EXT: NEW ORLEANS STREET - NIGHT
A thick fog slowly begins to roll in over the glistening streets. A bank sign flashes 2:33. A policeman on a horse prods along a couple of straggling revelers.
INT: THE CRUSTY CAJUN BAR
The place people go after they’ve been kicked out of the Hustler Club, where the stripper has her port-a-crib set up next to the stage, and there are tobacco stains on the glasses that the barkeep has spit shined.
The door flies open and the bar smoke and N’awlins smog make an unholy shroud.
A man strides in, his short stature belied by his dominating presence. This is NICK.
Two large young men scatter and sprint out the back door.
Nick glowers and strides powerfully towards the back door, as fast as his little legs will let him stride.
Nicky, what’s up big guy?
Nick turns to see who has dared address him.
A corner table covered in a dozen empty Hurricane glasses. Sitting behind it, festooned with cheap gold and purple beads, plastic ‘Yard o’ alcohol’ cup/horn in his hand, small hat perched on his head is LES. Nick addresses him with disdain.
Les dumps a passed out stripper with a suspiciously large adam’s apple out of a chair and offers it to Nick.
Take a load off, man. What are you doing out so late?
Nick remains standing.
Enforcing curfew. You?
Yeah, um, that’s what I’m doing to…
Hey, bartender, another Hurricolada
And something from your secret stash for my friend here.
Les, you know I only drink pure grain alcohol and rainwater, and
never during game week.
That’s not the story I heard. From my understanding, the last
time you were here for a bowl, they couldn’t find you
until an hour before kickoff. Exactly how did you end up
naked and handcuffed to a beignet fryer at Café Dumond?
A momentary set back, won’t, can’t happen again.
Hey, don’t fret it man. You get used to it after a while.
I once woke up in Mike the tiger’s cage with nothing but
a pound of hamburger meat to cover up with.
Fascinating. But I assure you, I’ve made arrangements so that
Unsightly incident will not recur.
Did you really think talking to Coors would make it all go away.
Yes, actually, it did. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a kicker to find.
No, I’m actually hoping to find a kicker. There was a police report
about a homeless guy who got his ribs broken by being kicked by
a gang of street toughs. I’m hoping they’ve still got eligibility.
Alrighty then, but you’ll miss out.
The barkeep drops a hurricolada and a frosty tall bottle of Zima on the table.
What, where? I thought they were all out?
Still made for the European market. Amazingly, a shipment
showed up here this week. On accident, I’m sure.
Isn’t the head of La. Alcohol Distributing one of your biggest
Les shrugs. Nick sits nervously, staring at the bottle.
I know this is a trap, Les. You won’t get me that
You think too much of me, Nick. I’m not that smart.
Besides, winning a BCS title is easy these days. Hell,
Meyer won one high on Adderal. A pound of it,
and a coffee grinder, and he didn’t even know they’d won
till he saw his picture on the cover of SI. By this time of year,
it’s just autopilot, and hang on for the ride.
Nick salivates over the bottle, but controls himself.
I dunno, Les. We’ve got one more practice, and lots of
film work to do.
Les reaches over and unscrews the cap.
Do you really think watching that game one more time will
give you any insight? You do realize I write the plays on a
ping pong ball with a sharpie and have Greg pull them out of a
bingo machine, right?
Well that would explain why it appears that you call an
end around based on the Fibonacci sequence and…
Damn! You’re a nerd. Lighten up, geez!
Nick grows angry.
I can’t! I have to win!
To prove I’m the best! This is the ultimate test, the Mensa
Society of football, the best of the best.
You’re the best around comes on the sound system.
SHUT THAT OFF! I’ve got to win to prove my worth. They’re
paying me $5 million a year in Alabama. Guys who can’t afford a
house without wheels pay $10,000 a year just to be able to buy
Tickets in the nosebleeds. I have to earn this!
Les leans forward knowingly.
Chizik won it last year on a peyote high that lasted till March.
Nick starts chugging the bottle.
Another round barkeep!
He turns to the groggy stripper.
And go get your handcuffs.