Greenwich, CT – WWE Chief Content Officer Triple H was visited by three ghosts on Christmas eve, warning him to change his ways.
Late Saturday evening, the former champion was tucked into bed, sleeping soundly. As the clock struck midnight, a spectral image with a large pompadour and pastel sports coat appeared in his room.
“Triple H!” howled the phantom.
Triple H shot up in bed, his sleeping cap askew, afraid of the ghastly vision before him.
“W-who are you?” he asked, his voice shaking in fear.
“It is I, the Ghost Of WWE Past,” responded the spirit. “WWE is in grave danger. If you continue this path of smaller wrestlers and in-ring work, the company is doomed. Look back to the golden ages of the company. Hulkamania. The Attitude Era. Ruthless Aggression. You’ve got to have hot angles and controversies and timely jokes ripped straight from the headlines!”
“Wait,” paused Trips. “Vince? Is that…is that you?”
“What a maneuver!” shouted the wraith before hopping out of the room.
Shaken, Hunter tried to go back to sleep. It wasn’t long before he was visited by a second ghost.
“I’m the Ghost Of WWE Present!” said the spirit, sporting a large coat and durag. “The shows need brighter colors! More part-timers! No one is going to buy Johnny Gargano, pal!”
The specter then zoomed in and out repeatedly, making Triple H nauseous. The four bedposts exploded as the ghost shook the mattress.
“V-Vince! I k-k-now it’s you! Please stop!”
“You’re fired!” barked the ghost before disappearing in a cloud of pyro smoke.
Exhausted, Triple H stayed up and patiently waited for the final “ghost” to appear.
Instead of the clock chiming, Undertaker’s gong sound rang throughout the house. A figure wearing the Higher Power robe and gripping a scythe appeared in the room.
“Right, Ghost Of WWE Future. I get it,” sighed Triple H.
The ghastly ghoul held up a poorly draw picture of Tony Khan happily dancing on a grave labelled WWE. Money was falling out of his pockets as a crayon stick figure of Triple H cried.
“Vince, you’re not getting the company back and that’s final,” said the new owner sternly.
The makeshift Grim Reaper sighed and slumped his shoulders. Before closing the bedroom door he said, “See you at New Years.”
Finally, Triple H laid his weary head down to the pillow. Just before sleep overtook him, Stephanie McMahon snored “Just give my dad Main Event or something.”