLE EBT-CREDITS—SANTA’S GOT SOMETHIN’ FOR YA!"

He reaches into the Santa bag and pulls out a handful of small and colorful baggies.

They jingle.

They crinkle.

They absolutely are NOT for kids.

"Here ya go—SANTA SNOWBALLS! LIMITED EDITION! HO HO HOLD THIS AND MAYBE DON’T TELL YOUR MOMS!"

The kids cheer.

The parents, who have been half-listening, suddenly turn their heads as their faces drain of color.

The kids start tearing into the bags.

"SANTA’S GIVING THE CHILDREN DRUGS!?"

"THAT AIN’T DRUGS, THAT’S ELF SNOW! I SAW A TIKTOK!"

One kid licks a bag and sprints in a perfect circle screaming like a fire alarm.

Another starts speaking tongues.

A third suplexes Tom.

A mom shrieks.

"OKAY, EVERYBODY CALM DOWN, IT’S FINE! THAT ONE’S ACTUALLY JUST MY PRE-WORKOUT POWDER!"

A dad calls 911.

A toddler hops onto Graves’ back screaming "YIPPEE-KI-YAY SANTA-FUCKER!"

Graves snatches the bags, dumps the powder and kicks fake snow over it.

"Don't tell Lane!"

Then he RUNS.

"ALSO, SORRY "MASK DADDY—THANKS FOR KEEPING MY SEAT WARM!

TOM HIT THE LIGHTS! SANTA’S OFF THE CLOCK!"

Hobo Tom unplugs the entire Christmas Village.

Sudden cut to static.