Post by Dr. Matt on Nov 20, 2008 21:21:14 GMT -4
We open with Dr. Matt sitting on a steel chair with a single, dim spotlight on him. He's slumped in the chair, his head straight with his body as he continues to wear the neck brace. In his left hand, a tape recorder (does anybody besides Jigsaw even use those anymore?) In his right, a dog collar and a leash.
Dr. Matt pushes play on the tape recorder, and the hook from his old entrance music, "So What'cha Want" by the Beastie Boys, can be heard.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
Dr. Matt stops the tape and rewinds for a second. He clicks play.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
He does this again. And again. Just listening to the hook, again and again. Finally, he speaks, but he just stares at the dog collar and doesn't lift his eyes to the camera.
Dr. Matt: This tape recorder, like me, is obsolete. No body works on them anymore. No body wants them any more. There's better, faster, more powerful technology out there. Like me, though, this tape recorder was once a rugged piece of hardware. It could stand up to punishment a lot better than the newer toys out there. It doesn't skip a beat if you drop it. It just keeps playing. But, eventually, years of wear and tear takes it toll. One drop from too high of a place. Pieces inside start to break down after its button's have been pushed one too many times. Then, it finally breaks. You might throw on some duct tape, or maybe even open it up to see what the problem is. But, it's too hard to fix. There's nothing you can do anymore. It'll break, never work again, and you just throw it in the trash.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
My neck... is fucking... broken. Broken. Yet I'm forced to fight. I'm forced to walk down that god damned ramp and risk my fucking life just so a couple extra hillbilly, inbred, cornfed assfucks will tune into to APW's programs. Well, let me tell you, fuck that noise.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
I'm done with this shit. I mean, I lost to Link. Motherfucking Link. Why? Because MY FUCKING NECK IS BROKEN. How do you expect me to fight? How do you expect me to put asses in the seats when I have the mobility of a fucking geriatric woman with osteoporosis? No, you don't care. You don't. Like this god damned tape recorder, you can't accept that this reliable player is about to bite the dust once and for all. Instead of being careful with it. Instead of stopping it before throwing it into reverse or fast forward, you keep pounding away on it, until one day.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This timmmmmeeee.... I'mmmmmmmmmmmm loooooooooosssssssssss". Matt stops the tape recorder as the tape slows down.
It fucking dies. That's what's happening to me. If I don't fucking stop, I'm going to die in that god damn ring. Case closed. There's no "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Dead body; in the ring. Is that getting through to anyone? Does anybody realize what sort of legal problems APW will go through when this happens? Of course, you don't care. Hell, you could sell the DVD to Faces of Death and make millions. Fans all around the world, who don't give two shits about me now, will make the "Dr. Matt" Memorial Show the highest rated show on television. Hell, I'm worth more dead than alive.
But, you must be thinking, "Matt, why show up, then? You can choose not to fight." You're right. I have the choice. Tuesday Night, I thought I could handle Link. I thought my neck was good enough to face even the lowliest of competitors, but I was wrong. What was supposed to be a warm-up ended with me being hung from the top rope like a trophy catch. Up until now, I couldn't give two shits about Trevor Blackwell. He can keep walking around with that semi he's got for me for all I care. But, as I hung from that rope; with the air being choked from my lungs and the nerves throughout my body being destroyed one by one, I made a choice.
Dr. Matt takes the Dog Collar and places it around his neck brace. He fastens it, and begins to tighten. He then takes the leash, and connects it to the loop.
I've decided that either I will kill Trevor Blackwell in the Dog Collar match, or I will die. Plain and fucking simple. Either I leave the match in handcuffs or in a body bag. Why? Well, I realized all my problems revolve around Trevor Blackwell. He broke my neck the first time all those years ago. That injury turned a casual binge drinker into a pill-popping, line-snorting, smack-shooting, toke-puffing drunk. My life has systematically been destroyed since that day, and it all comes back to Trevor. And, as I sit here, breathing what could very well be one of my last breaths of air, I know that I'm only here today because of that man.
Dr. Matt starts winding the leash in his hands so it becomes tighter and tighter around his neck.
I will not stop until I am dead. End of fucking story. If you knock me out, Trevor, I will kill you when I wake back up. If you paralyze me, I will get into a fucking Stephen Hawkings Deluxe RollKing Wheelchair, use my fucking breath to steer it, and ram it straight the fuck up your ass. Death, Blackwell. Fucking death. That is the only way it ends. My life isn't worth living anymore, so when I go to hell, you are coming with me.
Dr. Matt finally looks up at the camera.
Are you ready to have my blood on your hands? Are you ready to stand over my corpse as the paramedics check for a pulse that isn't there? Are you ready to finally earn your "killer" nickname? If not, Trevor, than I pity you, because I am ready. So, Trevor, I suggest you pray to whoever you think will save your soul. I suggest you hold Skylar in your arms and know that she will be losing the daddy that she loves. And finally, I suggest you do every fucking thing you have ever wanted to before you die. Because, at November Reign, I'm going out in a blaze of fucking glory, and One Hundred Percent Mattisfaction is Guaranteed!
Dr. Matt smirks into the camera, before looking back at the tape recorder. "I think I'm losing my mind" is slowly played out, as the spotlight on Dr. Matt fades, before Dr. Matt finally breaks the tape recorder in half.
Dr. Matt pushes play on the tape recorder, and the hook from his old entrance music, "So What'cha Want" by the Beastie Boys, can be heard.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
Dr. Matt stops the tape and rewinds for a second. He clicks play.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
He does this again. And again. Just listening to the hook, again and again. Finally, he speaks, but he just stares at the dog collar and doesn't lift his eyes to the camera.
Dr. Matt: This tape recorder, like me, is obsolete. No body works on them anymore. No body wants them any more. There's better, faster, more powerful technology out there. Like me, though, this tape recorder was once a rugged piece of hardware. It could stand up to punishment a lot better than the newer toys out there. It doesn't skip a beat if you drop it. It just keeps playing. But, eventually, years of wear and tear takes it toll. One drop from too high of a place. Pieces inside start to break down after its button's have been pushed one too many times. Then, it finally breaks. You might throw on some duct tape, or maybe even open it up to see what the problem is. But, it's too hard to fix. There's nothing you can do anymore. It'll break, never work again, and you just throw it in the trash.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
My neck... is fucking... broken. Broken. Yet I'm forced to fight. I'm forced to walk down that god damned ramp and risk my fucking life just so a couple extra hillbilly, inbred, cornfed assfucks will tune into to APW's programs. Well, let me tell you, fuck that noise.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This time, I'm losing my mind."
I'm done with this shit. I mean, I lost to Link. Motherfucking Link. Why? Because MY FUCKING NECK IS BROKEN. How do you expect me to fight? How do you expect me to put asses in the seats when I have the mobility of a fucking geriatric woman with osteoporosis? No, you don't care. You don't. Like this god damned tape recorder, you can't accept that this reliable player is about to bite the dust once and for all. Instead of being careful with it. Instead of stopping it before throwing it into reverse or fast forward, you keep pounding away on it, until one day.
"I think I'm losing my mind this time. This timmmmmeeee.... I'mmmmmmmmmmmm loooooooooosssssssssss". Matt stops the tape recorder as the tape slows down.
It fucking dies. That's what's happening to me. If I don't fucking stop, I'm going to die in that god damn ring. Case closed. There's no "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Dead body; in the ring. Is that getting through to anyone? Does anybody realize what sort of legal problems APW will go through when this happens? Of course, you don't care. Hell, you could sell the DVD to Faces of Death and make millions. Fans all around the world, who don't give two shits about me now, will make the "Dr. Matt" Memorial Show the highest rated show on television. Hell, I'm worth more dead than alive.
But, you must be thinking, "Matt, why show up, then? You can choose not to fight." You're right. I have the choice. Tuesday Night, I thought I could handle Link. I thought my neck was good enough to face even the lowliest of competitors, but I was wrong. What was supposed to be a warm-up ended with me being hung from the top rope like a trophy catch. Up until now, I couldn't give two shits about Trevor Blackwell. He can keep walking around with that semi he's got for me for all I care. But, as I hung from that rope; with the air being choked from my lungs and the nerves throughout my body being destroyed one by one, I made a choice.
Dr. Matt takes the Dog Collar and places it around his neck brace. He fastens it, and begins to tighten. He then takes the leash, and connects it to the loop.
I've decided that either I will kill Trevor Blackwell in the Dog Collar match, or I will die. Plain and fucking simple. Either I leave the match in handcuffs or in a body bag. Why? Well, I realized all my problems revolve around Trevor Blackwell. He broke my neck the first time all those years ago. That injury turned a casual binge drinker into a pill-popping, line-snorting, smack-shooting, toke-puffing drunk. My life has systematically been destroyed since that day, and it all comes back to Trevor. And, as I sit here, breathing what could very well be one of my last breaths of air, I know that I'm only here today because of that man.
Dr. Matt starts winding the leash in his hands so it becomes tighter and tighter around his neck.
I will not stop until I am dead. End of fucking story. If you knock me out, Trevor, I will kill you when I wake back up. If you paralyze me, I will get into a fucking Stephen Hawkings Deluxe RollKing Wheelchair, use my fucking breath to steer it, and ram it straight the fuck up your ass. Death, Blackwell. Fucking death. That is the only way it ends. My life isn't worth living anymore, so when I go to hell, you are coming with me.
Dr. Matt finally looks up at the camera.
Are you ready to have my blood on your hands? Are you ready to stand over my corpse as the paramedics check for a pulse that isn't there? Are you ready to finally earn your "killer" nickname? If not, Trevor, than I pity you, because I am ready. So, Trevor, I suggest you pray to whoever you think will save your soul. I suggest you hold Skylar in your arms and know that she will be losing the daddy that she loves. And finally, I suggest you do every fucking thing you have ever wanted to before you die. Because, at November Reign, I'm going out in a blaze of fucking glory, and One Hundred Percent Mattisfaction is Guaranteed!
Dr. Matt smirks into the camera, before looking back at the tape recorder. "I think I'm losing my mind" is slowly played out, as the spotlight on Dr. Matt fades, before Dr. Matt finally breaks the tape recorder in half.
