The scene begins tonight with Alicia sitting at a table booth by herself, of which looks to be some sort of restaurant. She leans back against the window, her head tilted as she looks outside at the night, at a nearly empty parking lot, while she keeps her legs up on the rest of the seat. The only thing on the table is a purse and a couple bottles of water.

Alicia: What a waste of life, of time, of fun that I could be having. Having to wait here for him to get off work. I could be at the gym, training, working out, for the eight woman tag team match friday night. If I take Sonic and Dorito's history and ability in tag team matches, then this one is in the bag, even if the tag team champions are on the opposing side. But I'm not Sonic, and I'm definitely not Dorito. No, I'm their sister, the tag team blood is in me, and I will one day have a partner and go after the belts. Bartuzzinni sisters or Da Westside Gangstaz, it doesn't matter, one day down the line. Perhaps in three weeks, or in three years, it'll happen, yeah.

She grabs a half-drinken bottle of water, twisting the cap off as she puts the neck of it to her mouth and throws the bottle up, taking a swig as she continues to look out the window at two people walking together on the sidewalk across the street in the moonlight. She puts the bottle down on the table, leaving the cap off as she just lets go of it, dropping it to bounce once or twice and do a little spin of its own before coming to its own stop.

Alicia: This is so boring. Talk about a clash friday night, Bartuzzinni girls, Gangstaz, Sarah, Random, then Lisa, Alicia. Everyone has their own bad blood going. Pride won't really be taken a stance in this match, as it's going to breakdown into all-out action. Where the ref loses control and suddenly forget who the legal wrestlers are. That's what is going to happen. Everyone in this match has held a title in 3WL except for Lisa and I. Sarah Stiles, one of my partners for this match, lost the cruiserweight title to current champion, Mystika. Could ask her for some advice for when I get Mystika in the ring. But that means Lisa Lopez this friday night. I offered my number one contendership if she could pin me, just to see if my debut was a fluke or not. I dunno if anyone has ever defended their number one contendership before in this league, but I intend to do it. To defend it against whomever I must to prove to myself, to the fans, to the other women in the locker room, to the champion, that I am a viable threat to the holder of that title. Perhaps I'm even a viable threat to other titles, perhaps every title. Dorito is a former world heavyweight champion, and I was married to a former world heavyweight champion, Matt Helmsley. Matt...that was a great journey, and he changed my life. Then Dorito took me another route. But now, now I'm taking him a new route. He took me into a route of near-bankruptcy, but now I'm taking control and pulling away from this. I don't want to be here. He doesn't want to be here. Yet here we are, at McDonald's burger place of unhealthy eating and quicker bringer of death.

She grabs the neck of the bottle, lifting it to her lips to take a quick swig before putting it back down.

Alicia: I can't believe I'm starting to sound like him, but this place is really depressing. That couple across the street is really depressing. Here I am, in my twenties, without a boyfriend. I don't even remember the last time I went on a date. But that's what I remember the rave was all about near the end of elementary school, boys. Boys, boys, boys. School then became more about boys than it was education. But this place is so depressing to think about the past, yet you do. You know the meat came from cows that were slaughtered, murderous, torturous, slaughtering. The veggies for the salads were sprayed with so many insecticides and pesticides and other 'icides to kill all nutrients. One packet of ranch dressing is actually worse for you than one of those sloppy, greasy big macs. The fat oafs who order all the fat-enriched crap, then get diet coke to drink with that. Or the french fries, which actually have beef flavoring in the oil, so they're not even for vegans. No one can get healthy by eating here, be it regularly or just one time.

A car pulls into the parking lot, thumping sounds from the car giving the store window some slight vibration, tickling the Alicia's temple, as it's headlights showing the driver of it the way into a parking space where it comes to a hault. The lights turn off and doors open up while Alicia just stares out.

Alicia: At least we've got two pay-per views we're working to make some money off of. 3WL has Black Out, which I'll be at. I wouldn't mind kicking Lisa's boyfriend's flabby ass while Bill Cosby decides to have a jiggle-off with that against his jell-o. Heh.

The doors to the restaurant open and a few hispanic-descent people walk in through the first, then second door to enter. They walk up and stand several feet from the counter, standing beside each other as the reflection off the window does not see the main register with them standing in front of it. The camera then rotates about to look at the actual thing with the two people standing, wearing Tim Brown and Jerry Rice Oakland Raiders' jerseys.

T.Brown: Ya man! Iz dat dude, dude!

J.Rice: Yeah! He fucking fucks! Mother fuckah! You that Gordita fucker!

T.Brown: Nah dude, iz dat dude, Chalupa! I knowz you dude! Dude! Dude, woah dude, what the motha-fuckin' dude you doin' here dude?!

J.Rice: No you fuckin' fuck! Its Burrito!

T.Brown: No beans dude, gives me horrible gas, and you...well, you just make places condemned dude.

They turn and high-five one another, giving space between to show Dorito standing behind the register, wearing a red McD's crew shirt and visor. He doesn't look to happy at all as he just stares at the two smiling idiots.

Dorito: That's Dorito you powdered and toasted dogs.

T.Brown: Hey dude, ain't no mexican gon' be callin' me and my dog here dawgs. I outta...

J.Rice: Shutup ya fuckup. Dorito? As in the bag of chips.

Dorito: (deep exhale) Yes, like the bag of chips. Now, how may I uhh, help you, or something.

T.Brown: You still wrestlin' dawg?

Dorito: Yes. I go up to Oregon every wednesday for ROPE.

J.Rice: Rope? Oregon? You fucking go to that motha-fuckin Oregon, for fucking rope? You a dumbfuck!

T.Brown: Yeah dude, you could go to the hardware store like a few blocks over dude and get some rope there dude. You gonna bungee off a building? Cause we'd go with ya dude.

J.Rice: Nah you fucking dumbfuck. If he's fucking working at a fucking McDonald's serving TDILF's like us, then he fucking wants to fucking hang himself.

Dorito: TDILF's?

T.Brown: Ya dude. Teenage Daughters I'd Like-ta Fuck.

J.Rice: Can't fucking tie a noose though. Yo fuck, remember when our moms made us be in that fucking cult boyscouts, but we used to just fucking go through that fucking queer scoutmaster's playboys?

T.Brown: Dude, that was the scoutmaster's wife, remember dude? The scoutmaster always sewed all uniforms himself and would never take off that pink scarf and wanted us always stretching out and trying to do splits? Fucking horrible shit I want to get so lit that I burn that out of what's left of my mind dude.

Dorito just stands there, staring at these idiot football and wrestling fan stoners just ramble on.

J.Rice: Woah, fuck, what are we fucking here for again?

T.Brown: Oh, uhhh, dude, ummm, dude.

The two turn back from one another to look at Dorito.

Dorito: Can I uhh, take your order?

J.Rice: Yeah, I fucking order you to have me fuck your fucking hot sister.

T.Brown: Me too! Dude, woah, she's like just gonna take one look at me and beg me to let her please me everyday for the rest of her sagless breast life.

Dorito: Or you could just masturbate while thinking about her.

J.Rice: Fucking yeah dude, it might be better than these two fucking care bears going at it when I'm doin' that, then this other care bear comes along...

Dorito: Care bears?

J.Rice: Where? I don't fucking see any.

The guy in the Rice jersey looks around while Dorito and the guy in the Brown jersey just stare at him for a few seconds.

T.Brown: Dude, woah. Really, woah. Nacho, you wrestling some place?

Dorito: Yeah, I actually have my pay-per view return in this fed, FWA. Fantasy Wrestling Alliance.

T.Brown: Never heard of it dude.

Dorito: It's really horrible. Everyone in the locker room simply sucks. But when I had to sit there for their debut Holocaust show, and I ask these weirdos how they gathered so many guys that suck in one place, I ended up getting corrected by these pink and purple scarf wearing freaks that they not only suck, but they blow as well. The only fantasy of the locker room is to have talent. There is one decent guy though, Suicide. Perhaps if I could actually talk to him, maybe I'll see about bringing him aboard, for the opportunity to pirate is here, but there is nothing to plunder.

J.Rice: You mean like some fucking terd?

Dorito: No, plunder, not plunger. That debut show though truly was a holocaust though, the people having to watch that at home, for having the network strip away an hour of their worthless life. Makes me wish I had invested in some rope company. Lots of people want to hang themselves. And then the second show they have is a pay-per view? As if the free TV show wasn't bad enough, now they expect people to pay to see this? FWA is seventeen times worse than smoking. And my opponent for this three stages of hell match for the world title, and it really will be hell. As if hearing a promo from my opponent isn't bad enough, I actually have to see him in person, and beat him up. Poison is his, or her, or ummm, I think it's a him, so I'll go with that. But Poison is the name, and from what I have read on the net is that not only are his ramblings and head-start pre-school level intelligence bad enough and stupid enough to burn brain cells on the spot, but to see him in person and have to put up with his stench, his very B.O. is a poison all its own.

T.Brown: So whatchu doing working for them dude?

Dorito: Money, nothing but. Forget about honor or pride or any of that crap because it's 2003 C.E., not 1003 C.E. And pride does not exist here for no one can do something for the sheer enjoyment of it, for they have to gloat and show it off. Even take some seven year old kid for example. Building a model car may not be much, but that kid will show it off to his family, his neighbors, and any imaginary friends that this kid will have. Everyone needs the credit for their work, and will go where ever they can to gain to instill imaginary pride and ego in ones self.

J.Rice: Fucking woah man, I have not one fucking clue what you just fucking said. But you've fucking wrestled a lot of fuckers, so I'll fucking take your fucking word for it.

Dorito: Okay, but if you want to see me wrestle again, go up to Eugene, Oregon next wednesday for Ring Of Pride and Excellence. The last show I was at, Thunder cheated and got this fluke win, when I had my shoulders up. So if I don't get to prove myself that I am indeed far more better than him, then I'm going to kick the ass of Darrick Summers who screwed me over at the first show.

T.Brown: Dude, we'll totally go see that. But think you can score us some free tix? And like a plane ride up and back. Oregon people weird me out more than those freaks from Orange County.

Dorito: Uh sure, may I take your order?

J.Rice: Fucking take our order? Since when was the great Taquita asking for what we want ya fucking prick pansy? Grow some fucking balls and go fuck someone up before I go get my boys and we have a bigger orgy on yo ass than when the smurfs would gangbang Smurfette.

The guy in the Rice jersey tugs on his friend's jersey and they walk toward the door. Alicia is seen taking a drink from a bottle of water, halfway empty as the other one is empty and tipped over on the table. Dorito looks somewhat puzzled as he watches them walk out of the restaurant. The scene fades out after that.