Kevin Nash was elbow-deep in a gym bag, whispering curses at the universe. “Who doesn’t bring shampoo?” he hissed, shaking a nearly empty bottle. He was just about to move on to another bag when a shadow fell over him. Cena. Triple H. Shawn Michaels. All staring. Nash froze, then slowly raised his hands like he’d been caught mid-heist. “Okay—relax,” he said quickly. “Nobody panic. There’s a mouse. A very specific mouse. Eats wrestling gear.” He dropped to one knee and jabbed a finger at the floor. “Hear that?” He made an aggressive “SKREE-SKREE!” noise. No one moved. No one blinked.

Triple H’s eyes narrowed. “Kevin. Step away from the bag.”
Nash shook his head, sweat forming. “I can’t. If I do, he’ll get into the boots. You know how expensive boots are?” He scampered a few steps to the side and slapped a towel against the lockers. BANG. “There! See? He’s fast!” Cena didn’t laugh. Shawn didn’t crack a smile. The silence was brutal. Nash swallowed. “Okay, new plan. You guys turn around. Just for a second. I’ll grab him. I’m… I’m trained.”

They didn’t turn around. Nash sighed and went for it anyway, banging lockers, kicking bags, tossing kneepads into the air. “I GOT HIM—nope—WAIT—HE BIT ME—” CLANG. THUD. He dropped to the floor, panting, then looked up hopefully. “He’s clever. Elite-level mouse. Real locker room veteran.” The three wrestlers continued to stare, unimpressed and unmoved. Nash slowly stood up, clutching a shampoo bottle like evidence. “So… hypothetically,” he said, “if there wasn’t a mouse… this would still be cool, right?”