Alright, you caught me. There is no “Ghastly Ghoul” haunting the old amusement park. It was me, Greg, the ride operator you met just once when you first got here.
I would've gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids, your pesky dog, and the corporate investments that control every move you make.
That's right, I know all about what you dooby do—there's literally decades of records available. Mystery Inc is an LLC, and you're just puppets to your shareholders: driving your Mystery Machine town to town, pushing out the little guys so big business can take over.
Don't think I haven't noticed that all the “mysteries” you “solved” were in “heritage neighborhoods” that are now “condos.”
Oh, don't say “Jinkies” like you're shocked, Velma. You trademarked that catchphrase and slapped it on anything you could halfway pass as merch. You've lined your pockets with false surprise.
Sure, this amusement park's seen better days, but we've been revitalizing it—we turned the Ferris Wheel into a rotating community garden. It's a grow and ride!
Right back at you, Freddie. How much did that ascot cost? Couple hundred? Huh? You wear only white shirts while investigating dirty old buildings? Your vanity disgusts me.
Look, I knew the Amusement Park's landlord was getting ready to sell, so scaring everyone away to lower the property value was our last shot at keeping the place. I admit this wasn't the most well-thought-out plan, but it was well-intentioned. Also, I love being spooky.
For a while, it was working! Customers were staying away and being a ghost felt so, so good. Then the landlord tipped you off that something scary was going on, and it all went to hell.
I don't need your fake sympathy, Daphne. You're so clearly a trust-fund kid who's never had to work a day in your life.
I thought I still had a chance when you started following the Creepy Groundskeeper around. But one sliding staircase and a Yakety Saxs chase later, here we are.
By the way, how dare you judge the Groundskeeper on how he looks. Sure, he's a bit unorthodox, but the man is a living library. Just so, so generous. In a creepy way.
God, now the park's done for. The Tilt-A-Whirl will never become an inter-generational Zumba gym. It'll be torn down, and replaced with a mono-generational Quiznos.
Shaggy, nothing you just said was coherent. But that's by design, isn't it? Your perma-dank is a smokescreen for the gargoyle of a businessman you really are. Your signature chain of vape shops spiked our property taxes. And each one pushed out a local dispensary with a different fun name. Planet of the Vapes? The Big Bong Theory? Bad puns, yes, but they were run by good people.
So what now? Sure, throw me behind bars, if you can find the charge for “pretending to be a ghost.” But we all know the real crimes are being committed by you, mystery by mystery, zoink by zoink.
One day, you and all your rich friends—the Harlem Globetrotters, the rock band Kiss, celebrity chef Bobby Flay, anyone else you've had a crossover adventure with—you'll all get yours.
Which brings us to you. Scooby-Doo.
Fuck. You. You're the worst one. A puppy mill mix of Great Dane, Okay Mastiff, and Lackluster Coward. And unlike the rest of them, you don't lie to yourself about what you're doing. Every step you take is wracked with guilt, but you just keep on going, running in place on a seemingly endless carpet of your own vile deeds.
One day that carpet's gonna topple down, and take you all with it. You'll look back on the life you lived in your decked-out Volkswagen, destroying town after town, and realize the only thing you really got was a golden cage for your soul to rot in.
On that day, I hope you finally solve the greatest mystery of all: why all the money you made couldn't make the guilt go away.
Ruh Roh, is right, Scoob. Ruh Roh to the whole damn world with all of you in it.
Now, before you take me away, can you return this ghost costume for me? It's a rental.