The scene begins today with Dorito sitting on doorstep outside of the house. It's night out, but there's not a chance in hell of seeing stars because of all the light pollution from the city of angels. He holds the Ironman title firmly in his grasp, looking down upon it.

Dorito: Two more weeks and I've had you for two months already. Yet, I spent a month fighting everyone on the roster, week after week, working up the ladder of the entire roster of a fed I had no idea existed until I got dragged along to sin city. It's because of April that I have you. Two fucking years of my life, perhaps the two best of my life, gone, because she didn't think I'd support her drinking. Fucking...shit. A month I spent beating the hell out of myself to get back into wrestling shape and going through everyone, enduring all the bullshit and talk, to win you. And then, you were the most prized title in WWFW. But then everyone turned their attention to something familiar, that damned title, world. Because of Matt Helmsley, and repeatedly saying that word, over and over again. The most common title around, with literally hundreds of world titles all over the world, who really is the best? Since Matt didn't pin anyone to win that belt, just threw someone over the top rope, that title has no value. He has given it no value. Hitman has been giving it value, giving that belt the main event slot, time and time again.

He pauses, breathing in some of the chilled night air, then resuming.

Dorito: The Ironman tournament was his whole idea, and was the big thing for a month. Then what happens when it's over? Drops it, he didn't give a damn about you. But I did, and so did Sean Harrison. So does Chris Matthews. And nobody else. This title means something, to obviously more than myself. Look, Darrick Summers doesn't give a damn about it, and what has he done to earn this? Lose to me. Lose to Scott Moore. Lose to Dan Saint. Darrick Summers, or Voodoo, or if he wants to be called the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, the man of a 1001 and names can try all he wants, but he is a loser, and deserves you not. And breaking Dan Saint's knee for revenge, and Hitman does nothing? NOTHING! There's more going on here than it seems. A triple threat match with someone who doesn't deserve to be in the ring competing for any title except most manical and living in a fantasy world.

He pauses again, breathing in, then exhaling.

Dorito: And then, there's the guy who took everything Scott Moore had to throw out, and beat him. Now I would say he's deserving of a title shot perhaps, but he's beaten one guy, and Scotty isn't exactly that high up the ladder. So the win isn't that big indeed to move him up the ladder. But Jason has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, it would seem.

A pair of headlights is seen turning onto the street, and zooms up quickly to the house next door, stopping just in front. An orange convertible with the top down, there Angel stands up, her and a group of three other guys and a girl all laughing as she steps on lap of one guy from backseat and leaps out, landing on her feet on the ground like a cat. She turns back and blows a kiss and waves bye as they all scream and the car zooms off. She turns away and begins to walk toward her house, dressed in some low-cut clothing, not particularly visible, but skimpy from Dorito's view. She looks, and waves at him.

Angel: Hey Dorito!

He raises his head up, having been looking up at her the whole time with head down and hair hanging as well, and he waves back for but just a moment as he stands up.

Dorito: Hey.

Angel: G'Night.

She walks onto her porch and opens the front door, going inside, as he breathes in once again.

Dorito: Why am I even out here on such a chilly night?

He exhales, then turns around, opening the front door, then the second, and steps inside, shutting the doors behind, leaving a shot of the outside door before fading out.