Post by Dr. Matt on Oct 27, 2008 20:48:11 GMT -4
The scene opens with a close-up shot of Dr. Matt. He's sitting on some sort of wooden chair. He's got the fattest cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth and a glass of scotch in his hands. Something seems a little off, though. For starters, his normally bleached-blonde hair is now his natural dark brown colour. He's wearing a black AC/DC t-shirt, tight dark red leather pants, and what look like cowboy boots; which again are not a normal part of his attire.
Dr. Matt puffs on the cigar, then blows out O's of smoke, which almost look like they have pentagrams on the inside of them. Dr. Matt smiles and looks into the camera.
Dr. Matt: Sunday Night, Action Packed Wrestling will present it's monthly Pay-Per-View "One Night in Hell". President Jeff has guarenteed every match will be hellish, be it the Casket, Buried Alive, Sadistic, Tree House of Horrors, 3 Stages of Hell, and the Elimination Chamber Matches. The fans will see the single most brutal night of wrestling ever to be shown on television. I've been given the opportunity to be in the final match of the evening; a match that will have to go above and beyond all the carnage the fans will have already witnessed. One Night in Hell. Elimination Chamber. For the APW World Heavyweight Championship. How does one truly prepare for something like this? How does a mere man ready himself to go through horrific torture and push other fellow human beings well past their physical, mental, and emotional limits? Simple.
Dr. Matt smiles as he sips on his scotch. The camera then dramatically zooms out to reveal that Dr. Matt's wooden chair is actually a massive, handcarved wooden throne on the edge of a cliff cut out of blood red rock. Rivers of lava flow below him will fire's burn behind him. Withered, screaming men and women are locked in terrifying torture devices, crying out in woe and agony. Dr. Matt, who has almost disappeared in this hellish panorama, yells out to the camera.
Dr. Matt: You gotta spend a night in hell!
The camera zooms back in closer to Dr. Matt. He clamps his teeth into his cigar as he gets to his feet. He tugs the crotch down on his pants with his free hand, then starts to walk to the side.
Dr. Matt: I know what you're thinking. Dr. Matt got himself a green screen and an amazing director and is shooting one kickass promo.
Dr. Matt stops to sip on some scotch and stares at a man who's in a device that is slowly pulling all his limbs apart. The man is screaming out in some foreign language. Dr. Matt blows smoke into his face.
Dr. Matt: Nope, I'm actually in Hell. Honest to God.
A sound that can only be described as the cry of a billion lost souls shuddering at the very name of the omniscient being that condemned them to an eternity of unimaginable pain rocks past Dr. Matt. Surprisingly, it kind of sounds like the purr of a kitten. Out of nowhere, a small, bald asian man wearing a loin cloth appears next to Matt.
The Asian Man: What have I told you about saying that word.
Dr. Matt: My bad. Ladies and gentlemen; Old Scratch himself. He is the Morning Star, the Greatest Deciever, Evil Incarnate... Lucifer.
The Asian Man: Hey, how's it going.
The Devil waves into the camera and talks suspiciously like Woody Allen.
Dr. Matt: Why don't you show them your true self?
The Devil: Are we going to go through this every five minutes? I hate looking like that. That's why I choose to take the form of this unassuming Thai guy.
Dr. Matt: Please?
The Asian Man: Fine.
The Devil's eyes literally burst into flames as he starts flexing every muscle in his bodies. Ram-like horns grow from just above his temples as a pointed tail flicks out from behind him. His scrawny frame begins to grow sinewy muscle and his feet turn into cloven hooves. He slowly starts to grow, rising up from being at Matt's chest to becoming as tall as the Good Doctor himself. Then, a blight, red burst of light fills the screen, and when all is said and done, Cher is standing next to Dr. Matt.
Cher: You happy?
Dr. Matt: What I don't get is why you don't stop when you got those badass horns and the tail. In fact, why is that part of your transformation?
The Devil/Cher/Whatever the Fuck it is: It's like a catepillar going into a cocoon. It's a lot of boring sciecnce that I don't really care to learn about.
Dr. Matt: A-ha. Well, I suppose you're wondering why I'm here. Plain and simple, I overdosed on caffeine the other night. My human body is still in the Doctor's Office. It's nice to know that Frank the Cameraman just left me there to die, and I'm going to show him why guys like Phil don't try to film my promos anymore once I get back up to Earth. Anyways, when I show up in Hell, Satan here takes a shit-fit because he bet Hitler and George Carlin that I'd win the Chamber Match.
Satan: Carlin bet on Sabur. If he wins, I have to kill Dane Cook; which I might just do anyways. Hitler bet on Twister. If he wins; I have to make Arcadia the number one contender. He just loves that chick. I'd tell him she's Jewish, but, come on, I'm the motherfucking Devil. It'll be great to torture him with the truth in a couple months.
Dr. Matt: And if I win, Satan's going to plant some Gay Porn in one of Hitler's secret bunkers. Gay Porn that's Gypsy-themed.
Cher: Anyways, homeboy here shows up, and I nearly shit a brick. Luckily, though, I found a loophole that allows me to send him back to Earth. I'd get into it, but it's a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo. Thankfully I have about 66 Million lawyers on retainer down here, and they got it all under control for me. But, Dr. Matt will have to serve one night in Hell before I can release him.
Dr. Matt: What a crazy coincidence. By the way, you mind changing back to the asian dude. This Cher thing is freaking me out.
Satan rolls its eyes, then snaps his fingers and he's instantaneously back into the little asian dude.
Dr. Matt: That seemed a lot less complicated then your transformation the other way.
The Asian Man: What, are you some sort of demonic transformation expert now. Go fuck yourself.
Dr. Matt: Temper, temper. Alright, so where were we in this ridiculously long introduction? Oh, right, so I'm in Hell, I got to spend the night, which became a problem because Jeff is expecting me to release another promo; but I can't go back to Earth until just minutes before One Night in Hell starts. As my luck would have it, though, the Devil has an agreement with the FCC to air whatever he wants whenever he wants.
Lucifer: Not so much an agreement; I'm the fucking Devil and just do what I want. I do it every day. In fact, most of VH1's line-up is produced by me.
Dr. Matt: So, I get to air my promo, and the Devil's going to train me to make sure I win the chamber. Because, after all, if I can spend a night in Hell, those pussies will be a cake-walk.
The Asian Man: Actually, I've been meaning to tell you something. Hell ain't exactly like it's portrayed up there. Things are a little more tame then you'd think.
Dr. Matt turns around, where a naked woman is having a basebll bat with nails poking through it shoved up her rectum.
Dr. Matt: Uh, that's pretty much what we think Hell is like, Big Red.
The Asian Man: Yeah, but she sold her kid to buy money for smack. This room is reserved for the people who truly did things that deserve eternal torture. Most of the rest of Hell is just everyone who didn't except that long-haired carpenter hippie freak as their personal savior.
Dr. Matt: No shit? So what's it like.
The Asian Man: Well, you know how everytime you want to have fun, some religious nutjob ruins it for you?
Dr. Matt: Yeah.
The Asian Man: Well, all those people are up in Heaven, organizing bake sales and listening to U2.
Dr. Matt's eyes widen. He can see where this is going.
The Devil: Follow me.
The two take a few steps to the left, where a metal door has almost appeared out of nowhere. The two walk through the door and the camera follows. On the other side is some sort of rave/orgy. Thumping techno music is playing while all sorts of people all dancing, screwing, drinking, shooting up, smoking up, and other various things that I really don't care to go into detail talking about.
The Devil: Welcome to the best night club in the universe.
Dr. Matt: Fuck, makes me wish you didn't dress me in these faggy clothes.
The Devil: It's the best I could scrounge up on such short notice. I could've let you walk around naked.
Dr. Matt: I think I'd fit in better if I was.
Dr. Matt tries not to stare at a male-female-goat threesome going on next to him.
Dr. Matt: Uh, just a quick question; how's this supposed to help me train for One Night in Hell?
The Devil: It's not. I just wanted a drink.
The Devil takes a bottle of beer out of the hand of a guy in the middle of an orgy. Dr. Matt and The Devil then walk through a crowd of glow-stick waving freaks dancing to the music. The make their way to the other side of the crowd and walk out through another door. The two walk into another room, which looks like a small gym. A wrestling ring is bathed in an eerie red spotlight, as hundreds of little gremlins resembling the one that tried to kill Bart Simpson in that ond Treehouse of Horror furiously work at building something that looks similiar to an elimination chamber.
The Devil: Why the fuck isn't this ready yet?
A couple gremlins scream back something that sounds like Ancient Greek spoken with a Newfoundland accent. The Devil screams something back at them in the same dialect, then turns to Dr. Matt.
The Devil: Sorry, my practice chamber isn't ready yet. I guess this is what happens when you hire illegal immigrants from Tartarus. Can't fucking do anything right. You might have to talk into the camera to kill some time.
Dr. Matt: You mean talk trash? How juvenile.
The Devil: Sorry, I'll let you know when we're ready.
The Devil walks out of frame, screaming in a high pitched voice as Dr. Matt faces the camera. He scratches his chin, thinking for a moment about what to say, then looks into the camera.
Dr. Matt: Really, what is there to say about the playing field in this match. I'm supposed to be facing the five best wrestlers in APW over this company's most valued prize. What it actually looks like I'm facing is a bunch of sad sack dickheads who couldn't count to 3 even if they were to start at 2.
We've got Spirit, who apparently has forgotten altogether that she has a match at One Night in Hell. Has anyone heard from here, in, like, ever? She showed up to Monday Night Overdrive, but lived up to her nickname by not acting very lively at all. And I mean lively in the sense of animated, not "Lively" like that little fruitcake who's holding the Overdrive title.
And how about Jason "The Menstration" Ricochet? The guy thinks I'm fucking clueless, then keeps saying Arcadia is taking part in the match? Fuck, dude, don't try to act like my disease is debilitating when you're fucking retarded when you're sober. And, furthermore, fuck you for thinking my alcoholism is my disease. My alcoholism is the fuel to my fire. It's the spinich to my Popeye. I'm like a motherfucking concept car; running entirely on alcohol. At least I know I have problems; I don't mask my downsides and call myself "Perfect". Of course, except when I'm part of the "Perfect Storm" tag team, but that's a different story. So you know what, you best shut your fucking mouth, and quit churning out that god-awful blog when you don't have a clue to what you're talking about. The only fucking thing sensational about you is how a no-talent, worthless piece of shit like you still has a job.
As for Sabur? Fuck, I tried to watch your promo. I really did. I sat down with intent of studying you, because I really wanted to try to get into the head of the thick-skulled man-child that you are and try to understand what makes you tick. About 4 seconds in, though, my will to live exploded. I'd rather listen to Panic! at the Disco then watch your promos. I'd rather watch my parents have sex than watch your promos. It's god fucking awful. I realize you tried to trash talk me somehow, again, like everyone else, take shots at the shots that I choose to take. Fuck that noise. I've accomplished more in 5 years stoned out of my mind then you could ever accomplish in five lifetime. You want to call me out when you're greatest work was in a tag team with Razor Ryan? You call yourself a "specimen", Sabur? Fuck, you're really full of yourself then, because I've seen more cum stains with more charm and talent then you.
Speaking of cum stains, that brings me to Link, who I'm sure has seen plenty in his day. After all, god knows what kind of sick shit that fucker is into. We know for a fact that he's kidnapped and tortured people before; it won't be long before he makes that next step to rape. Wait, sorry, that may be a little harsh. Maybe I'm just throwing random shit out here because I really can't think of anything else to say about Link. I mean, christ, the guy just shows up when and where he wants to, makes vague threats against Hurricane Jeff and the rest of the roster, then goes back to hiding in his mother's basement. You know what, Link, you can go fuck yourself with the rest of this motley crue of bitches. You want to call me Cindy Brady? I'll fucking turn you into Mike's first wife; you know, the one that died and everyone forgot about. I'll fucking erase you out of the god damn books if you ever as so much try to call me out on my habits or my education again. And how's this Dr. Seuss for you; "You cannot win, Link you Dink, you cannot win this, you stink. You will not be the last remaining; you're blood will be quickly draining. You will not win, Link, you Dink, you will die, Link, I think.
And finally, the de facto biggest joke of them all, Twister. Listen, I can't even say anything bad about the guy because he's so fucking boring. He doesn't do anything. You watch his promos and nothing really ever happens. It's not good, not really bad, they're just there. I never really understand what's going on, but there's bright noises and shiny things, so I guess I stay entertained. The sad thing is, if you were anybody else, I wouldn't have a problem with that. But, you're the fucking champion, for Christ's sake. Do something worthy of that fucking accolade.
The Devil walks into the frame and taps Dr. Matt on the shoulder.
The Devil: Good news and bad news. We're done, but we ran out of steel and wound up having to use Cerberus Bones in a few spots. And, unfortunately, if any mortal lays eyes on Cerberus Bones, they will annihilate themselves into antimatter, which could undo the fabric of space and time. Thus, we're going to have to stop filming.
Dr. Matt: This really just seems like a cheap out to me.
The Devil shrugs and walks away. Dr. Matt smiles, and turns to the camera.
Dr. Matt: Well, it goes without saying that after I go through this little training session, 100% Mattisfaction will be Guaranteed in the Elimination Chamber. Guaren-fucking-teed.
Dr. Matt walks away as the scene fades to black.
Dr. Matt puffs on the cigar, then blows out O's of smoke, which almost look like they have pentagrams on the inside of them. Dr. Matt smiles and looks into the camera.
Dr. Matt: Sunday Night, Action Packed Wrestling will present it's monthly Pay-Per-View "One Night in Hell". President Jeff has guarenteed every match will be hellish, be it the Casket, Buried Alive, Sadistic, Tree House of Horrors, 3 Stages of Hell, and the Elimination Chamber Matches. The fans will see the single most brutal night of wrestling ever to be shown on television. I've been given the opportunity to be in the final match of the evening; a match that will have to go above and beyond all the carnage the fans will have already witnessed. One Night in Hell. Elimination Chamber. For the APW World Heavyweight Championship. How does one truly prepare for something like this? How does a mere man ready himself to go through horrific torture and push other fellow human beings well past their physical, mental, and emotional limits? Simple.
Dr. Matt smiles as he sips on his scotch. The camera then dramatically zooms out to reveal that Dr. Matt's wooden chair is actually a massive, handcarved wooden throne on the edge of a cliff cut out of blood red rock. Rivers of lava flow below him will fire's burn behind him. Withered, screaming men and women are locked in terrifying torture devices, crying out in woe and agony. Dr. Matt, who has almost disappeared in this hellish panorama, yells out to the camera.
Dr. Matt: You gotta spend a night in hell!
The camera zooms back in closer to Dr. Matt. He clamps his teeth into his cigar as he gets to his feet. He tugs the crotch down on his pants with his free hand, then starts to walk to the side.
Dr. Matt: I know what you're thinking. Dr. Matt got himself a green screen and an amazing director and is shooting one kickass promo.
Dr. Matt stops to sip on some scotch and stares at a man who's in a device that is slowly pulling all his limbs apart. The man is screaming out in some foreign language. Dr. Matt blows smoke into his face.
Dr. Matt: Nope, I'm actually in Hell. Honest to God.
A sound that can only be described as the cry of a billion lost souls shuddering at the very name of the omniscient being that condemned them to an eternity of unimaginable pain rocks past Dr. Matt. Surprisingly, it kind of sounds like the purr of a kitten. Out of nowhere, a small, bald asian man wearing a loin cloth appears next to Matt.
The Asian Man: What have I told you about saying that word.
Dr. Matt: My bad. Ladies and gentlemen; Old Scratch himself. He is the Morning Star, the Greatest Deciever, Evil Incarnate... Lucifer.
The Asian Man: Hey, how's it going.
The Devil waves into the camera and talks suspiciously like Woody Allen.
Dr. Matt: Why don't you show them your true self?
The Devil: Are we going to go through this every five minutes? I hate looking like that. That's why I choose to take the form of this unassuming Thai guy.
Dr. Matt: Please?
The Asian Man: Fine.
The Devil's eyes literally burst into flames as he starts flexing every muscle in his bodies. Ram-like horns grow from just above his temples as a pointed tail flicks out from behind him. His scrawny frame begins to grow sinewy muscle and his feet turn into cloven hooves. He slowly starts to grow, rising up from being at Matt's chest to becoming as tall as the Good Doctor himself. Then, a blight, red burst of light fills the screen, and when all is said and done, Cher is standing next to Dr. Matt.
Cher: You happy?
Dr. Matt: What I don't get is why you don't stop when you got those badass horns and the tail. In fact, why is that part of your transformation?
The Devil/Cher/Whatever the Fuck it is: It's like a catepillar going into a cocoon. It's a lot of boring sciecnce that I don't really care to learn about.
Dr. Matt: A-ha. Well, I suppose you're wondering why I'm here. Plain and simple, I overdosed on caffeine the other night. My human body is still in the Doctor's Office. It's nice to know that Frank the Cameraman just left me there to die, and I'm going to show him why guys like Phil don't try to film my promos anymore once I get back up to Earth. Anyways, when I show up in Hell, Satan here takes a shit-fit because he bet Hitler and George Carlin that I'd win the Chamber Match.
Satan: Carlin bet on Sabur. If he wins, I have to kill Dane Cook; which I might just do anyways. Hitler bet on Twister. If he wins; I have to make Arcadia the number one contender. He just loves that chick. I'd tell him she's Jewish, but, come on, I'm the motherfucking Devil. It'll be great to torture him with the truth in a couple months.
Dr. Matt: And if I win, Satan's going to plant some Gay Porn in one of Hitler's secret bunkers. Gay Porn that's Gypsy-themed.
Cher: Anyways, homeboy here shows up, and I nearly shit a brick. Luckily, though, I found a loophole that allows me to send him back to Earth. I'd get into it, but it's a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo. Thankfully I have about 66 Million lawyers on retainer down here, and they got it all under control for me. But, Dr. Matt will have to serve one night in Hell before I can release him.
Dr. Matt: What a crazy coincidence. By the way, you mind changing back to the asian dude. This Cher thing is freaking me out.
Satan rolls its eyes, then snaps his fingers and he's instantaneously back into the little asian dude.
Dr. Matt: That seemed a lot less complicated then your transformation the other way.
The Asian Man: What, are you some sort of demonic transformation expert now. Go fuck yourself.
Dr. Matt: Temper, temper. Alright, so where were we in this ridiculously long introduction? Oh, right, so I'm in Hell, I got to spend the night, which became a problem because Jeff is expecting me to release another promo; but I can't go back to Earth until just minutes before One Night in Hell starts. As my luck would have it, though, the Devil has an agreement with the FCC to air whatever he wants whenever he wants.
Lucifer: Not so much an agreement; I'm the fucking Devil and just do what I want. I do it every day. In fact, most of VH1's line-up is produced by me.
Dr. Matt: So, I get to air my promo, and the Devil's going to train me to make sure I win the chamber. Because, after all, if I can spend a night in Hell, those pussies will be a cake-walk.
The Asian Man: Actually, I've been meaning to tell you something. Hell ain't exactly like it's portrayed up there. Things are a little more tame then you'd think.
Dr. Matt turns around, where a naked woman is having a basebll bat with nails poking through it shoved up her rectum.
Dr. Matt: Uh, that's pretty much what we think Hell is like, Big Red.
The Asian Man: Yeah, but she sold her kid to buy money for smack. This room is reserved for the people who truly did things that deserve eternal torture. Most of the rest of Hell is just everyone who didn't except that long-haired carpenter hippie freak as their personal savior.
Dr. Matt: No shit? So what's it like.
The Asian Man: Well, you know how everytime you want to have fun, some religious nutjob ruins it for you?
Dr. Matt: Yeah.
The Asian Man: Well, all those people are up in Heaven, organizing bake sales and listening to U2.
Dr. Matt's eyes widen. He can see where this is going.
The Devil: Follow me.
The two take a few steps to the left, where a metal door has almost appeared out of nowhere. The two walk through the door and the camera follows. On the other side is some sort of rave/orgy. Thumping techno music is playing while all sorts of people all dancing, screwing, drinking, shooting up, smoking up, and other various things that I really don't care to go into detail talking about.
The Devil: Welcome to the best night club in the universe.
Dr. Matt: Fuck, makes me wish you didn't dress me in these faggy clothes.
The Devil: It's the best I could scrounge up on such short notice. I could've let you walk around naked.
Dr. Matt: I think I'd fit in better if I was.
Dr. Matt tries not to stare at a male-female-goat threesome going on next to him.
Dr. Matt: Uh, just a quick question; how's this supposed to help me train for One Night in Hell?
The Devil: It's not. I just wanted a drink.
The Devil takes a bottle of beer out of the hand of a guy in the middle of an orgy. Dr. Matt and The Devil then walk through a crowd of glow-stick waving freaks dancing to the music. The make their way to the other side of the crowd and walk out through another door. The two walk into another room, which looks like a small gym. A wrestling ring is bathed in an eerie red spotlight, as hundreds of little gremlins resembling the one that tried to kill Bart Simpson in that ond Treehouse of Horror furiously work at building something that looks similiar to an elimination chamber.
The Devil: Why the fuck isn't this ready yet?
A couple gremlins scream back something that sounds like Ancient Greek spoken with a Newfoundland accent. The Devil screams something back at them in the same dialect, then turns to Dr. Matt.
The Devil: Sorry, my practice chamber isn't ready yet. I guess this is what happens when you hire illegal immigrants from Tartarus. Can't fucking do anything right. You might have to talk into the camera to kill some time.
Dr. Matt: You mean talk trash? How juvenile.
The Devil: Sorry, I'll let you know when we're ready.
The Devil walks out of frame, screaming in a high pitched voice as Dr. Matt faces the camera. He scratches his chin, thinking for a moment about what to say, then looks into the camera.
Dr. Matt: Really, what is there to say about the playing field in this match. I'm supposed to be facing the five best wrestlers in APW over this company's most valued prize. What it actually looks like I'm facing is a bunch of sad sack dickheads who couldn't count to 3 even if they were to start at 2.
We've got Spirit, who apparently has forgotten altogether that she has a match at One Night in Hell. Has anyone heard from here, in, like, ever? She showed up to Monday Night Overdrive, but lived up to her nickname by not acting very lively at all. And I mean lively in the sense of animated, not "Lively" like that little fruitcake who's holding the Overdrive title.
And how about Jason "The Menstration" Ricochet? The guy thinks I'm fucking clueless, then keeps saying Arcadia is taking part in the match? Fuck, dude, don't try to act like my disease is debilitating when you're fucking retarded when you're sober. And, furthermore, fuck you for thinking my alcoholism is my disease. My alcoholism is the fuel to my fire. It's the spinich to my Popeye. I'm like a motherfucking concept car; running entirely on alcohol. At least I know I have problems; I don't mask my downsides and call myself "Perfect". Of course, except when I'm part of the "Perfect Storm" tag team, but that's a different story. So you know what, you best shut your fucking mouth, and quit churning out that god-awful blog when you don't have a clue to what you're talking about. The only fucking thing sensational about you is how a no-talent, worthless piece of shit like you still has a job.
As for Sabur? Fuck, I tried to watch your promo. I really did. I sat down with intent of studying you, because I really wanted to try to get into the head of the thick-skulled man-child that you are and try to understand what makes you tick. About 4 seconds in, though, my will to live exploded. I'd rather listen to Panic! at the Disco then watch your promos. I'd rather watch my parents have sex than watch your promos. It's god fucking awful. I realize you tried to trash talk me somehow, again, like everyone else, take shots at the shots that I choose to take. Fuck that noise. I've accomplished more in 5 years stoned out of my mind then you could ever accomplish in five lifetime. You want to call me out when you're greatest work was in a tag team with Razor Ryan? You call yourself a "specimen", Sabur? Fuck, you're really full of yourself then, because I've seen more cum stains with more charm and talent then you.
Speaking of cum stains, that brings me to Link, who I'm sure has seen plenty in his day. After all, god knows what kind of sick shit that fucker is into. We know for a fact that he's kidnapped and tortured people before; it won't be long before he makes that next step to rape. Wait, sorry, that may be a little harsh. Maybe I'm just throwing random shit out here because I really can't think of anything else to say about Link. I mean, christ, the guy just shows up when and where he wants to, makes vague threats against Hurricane Jeff and the rest of the roster, then goes back to hiding in his mother's basement. You know what, Link, you can go fuck yourself with the rest of this motley crue of bitches. You want to call me Cindy Brady? I'll fucking turn you into Mike's first wife; you know, the one that died and everyone forgot about. I'll fucking erase you out of the god damn books if you ever as so much try to call me out on my habits or my education again. And how's this Dr. Seuss for you; "You cannot win, Link you Dink, you cannot win this, you stink. You will not be the last remaining; you're blood will be quickly draining. You will not win, Link, you Dink, you will die, Link, I think.
And finally, the de facto biggest joke of them all, Twister. Listen, I can't even say anything bad about the guy because he's so fucking boring. He doesn't do anything. You watch his promos and nothing really ever happens. It's not good, not really bad, they're just there. I never really understand what's going on, but there's bright noises and shiny things, so I guess I stay entertained. The sad thing is, if you were anybody else, I wouldn't have a problem with that. But, you're the fucking champion, for Christ's sake. Do something worthy of that fucking accolade.
The Devil walks into the frame and taps Dr. Matt on the shoulder.
The Devil: Good news and bad news. We're done, but we ran out of steel and wound up having to use Cerberus Bones in a few spots. And, unfortunately, if any mortal lays eyes on Cerberus Bones, they will annihilate themselves into antimatter, which could undo the fabric of space and time. Thus, we're going to have to stop filming.
Dr. Matt: This really just seems like a cheap out to me.
The Devil shrugs and walks away. Dr. Matt smiles, and turns to the camera.
Dr. Matt: Well, it goes without saying that after I go through this little training session, 100% Mattisfaction will be Guaranteed in the Elimination Chamber. Guaren-fucking-teed.
Dr. Matt walks away as the scene fades to black.
