Once upon a backstage nightmare, in a dusty, dimly-lit green room of the “Smokestack Arena,” the legendary heavy metal band Wrinkled Metal convened. Comprised of four grizzled veterans—Fang (vocals), Blitz (guitar), Diesel (drums), and Gramps (bass)—they were in their sixties, with creaky knees, graying hair dyed raven black, and attitudes as fiery as a chili-eating contest.
Wrinkled Metal had seen it all. Platinum albums, pyrotechnics gone wrong, and even a tour bus that was haunted by the ghost of their first manager (who was allergic to groupies). But now, facing the year 2024, their biggest challenge wasn't aging joints or reverb pedals—oh no. It was the world of K-pop, holographic idols, and TikTok choreography. They were dinosaurs in an age of neon-clad, autotuned velociraptors.
Tonight, they were booked as the opening act for Candy Crash, a K-pop supergroup known for synchronized dance routines that could hypnotize a llama and sugar-coated anthems that stuck in your brain like gum on a shoe. The contrast between bands was as sharp as Blitz’s earring, which kept getting snagged on his scarf.
The Unveiling Plan
During rehearsal, Fang, with his raspy voice and leather vest, announced, “We need to do something they’ll never forget. We’ll stage a ‘haunted metal opera’ to spook the glitter out of them!” The others nodded, mostly because their hearing was a bit muffled.
Blitz, whose hair looked like an explosion in a wig factory, grinned and brandished his guitar. “What if we resurrect Greg?”
A tense silence fell over them. Greg was not just any stage prop—Greg was a legend, a cursed relic from their heyday. It was a giant, misshapen papier-mache skull with LED eyes that had once accidentally set fire to Diesel’s prized drum set during a live performance in '92. The band had buried Greg in Blitz’s garage after it had developed a habit of moving on its own and making odd creaking noises at midnight.
“Are we sure about this?” Diesel asked, fingers drumming nervously on his knee. “The last time Greg came out, the stage tech quit and moved to a goat farm.”
“It’s either Greg or Gramps crowd-surfing,” Fang retorted.
Gramps, already warming up with an unnecessary series of squats, muttered, “I’m in if it gets us views.”
The Haunted Rehearsal
Blitz spent the next afternoon wrestling Greg from behind the lawnmower and an assortment of outdated amps. Dusting it off, he could swear its LED eyes glowed briefly, but he dismissed it as old batteries. They propped Greg on stage amidst their gear, adjusting its position just so, with Fang muttering incantations he claimed were “totally from a horror movie.”
Everything seemed fine—until rehearsal began. Diesel tapped out a rolling thunder on the drums, and Blitz shredded an opening riff that was almost too loud for their earplugs. Suddenly, Greg’s eyes glowed, not a weak red but a searing crimson. The room went silent as an eerie hum filled the space. A lone microphone buzzed and toppled over without warning.
Gramps, squinting at the skull, muttered, “I think Greg’s ticked.”
Diesel nervously adjusted his drumsticks. “Ticked or cursed?”
Before they could debate, the green room door swung open, revealing Candy Crash, five impossibly cheerful teenagers dressed in pastel and sequins. One of them, the leader with pink hair, chirped, “Wow, so retro! Is that part of your act?”
The old rockers exchanged looks. “Uh, yeah,” Blitz lied. “Greg’s our mascot.”
“Cute!” another K-pop star exclaimed, oblivious to the legend of Greg. They waltzed off, giggling and snapping selfies while Wrinkled Metal exchanged worried glances.
D-Day (or Gig Day)
The arena was packed with teenagers wearing Candy Crash merchandise, clutching glowsticks and heart-shaped balloons. The band emerged amidst dry ice fog and pounding drums, with Greg the skull rolling ominously behind them. The LED eyes flickered like they were powered by ancient spirits—or a cheap battery.
“HELLOOOO, SMOKESTACK!” Fang bellowed, voice cracking like a haunted grandfather clock.
They launched into their hit, Midnight Screech of Doom, complete with exaggerated headbanging that quickly devolved into head-holding. The crowd was confused but entertained, especially when Greg’s eyes unexpectedly blazed blood-red.
Then came the first sign of disaster: Blitz’s earring caught on his scarf, yanking him sideways just as Diesel, whose foot pedals were slipping, accidentally triggered a drum solo that sounded like a chase scene in an old cartoon. Gramps, startled by the chaos, fell backwards into Greg, causing the skull to lurch forward like a possessed float in a nightmare parade.
Suddenly, Greg’s LED eyes projected a red beam that swept across the audience, sparking a hysteria that was half terror, half delight. A hologram malfunction on Candy Crash’s equipment nearby added to the confusion as neon butterflies erupted, flapping ominously into the air. The crowd thought it was all planned and started filming, turning it into a viral spectacle.
The Horrific Climax
The arena erupted into chaos. Half the crowd was on their feet, recording the mayhem on their phones, while the other half screamed as if they were extras in a disaster movie. A rogue glowstick flew through the air and hit Fang on the shoulder, who interpreted it as a sign from Greg to keep going.
“WE’RE JUST GETTING STARTED!” he yelled, his voice hoarse but triumphant.
The holographic butterflies from Candy Crash’s show morphed into glitching, neon demon moths that flew in erratic patterns, making even the most seasoned concert-goers wonder if the apocalypse had a theme song. One of the K-pop stars, who had been peeking from backstage, fainted dramatically, while another nodded, seemingly impressed.
Meanwhile, Blitz was locked in a battle with his scarf, Diesel’s drums were now belting out ghostly reverberations on their own, and Gramps, with the spirit of a rebellious teenager, was trying to leap on top of Greg to subdue him. The skull rolled and shuddered, LED eyes flickering and spewing sparks.
The Happy Ending
Then, in an instant that would go down in viral history, Greg’s eyes dimmed, and it stopped moving. Gramps had managed to jab the reset button on the back, and Greg’s malevolent glow faded into nothingness. The crowd, caught between awe and confusion, roared with applause.
A video clip titled When Wrinkled Metal Met Candy Cras started trending, surpassing Candy Crash’s own performance views. The metalheads and K-pop fans found themselves united in the sheer absurdity of it all. The crowd chanted, “One more haunt!” as the elderly rockers finished with an impromptu encore titled The Wrath of Greg.
Backstage, the members of Candy Crash timidly approached the veterans. Their leader, who had regained consciousness, shyly said, “Can we.. collaborate sometime?”
Fang, with a relieved grin, nodded. “Only if Greg’s invited.”
Blitz, still half-tangled in his scarf, Diesel’s drumsticks still smoking, and Gramps looking prouder than ever, knew one thing: Wrinkled Metal had not just stayed relevant—they had become legends in a new, baffling way.
And so, the night ended not with broken bones or shattered egos, but with the old gods of rock taking a selfie with their neon-clad successors. The headline read: Legends Never Rust, and Neither Do Haunted Props.