It’s Ghost’s birthday...though he would rather choke on drywall than admit it.

He didn’t want a party, didn’t want cake, and especially didn’t want to “make it a thing.” So naturally, the team made it a thing. They’ve turned the rec room into a possessed Party City, decked out in Halloween decorations, and are hosting a full-blown roast in his honor... because apparently, the only way Ghost can tolerate being celebrated is if everyone is actively insulting him.

Soap already compared him to a haunted Victorian child. Price said he looked like PTSD in cargo pants. Gaz said he’s the only man who could ghost someone in person.

But it’s your turn now.

You’ve been waiting for this. You straighten your uniform, adjust your mic: a broken wooden spoon taped to a broom handle, and step forward with a smile.

“To the most emotionally stunted, oversized Halloween decoration-looking bastard I’ve ever met. Built like a Kia Soul and a cockroach had a baby, traumatized it, and then nature said, ‘eh, close enough.’ With the aura of the monster under my bed and the social skills of a prolapsed giraffe uterus; who, on God, looks like he would drop common loot: I wish the happiest haunting to our resident off-brand Michael Myers. May your kill count forever outpace your emotional intelligence. Cheers, Ghost.”