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Post by Matt Oliveira on Jun 27, 2007 7:05:36 GMT -5
Matt: "...why do you care?..."
Mike: "-Because I'm your tag partner! I don't want other people screwing up MY matches! I have a reputation too, you know!"
*Matt snickers* "...You still don't know...do you?"
"Know what?"
"...You tell me. What unburied hatchet have we tripped over again and again? What is it."
"What?...Have you been drinking or something? There wouldn't be an "unburied hatchet" if you decided to work with me in the first place! But I know that god damn team was only for your benefit...and that didn't even work!"
"...So?"
"You've been nothing but a waste of energy, THAT'S what.
"...Fine...how about you use that energy for something good. This Sunday, I want you to pound my face in. I want you to make me bleed...I want to get hit by the Lethal Kick one more time."
"Hey, if that's what you want, that's what you'll get. I'd be more than proud than to straighten you out once more."
"Great. I'll see you then...oh, and by the way, don't tape your fists. If you tape them it keeps the knuckles from digging into flesh...and I don't want that."
*Mike looks slightly wierded out by Matt's need for self-destruction and abuse. However in the same mind, happy to get to cross paths with his arch-rival. Mike walks out of the room, the camera turning back to Matt, with zoned-out eyes, and a smile cracked along his lips.*
EoT
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Post by Matt Oliveira on Jul 25, 2007 8:28:01 GMT -5
*July 25th, 2007-"I Taste Tears" (RP)*
*We take you to the room of discontent known as Matt's lair. The lights are turned off, and Matt is sitting in the corner by candle light. Surprisingly, he wears no shirt, no jacket, his bare torso exposed. His denim jeans shorts are now black, rather than the standard blue we've seen him in. Around his neck is a Gothic cross, partially covered by flat-black hair (dyed since meeting Vlad), and an ankh is painted around his left eye. It is picked up, that some of the scars and wounds on Matt's torso and forehead are new, from the Shattered Dreams Deathmatch that ended a firecracker-like debut. Oliveira is slumped over, more-so the top of his head to the camera rather than his face. Slowly, he sits back up, his arms depressingly draped onto his lap.*
Matt: "...a teenage mother lays her son into his crib, to sleep, to dream, to keep her hopes of her child's destiny alive...years pass, and a teenage son lays his mother into her grave, to forever sleep, to forever dream...and to end the hopes of his mother's fate...who would know that that son...was me. Who would know the son, that since early adolescence, fed from the stagnant blood of addicts, who drank their pain, to let them dream. Matthew Oliveira...the Dream Seller?...the Sandman?...or the equivalence of a vampire bat? A mosquito?"
"...long before Saturday night have I tasted tears...long before have I felt the pain of another...from one who dealt pain, to one who coped, to one who relieves...I know pain. I know what it's like to feel cold, to feel alone, to know that the one you most cared about is a million miles away or six-feet under. What makes you think made me who I am? A con? A joke? Do you people think I do this to be different? No...I am who I am, and that is Oliveira. I am the legitimate, and I'm not proud of my sorrow, I hate it. If I didn't have the opportunity of dropping kids through panes of glass then it wouldn't be worth it. I am the melancholy, which brings anger, sadness, confusion...one vicious circle...and I watch this rat-race, this oneupmanship. One brings a knife, the other brings a gun, one brings a bigger gun, the other brings a bomb, one stalks, then the other assaults, one assaults, the other kills. No end to it...a vicious circle. Which is where I belong, the measuring stick. You laugh in my face, I'll drink your tears. You bring a chair, and I'll bring a better one. You drop me 10 feet, I'll give you 15. You put me through fire, I'll put you through hell. I will ALWAYS live to prime the leader board, because I swear, no matter what happens to me or my sacrifices...I have NOTHING to lose."
*Matt rests his back to the wall, zooming in on his left pectoral, over his heart. Tattooed, in cursive, is the word "Unscarred" (Mondo rip-off sorry), and surprisingly, right through the "A" is a fresh laceration, almost a falsehood of the word.*
"...and all to gain. This reputation has never had a downgrade...everytime my name is said, I prove myself right. Every time you'd see a hat...shirt...DVD...I prove myself right. Every time a chill goes up your spine when you hear "Puritania" or "Mein Teil"...I prove myself right. I never needed a title to do it, and I possibly never will. A mother lays her son to bed...and the son then finds his mother dead. The one to take your pain and fears...is the one to drink your tears. I'll drink your tears and steal your sight...because I'm Oliveira...and I know I'm right."
*The camera pans back a bit, only to see Matt staring at the floor in front of him, no poses, no final send-off.*
*END OF SEGMENT*
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Post by Matt Oliveira on Aug 21, 2007 13:53:18 GMT -5
*August 21, 2007- "...and Those Tears are Mine" (depressing and emotionally distraught promo)*
*Matt is sitting in the same corner as last time, in the same attire of only a pair of black denim short, still wearing his kneepads and boots. He sits cross-legged, he hands falling onto his lap, and his head lowered slightly, looking at the ground ahead of him. It is discovered he has a new tattoo on his right pectoral of a Gothic cross, along with two words over the foot of it, unable to be picked-up by the camera.*
Matt: "...they say once something is scarred so many times, the nerves die off and you can no longer feel it. You don't have to suffer it anymore. You don't have to deal with the pain and the anguish and the stress... no hardships...no lies...nothing. I've been on this earth for twenty years...I've been scarred so many times...resulting in either the shedding of blood or tears. So much hurting...so much NEEDLESS hurting...I've TRIED to be the good guy...I've TRIED to do what's right...I've TRIED to be a saint. Over...and over and over and Over And OVER AND OVER AND OVER. It hasn't paid off. It never paid off. If Christ wanted us to turn the other cheek, THEN WHY THE HELL DOES IT HURT SO MUCH TO GET HIT!?!?..."
*Matt's head falls into his hands, but just before his head hits, a pair of tears can be seen falling off of his face and onto his jeans. His breathing becomes spontaneous, unable to maintain a steady pattern.*
"...WHY WAS I CHOSEN TO FEEL LIKE THIS?...WHY AM I A PIN-CUSHION FOR SO MANY PROBLEMS?...WHY DO I TRY, OVER AND OVER, AND YET I CONTINUE TO HINDER?!?!...Wh-...Why does my brain always cause it's own imbalances...Why am I a human being...Why do I care too much...Why do I want to feel love so badly that I've turned into a cold, selected-hearing, ignorant, calculative person...I DON'T WANT TO BE THIS WAY!...I DON'T WANT TO BE THE FREAK! I DON'T WANT TO BE MISUNDERSTOOD!...Why do I imagine conversations?!? Why do I always think of the Worst-Case Scenario?...WHY DOES THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO REVEAL TO BE TRUE?!?!"
*After that line, Matt breaks down, tears rolling down his face, yet refusing to look up to the camera. His chest convulses, yet he doesn't make a sound. Slowly, he heaves a few deep breaths, and continues.*
"...why is it normal to be like this?...This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be punished for a good track record...I have so few problems that the ones remaining are magnified and multiplied ten-fold. Did anyone actually think that a man so cold and calculated couldn't feel the life ripped out of his chest? Did anyone think that a black heart beats black blood?...My blood is red...and so is everyone else's...and we've prove that time and time again. So, kids, is my heart black or red?...Black or Red?...BLACK OR RED?!!...Am I evil or am I misunderstood?...Satan may live in the depths of hell but even he has eyes that forever weep, and Jesus may shed a tear for even the smallest of sins, but WHY MUST I? I hate my life, but I cherish that ounce of gold in that ton of rock, and I'll do anything just to hold it in my hand..."
"...I walk down one of the most isolated roads...and that road is paved in my head. It never ends. It never began. Infinity is hell. So remember...the next time I'm carving your face with a knife...stapling your ear into the side of your head...or jabbing a fork into your hamstring...it's nothing you did...but what I DIDN'T do...and...I know...I am right..."
Matt doesn't budge, still staring into the abyss that is a blank stare into his palms. The camera fades out, figuring the Genius probably wants to be by himself.
*END OF SEGMENT.*
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