For the first second or two there is blackness. The scene opens up today outside a bank with a sign that reads "North Country Bank and Trust". Dorito, standing there with his long silver trenchcoat and silver hair hanging back as he is seen taking a deep breath before going to grab the handle. He then slowly pulls the door open and walks inside. He goes up to the front teller who smiles at him with his sunglasses on inside.

Teller: Hello sir, how may I assist you today?

Dorito: Yes, I'd like to open up account.

Teller: Okay, what kind of account would you lik?

Dorito: Ummm, I would like the account where I can get the free gun.

Teller: Okay.

She pulls out a small catalog, and opens it up.

Teller: Any type in particular? Hand? Rifle?...

Dorito: Hmmm, rifle would be best I believe, because I'm going to do some hunting.

Teller: Any one in mind?

Dorito: Hmmm...

He takes the catalog, beginning to flip through the pages, then skips back to ponder for a second or two, then points at one while showing her.

Teller: Alright. Once we get the background check completed, it's all yours to go.

Dorito: Okay, um, sounds good. Say, and you keep them all here?

Teller: Ah yes. In the ah vault, we keep in there approximately five hundred firearms at all times.

Dorito: Five hundred of these? In your vault?

Teller: Yes, in our vault.

Dorito: Wow.

Pulling out an application, she sets it there for him along with a pen as Dorito looks to his right at the smalltown bank, seeing no customers at all, and an old man of a security guard standing in the corner with his head down, eyes closed.

Teller: We will have to do a background check first though before you get your firearm.

Dorito: At the bank here?

Teller: Yes, at the bank. Which we are a licensed firearm dealer.

Dorito: Oh, you are?

Teller: Uh-huh.

Dorito: You're a bank AND a licensed firearm dealer? So you sell a lot of guns then?

Teller: That we do indeed.

Dorito: Hmm, (looking down as he's filling out the application) have you ever been a judicated, mentally-defective, or have you ever been committed to a mental institution? Well, I've never been committed to a mental institution. But what does this mean if I have ever been a judicated mentally-defective?

Teller: It would mean something involved in a crime.

Dorito: (Popping his head up to look at her) Crime?

Teller: Yes, a crime.

Dorito: Like a murder, for instance?

Teller: Yes, like a murder.

Dorito: (Looking back down) Well I've never committed a murder. I've exterminated a pest before in the past, so would that count?

Teller: I wouldn't believe so.

Dorito: Good. So I'm just normally mentally-defective, not criminally.

Dorito, looking back up at her, smiles.

Teller: (laughing) Exactly.

Dorito: Well then, I'm all done. So here's my application.

Teller: Alright. If you would like to take a seat or come back later, it should only take about an hour for the background check. Would you like to make any sort of deposit with this account?

Dorito: Oh, yes. A thousand dollars should be good.

He reaches inside his coat, pulling out a credit card.

Dorito: Here, take it out of this.

Teller: That's different, most people use a paycheck or cash to open an account. First time I've seen anyone transfer money from one bank to another to start an account with a debit card.

She swipes it and hands it back to him, and he puts it back into his coat.

Teller: Alright, if you pass the check, you should have your gun in an hour.

Dorito: Alrighty, I'll be back later then.

Dorito walks toward the door, pulling it open to step outside into the cold chill of another sunny-snowless day in the middle of winter. He stops as he stands just outside the small bank on the small town street, taking in a breath as he looks about, noticing the clock outside that reads 11:33. He then begins walking down the sidewalk, closing his coat up to keep some warmth as he sneers.

Dorito: A bank that contains hundreds of firearms in it's own building where anyone, man, woman, or child, with a penny or more can easily get ahold of a weapon. A weapon that in this country is considered a right by simple birth. The right to bear arms. I do wonder what shall happen when I come back an hour from now in time. Time, hmm. Time is used in the timing of a simple computer program. Inside the wired though, there is no time. Bound by nothing, you can run around for endless rhythms. Nothing truly ever ages inside the program because it isn't written to. Like in this reality, this world, aging is the sign of time, however the ability to age can be paused or reversed, not through creams or massages, but through cold-genetics. Just like one could genetically turn their skin blue. Peel off a layer, the one below is blue as well. It's all in the genes and changing them is possible. To allow time to be kept by those inside the program, it would have to be written in. And for a program such as this world to be as detailed as it is, it would be written in. However, time isn't real, it's just a man-made concept that's not really questioned. There's no real proof of it's existence, like that for God.

I remember reading a passage from a book once, "The Hitchhiker's Guide To the Galaxy", and it was like "I refuse to proof that I exist, says God, for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing." And then upon realizing that, God exploded. Speaking of God, it feels like Missle is the God of WWCWF. For we shall put our hands together, bow our heads, and drop to our knees before him. For every being that follows in the name of Missle, participates in the religion that is WWCWF in one way or another. The fans, live in person or at home as they watch television, all follow this service of worship in one way or another. Millions of people believe as they cheer and boo the wrestlers as they clash amongst one another to become the undisputed universal champion, second only to Missle. The crew for the shows are patrons of the Church of Missle, assisting the wrestlers with anything and everything, yet still closer than the simple follower. The wrestlers are the head beings, the saints, that do what they are each told for they all have a connection to Missle. All believe in him as they fight with all that they have, down to the last breath and final drop of blood, they all shall fight. And then you have the one and only, the original, the almighty creator that keeps all life moving and with function as they all have a purpose. For every one that believes in Missle, every single person, from David Cote to the ring announcer, to the director in the production truck, to the four year old kidding staying up late as they watch TV at home from the comfort of their own living room as the rest of the family gathers around for the time of worship. The little time where we all get away from the other six days and twenty-two hours of the week. The time we all become involved in a Distortion. Miss it, and you anger your God to do something drastic, for no one can stop the Missle. Hundreds, thousands, have tried throughout the world, and none have come close to stopping him. You can't beat the original. However, those millions of people all want to be his number one. The kids will grow, some will remain peasant followers, few will try to involved with the church itself, even fewer will become a saint, but only one can stand next to God, to feel the power. The power. The greatness. Behold the supremacy that is Missle.

I want that feeling, that greatness, that power. Twenty-some other saints right now, a hundred or some patron helpers, and millions of meager followers. I want that spot, I need that spot. I must have it, I must have the precious. However, after this past tuesday, it would seem Missle already has a chosen one. The chosen one being (snarling) Mmaaatt...Hhhellmmmmsleeeyy. God has chosen the one that will stand beside him in all that is, and I can't stand it. I despise the thought. I fear the thought. I HATE the thought. It HAS to be me. ME. ME!! NO ONE ELSE!! NO ONE!!!

Dorito suddenly snaps out of it, stopping his rambling to look around at the people who have gathered around as he stands looking down at a small child who sits upon a small red toy horse settled against a brick wall, where the insertion of twenty-five cents gets you thirty seconds of rocking in the saddle of this horse. A man standing behind him calls out.

Man: Buddy, are you alright?

Dorito senses him, breathing in, his shoulders going up for a moment before coming down as the crowd take a step back in simple fear of this man they have never seen before in their entire lives, let alone have yet to even see his face except for the child who stares up at Dorito with his jaw hanging. Dorito looks straight ahead, then back down at the kid.

Dorito: No, I am not.

Dorito, suddenly spins about, the ends of the coat catching some wind as it flows through the air before coming back down as people quickly scatter as he walks away from the kid, continuing down the sidewalk before he got lost in his thoughts, but resuming them while the people merely gawk, wasting several seconds of their life as they unknowingly watch a man walk away who may or may not be the owner of an automatic rifle in a short matter of time.

Dorito: Missle has chosen Matt to be his chosen one. But that should not be. I will be the number one. Matt has bloodied me before on many occasions, as I have done to him, but he has never pinned me, and I the same to him. We have stood triumphant upon one another. Him over me when I first let out my anger in a streetfight that no one believed I had a chance to win, not even myself. But then I stood over him when we went to hell in a cell. The time is coming when we will clash one on one for this position, and I will bring about the end of the world with me in order to get that spot. If you becoming champion and my falling to you is fate, then it is unwritten. To become the world champion, I would do anything. Anything. I'll go through Kibosh again, which I will this coming tuesday. For if I ever wanted to see him at any time, in any part of the world, all I have to do is shine a light upon the picture of his father and look for the shadow. For no one respects a shadow. And no one could ever respect you, if you don't respect yourself. Isn't that right, Pain Express?

Yes, you are a man of much heart, much loyality, much fight. You fight for what is right, not to be champion. You're a loyal follower. I could never respect a man who doesn't respect himself. You may have been at one time a simple peasant with almost nothing, but you have worked and prayed so hard that you have become apart of the elite in the sainthood, however you cannot be champion, for I won't let you. The winner of this match has to be God's supreme favorite to be by his side, for God will be there first-hand to watch the match, although he need not be for he sees all. You will never be champion, Pain Express. Never. Not as long as I am still functioning in the remotest sort. Because I know what God wants, and you don't have it, so even if you did one time become champion, he would throw you aside for another. You fight for the world, but you do not fight to take the world, and that is your weakness.

Speaking of weakness, I know Matt's. Yes I do. Matt has a weakness, God. And once I expose that weakness to you, you will not want him by your side, but me instead. Yet you still claim him as your champion. Why, God? Why? If I cannot be your champion, then I will defy you. I will defy God. For not even an original is perfect. I will bring the end of the earth with me in becoming champion, I shall bring the end of all creation to defeat God. However I do not believe in fate, for Missle is God and all can see him which is proof of his existence, so with proof there is no need for faith, no need to remain obedient, like a slave. God is a tyrant. Where we believe all that he says. In that case, George W Bush could be God, but it is not so. So proof means no more faith, so no faith means no God, so thus God is unwritten and defeated. I will defeat God, I will defeat him. I will put you out of your misery, along with everyone else's, by unwriting you.

Amazingly enough it is just then that Dorito has walked around the town, when he snaps out of it to find himself standing right where he began, outside the bank. He looks at the clock, 12:33.

Dorito: I'm perfect.

He grabs the handle to the door and pauses for a second.

Dorito: Missle is not God, for I do not believe in him. Do I get the gun, or not?

And with that Dorito pulls the door open and the scene ends, reverting to blackness. "TO BE CONTINUED" flashes afterwards.