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Title: NFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAME, JANUARY 21, 2018

EXT. LINCOLN FIELD (’THE LINK’), PHILADELPHIA — EVENING

Eagles vs. Vikings. It’s freezing cold, so a lot of fans wear ski masks. We focus on a busy concession stand selling beer:

A chubby, baby-faced security guard (30s) escorts a slender, Black female vendor (30s) from the back office…

… She pushes a cart stacked with bags of money, a look of pure dread on her face, like a POW. Something’s wrong here…

… Two guys in ARAMARK jackets- one tall, one short- every inch of their bodies covered with clothing, await the cart. A cop strides by, ratcheting up the vendor’s anxiety…

… She wavers, hoping the cop stops. But he treads on by…

SHORT GUY/EDDIE (under his breath, urgent): Trust me.

… Figuring she can’t back out now, the vendor flashes him a flirty smile- these two know one other- and passes the cart.

EXT. PARKING LOT, LINCOLN FIELD — FIVE MINUTES LATER

The two guys swiftly push the cart towards a white ARAMARK van… nearby, a group of hardcore Eagles fans watch the game on a portable TV, guzzling beers. One of the tailgaters,

Her face painted green, studies the guys… notices the ARAMARK on the van is a decal, not paint. Also, the uniforms look official, but aren’t the real thing- they’re replicas.

She bounds to her feet, clenching a beer can. This is KATE THOMPSON (think Kaitlin Olson), a Philly detective who could outdrink and outcurse any brute on a construction crew.

KATE: Hey! Stop right there- PPD!

The guys heave the cart in the back of the van and hop inside… Kate chases after them… the van SPEEDS away…

BARRELS OVER a beefy man in a Vikings jacket. The tailgaters witness this. Stunned silence. Then, an explosion of CHEERS!

VIKINGS FAN (gasping): … Someone call 9-1-1…

The van BOLTS out of the parking lot. Kate grabs her phone as she darts past the wounded fan, splayed out on the pavement.

VIKINGS FAN: … Thank you…

DISPATCHER V.O.: Hey, Thompson! You at the game?

KATE (into phone, all business): 0-300 in progress. White Aramark van heading south on Pattison.

Just then, the crowd ROARS. The entire stadium SHAKES.

DISPATCHER V.O.: Woo-hoo!!! Touchdown!!!

Swigging her beer, Kate watches the van get away. She trudges back to her tailgate as the Viking fan staggers to his feet.

VIKINGS FAN: … Ya know, I-I think I’m okay…

Kate PUNCHES him in the face- knocking him back on his ass.

KATE: Vikings suck.

Philadelphia Inquirer headline: WE WIN!!! On the bottom, in small print: Lincoln Field Robbed, No Suspects.

INT. HALLWAY, LOW RENT APARTMENT BUILDING

The newspaper plops on a doormat that says STAY THE FUCK AWAY

INT. ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT

A fucking train wreck. Looks like it’s been ransacked by real vikings. Kate’s in her messy bedroom, scarfing down a carton of Turkey Hill ice cream, talking on her Eagles helmet phone (compliments of a Sports Illustrated subscription).

KATE: Ah, that’s bullshit- it’s my case!

On the wall, mixed in with all the sports shit, a shrine to her detective skills: all sorts of plaques and awards…

A photo of Kate graduating the academy. Standing next to her, Kate’s mentor: a tall, burly cop by the name of Nick Gaines.

KATE: I called it in! I saw the cocksuck- (the crappy phone dies) Goddammit.

CHUCKS the phone with all her might- it’s on a cord, so it FLINGS back like a boomerang and BASHES her on the forehead.

KATE: OWWW! Fuck you, Sports Illustrated.

She presses the ice cream carton against the reddening bulge on her forehead. Digs her fingers into the carton, shovels out a handful of ice cream and crams it in her mouth.

Title: NFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAME, JANUARY 21, 2018

EXT. LINCOLN FIELD, PHILADELPHIA — EVENING

Eagles vs. Vikings. It’s freezing, so a lot of fans wear ski masks. We focus on a busy concession stand selling beer:

A chubby, white, baby-faced security guard (30s) escorts a skinny, black, female vendor (30s) from the back office…

… She pushes a cart stacked with bags of money, a look of pure dread on her face, like a POW. Something’s wrong here…

… Two guys in ARAMARK jackets- one tall, one short- every inch of their bodies covered with clothing, await the cart. A cop strides by, ratcheting up the vendor’s anxiety…

She hesitates, hoping the cop stops. But he treads past them.

SHORT GUY (under his breath): Trust me.

Figuring she can’t back out now, the vendor flashes him a flirtatious smile and passes the cart.

EXT. PARKING LOT, LINCOLN FIELD — MINUTES LATER

The two guys SPEED away in an ARAMARK truck… BARREL OVER a hefty man in a Vikings jacket… a bunch of drunk Eagles fans witness this. Stunned silence. Then, an explosion of CHEERS!

Title: FOUR YEARS LATER, SUPER BOWL SUNDAY

EXT. DOWNTOWN PHILADELPHIA

Empty streets. Eerie silence. Billboards all over the sports- crazed city explain why: FLY EAGLES FLY! SUPER BOWL LVI

A white HVAC van pulls up in front of the U.S Mint. Two guys in uniforms and ski masks climb out- one tall, one short.

They grab their equipment out of the back, leaving us wonder: are these the same assholes that robbed the Link?

He bore an uncanny resemblance to Howdy Doody. Freckles dotted his pale face, as if suffering from a perpetual case of measles, only these spots were brown and non-bumpy. His hair, jet black and bristly, like fibers of a steel wool pad, was parted in a style reminiscent of the 1950’s- the decade, ironically, which spawned the TV persona who effectively destroyed his childhood. He was all skin and bones, a skeletal presence lacking even the most rudimentary muscles.

Howdy Doody. The name haunted him. The derivations that followed were no less kind, if truncated. Doody. Doots. Dewey. Every one a shiv jabbed squarely in his Adam’s apple. Of all the knockoffs, ‘Doots’ acquired preferential status as the insult to inflict maximal pain. Any word or phrase with ‘dew’ in it became weaponized. Dewey Decimal System. Dew Point. Mountain Dew. Homonyms worked, too. Dewritos. Mr. Do. Deuteronomy. Taunts flew far and wide, a fusillade of barbs thinly veiled as questions from young, inquisitive minds. What are the names of Donald Duck’s cousins? (Huey, Louie, and Dewey). What’s the longest lasting battery? (Dewracell). What Police song topped the charts in 1980? (De Do Do Do Do, De Da Da Da).

There was no place to hide. Everywhere he went, the ridicule followed, an auditory plague that would torment him all through his teenage years. On the bus, in the hallways, at recess… even in the comfort of his own home, where a bicycle drive-by (Dew-why!) rattled the windows and, more perniciously, his soul. On multiple occasions, his mom, a hefty woman who held the unfortunate position as school lunch lady, interceded, usually with a brusque visit to my parent’s house. My older brother, after all, was an agitator par excellence (as I can personally attest). These interventions with my mother, though, generally concluded with a frosty detente that satisfied no one.

Along with my brother, Ralph was the biggest instigator. And the word ‘big’ fit him as snugly as the denim jacket- adorned with various sized pins of heavy metal bands- that habitually cloaked his oversized torso. Tall and lumpy, the most striking feature was his forehead, the result of a stubborn cowlick that forked his hair like a concrete divider on the highway. Physical features aside, his voice, cartoonishly loud and often obscene, was what you remembered. His bellow of ‘Dew-why!’ assaulted any and all eardrums within a mile radius. He pronounced it with flair, too, a synchronistic, downward thrust of his right arm. ‘Dew-why!’ The target of such a forceful vocal projection would surely be intimidated, if not terrified.

Einstein famously defined insanity as ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.’ If that’s the case- and there’s no discernible evidence against Al’s maxim- then Doots was downright certifiable. Despite the invariable retreats to his house, he rarely refused an invitation to participate in our activities. Perhaps, he reasoned, this time would be different. That if he kept coming back, eventually we’d accept him. Like Charlie Brown and the football, an eternal hope betrayed his better senses.

Football was an afterschool tradition in the chilly autumn and winter months of eastern Pennsylvania. These pickup games, typically three on three, were held in my backyard. Doots never lasted more than fifteen minutes. A short pass to him- almost always thrown by me, who attempted to maintain a Swiss-style neutrality- resulted in a bone-jarring tackle, often by my brother. Doots would either clench his back, wincing, proclaiming he couldn’t go on, or, if in a feisty mood, spring to his feet, throwing punches. Regardless of his reaction, he would inevitably slog back to his home a few hundred yards away. The game would go on, seamlessly, as if he never participated.

More creatively (and far more nefarious), we crafted ruses for the sole purpose of antagonizing him. A Trivial Pursuit game, for instance, was manipulated to lob a ‘Dewey’ bomb upon the hapless fool. Knowing the participants and seating arrangements in advance, a card containing the word ‘Dew’ was placed strategically in the deck. After a brief round of fielding questions in history and geography, Doots would roll the die and, no matter which category he landed upon, be asked something on the order of: “What’s the fifth book of the Old Testament?” A panoply of snickers belied our sinister intentions. Without bothering to serve up an answer (Dewteronomy), he stalked out of the house, another early departure.

More than the fierce tackles and rigged board games, the cruelest form of our bullying was foisting an ersatz rival upon him. Barry Hausman was short, almost dwarflike, with an unkempt, sandy-haired moptop and thick glasses. He had an unusual habit of biting his knuckles when properly agitated. It was a strange sight to behold: one hand balled in a fist, the other crammed in his mouth. The skin on his left hand was red and broken, a public display of his oral fixation. He was the most unlikely foe to pit against Doots and, thus, all the more humiliating should Barry prove victorious. And with our help, that was all but assured.

There were three fights in all, wholly organized and promoted by my brother and my friends. The venues were, in sequential order: the bus stop, the banks of a nearby pond, and my backyard. The fights had rounds which, naturally, were unevenly timed, depending upon how Barry was faring. The diminutive brawler had us in his corner for tutelage and support; Doots, as always, was on his own. The first two battles were more or less even, neither scoring a knockout. Both combatants straggled away from the proverbial ring, slightly roughed up and fatigued, but incurring no real damage. The third bout, however, proved decisive.

After a lackluster initial round, we advised Barry on his opponent’s vulnerability. Spurred on by our expert counsel, Barry stormed out of the break and tackled Doots to the grass. He slithered and squirmed his way atop Doots’ back, executing the plan without flaw. Barry proceeded to jump on his spine, repeatedly, both knees hammering the fragile bone. Doots wailed and wailed until, mercifully, the fight was called. Barry’s arm was raised in triumph while Doots lurched home, hunched over, both hands wrapped around his back, caressing it. My neighbor called us sadists, a word I wasn’t familiar with at the time. Looking back, though, the term was more than apt. We celebrated Barry’s win, gleefully rehashing every detail of the fight, fully aware that the hefty lunch lady from school would soon pay us a visit.

EXT. TOPLESS BAR (’THE GOLDEN GOOSE’)

Seedy as hell. The Camaro roars into the parking lot.

SHEILA: Always wanted to see what goes on inside one a’ these.
KATE: Really? Not a big fucking mystery- losers who can’t get laid.
SHEILA: Well, today’s their lucky day.
KATE: (re: STD’s) Yeah, definitely taking the over.

INT. GOLDEN GOOSE

Even seedier inside: buffet of shitty food and a pool table. Rednecks ogle aging strippers on stage… Kate & Sheila amble in- they’re the only women, so everyone gawks at them… an old waitress picks up empty glasses with her flabby tits.

SHEILA: (re: food) Ooh, look at the spread.
KATE: That’s the shit prisons throw out.
SHEILA: They seem to like it.
Gestures to two guys scarfing down beef stroganoff- it’s Mikey and Brownie. They spot Kate and greet her.
KATE: Ah, Jesus Christ.
MIKEY: What the hell you doin’ here?
KATE: Me? What about you? I’m working, dickhead.
BROWNIE: (titillated) You’re a stripper?
KATE: Goddamn idiots.

Sheila looks Mikey up and down. Yeah, this could work.

SHEILA: Mmm, time for my entree.

BACK ROOM.

Middle-aged women with saggy breasts. Kate holds up an old photo of Nick taken a decade ago (it’s all she has).

KATE:… Anyone know this guy? Seen him around? Imagine him 10 years older.
STRIPPER: Whoa! He did NOT age well.
KATE: You know him?
STRIPPER: Whadda you, his wife?
KATE: God, no! PPD.
STRIPPER: Seen him in here a few times. Quiet type. Loves our chicken parm.
KATE: Well, sure. This place made the Michelin guide, three stars.
STRIPPER: (correcting her) It’s food, honey. Not tires.
KATE: Ever come in with anyone?
STRIPPER: Ugh, don’t get me started… one time he comes in with this black guy. Real charmer, ya know?
KATE: Eddie?
STRIPPER: You slept with him, too?
KATE: Wha- no! You’re really bad at guessing.
STRIPPER:… So I take him back to my place, end up loaning the asshole money. (explaining) He’s got a monster-
KATE: Yeah, yeah, I heard. Go on.
STRIPPER: Yeah, so, he gives me this necklace…
KATE: (thinking it’s cum)… Ohmigod…
STRIPPER:… Collateral, ya know. Says it’s worth like 10 grand or something. Next day? My wrist turns green.
KATE: Know where he lives?
STRIPPER: Just seen him in here.
KATE: Great. Fucking great.

O.s., the DJ spins a new tune: Nelly’s ‘Hot in Herre’

FRONT ROOM.

Sheila throws back a shot with Mikey and Brownie.

SHEILA: Ooh, this is my jam right here!

And RUSHES to the stage, chucking aside the stripper who was supposed to go on-
She twirls around the pole, shaking her ass-
Guys hoot and holler, flinging dollar bills on the stage-
She stuffs the bills in her pocket-
Kate marches out from the back-
Stops in her tracks seeing Sheila.

KATE: Get your ass down here!
SHEILA: What, gonna arrest me? I’m already in jail, bitch!
KATE: Goddammit, don’t fuck with me!
SHEILA: I got me a ‘get outta jail free card!’… get some, Monopoly Man.

Shakes her ass in front of an old, portly pervert with a white mustache and top hat: a modern day Monopoly Man.
Kate leaps up on stage-
The crowd goes WILD, thinking it’s part of the show-
She grabs hold of Sheila, who slaps her hands away-
Kate yanks on her blouse, RIPPING it-
Mikey SPITS the beef stroganoff out of his mouth-
In SLO-MOTION, it flies through the air…
… Lands on a guy’s neck-
He whirls around and PUNCHES Mikey in the face-
Brownie picks up a chair and SMASHES it on the guy’s chest-
On stage, Sheila retaliates and RIPS Kate’s shirt off-
The crowd WHOOPS-
The frail owner calls the cops as fists and chair and food flies! It’s pandemonium-
A redneck cues up a pool stick, then STABS someone with it-
Another guy tries to pick up a table, but throws out his back (it’s nailed to the floor)-
The old waitress cradles a guy’s head, then titty boxes him, a vicious left-right combo-
Kate and Sheila wrestle on stage, rolling around, YANKING off one another’s clothes…
Just then, Andy and Berto dash in- they got the call. They gape in wonderment at all the chaos…
Berto goes to arrest someone, but Andy holds him back. Chill.

ANDY: Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and take a look around once in a while, you could miss it.
BERTO: Ferris Bueller?
ANDY: Second greatest movie ever made.
BERTO: Guess that makes me Cameron.
ANDY: Sure does, buddy. Sure does.

And ducks as a chair SAILS past his head.

EXT. RIVERSIDE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY (WOMEN’S PRISON)

Stodgy brick building. Barbwire lines the perimeter.

INT. LOBBY, WOMEN’S PRISON

Kate’s at the counter. The beefy GUARD processes paperwork.

GUARD: Oof. Good luck with that nutjob. Been in solitary the last month.

KATE: I don’t need the play-by-play, Merrill.

GUARD: Let’s just say she wouldn’t win Miss Congeniality.

KATE: Who gives a shit? Neither would I.

VISITOR’S ROOM.

Kate sits behind the glass divider, anxious. She fishes a flask out of her purse and takes a quick swig. Just then, Sheila swaggers in, her hair all nappy, her eyes laced with malice. She takes a seat on the other side of the divider.

SHEILA: Who the fuck is you?

KATE: Your savior, bitch. Think Jesus with a nice rack.

SHEILA: Whatchoo, lawyer or somethin’?

KATE: Fuck no! Look like a lawyer to you?

SHEILA (studies her): Yeah. Mine was a white trash piece of shit, too.

KATE: Here’s the thing about trash- it’s colorblind. Yep, can’t fly jets.

SHEILA: I’ll cut you, bitch.

KATE: Yeah? Well, guess what? My knife’s bigger.

SHEILA: You lucky you on the other side a’ this glass.

KATE: I ain’t the scumbag that robbed the Link.

SHEILA: Aw, man, that’s bullshit! Asshole done set me up. Didn’t get a fair trial or nothin.’

KATE: I know.

SHEILA: Then spring my ass loose, bitch!

KATE: That’s the problem with you ‘vics- you don’t know nothing’s free.

SHEILA: You right- shit ain’t free. Whatchoo gonna do for me?

KATE: Let’s just say I happen to know the best defense attorney in the state.

SHEILA: Yeah? You fucking him?

KATE (taken aback): When I’m in the mood. How’dya know?

SHEILA: I’m jawn, bitch.

KATE: Not only can he get your ass out, he can get your shit expunged- so you can actually have a life when you get outta here.

SHEILA: System all fucked up. Can’t get no job, ‘partment. Fuckin’ white man-

KATE: Can it, Rosa Parks. Whaddya know about the Link? No bullshit.

SHEILA: Awright, look. This guy name Eddie set it all up- short dude, big dick. I been to his house, I know where the nigga lives.

KATE: Address?

SHEILA: I ain’t Mapquest, bitch.

KATE: Mapquest? Damn, four years is a long time.

SHEILA: I don’t know the name a’ the street or nothin’, but I know where it is. Get me out, I show ya.

KATE: Yeah, okay. Think I was born yesterday?

SHEILA: Hell, no! You old as fuck.

KATE: Yeah? When’s the last time you got carded? 1982?

SHEILA: Man, fuck you! I’m almost out, I don’t need this shit.

Kate thinks… realizes she’s out of options. Sighs.

KATE: Better not fuck me over.

SHEILA: I was thinkin’ the same damn thing.

KATE: Try anything, I’ll shoot your ass.

SHEILA: Talk a lotta shit for a white girl. You from here, ain’tcha?

KATE: I’m jawn, bitch.

SHEILA: (a beat) Awright, then.

I spent the afternoon drinking with two young Republicans, perhaps the only lingering Bushites who didn’t bail town that historic- and brutally cold- day 8 years ago. We were hunkered down at a Holiday Inn bar, a mile or so away from the massive throng of people congregating at the National Mall, watching (or, more likely, listening to) Obama being sworn in. They were in their early 20’s, Evan and Rachel, two out of work staffers, more disconcerted over the fact W. couldn’t run for a third term than McCain- a less than staunch conservative- failing to win the election. Watching the small TV behind the bar, they jeered at our new President as he delivered his speech. I admonished the millennials (I was a decade older, in my 30’s), proclaiming that this was Obama’s day and they should respect the process- and, in turn, democracy. They grumbled into their beers, obliging, perhaps, because I bought had the pints.

I arrived in Washington as dawn broke, a brilliant reddish-orange sunrise providing a worthy backdrop for the momentous event. The Greyhound bus left New York City sometime after midnight. Though I waited in line for over an hour, I deemed myself fortunate to make the cut, considering the slew of disappointed ticket holders left behind in Port Authority. The five hour bus ride was one of unmitigated joy. The sixty or so passengers- mostly black, mostly young- shared food, swapped stories, and belted out songs of hope and victory.  An overwhelming sense of pride swelled inside me- a feeling that hasn’t been duplicated since, and likely never will.

I had no concept of what a million people looked like. Few, I imagine, do. The largest crowd I had ever seen was 100,000 or so at the annual UCLA-USC football game. At least ten times that number flocked to D.C. that bone chilling day. And, unlike the collegiate turf war in Los Angeles, there was no division of partisanship in this gathering. As I strolled towards the Capitol with the rest of the herd, passing a multitude of vendors hawking everything from hot chocolate to bumper stickers, anxiety coursed through my body. Despite the wondrous bonhomie that electrified the air, it was far too much stimuli to handle, particularly for one prone to crippling panic attacks.

The tunnel that led towards the Capitol was already clogged with an impenetrable cluster of happy, smiling faces- all ages, all races- some chanting, some singing. Not wanting to be trapped in the burgeoning crowd, I stood atop a five-feet wall outside the entryway. From every direction, swarms of pedestrians, thousands and thousands of ’em, streamed towards the Capitol, a never ending flow. Perched on an elevated platform, alone, eyes soaking in the majestic scene, more than a few participants thought I was a cop (or FBI agent), searching for troublemakers. When I politely refused their invitations to join them in the celebration, their suspicions were seemingly confirmed. But there was no way I was going to thrust myself into that claustrophobic horde of bodies, no matter how harmonious- in the bitter cold, no less. History took a backseat to pragmatism. I hopped off the wall, burrowed through the crowd- a salmon going against a fierce current- and, like any anxiety-riddled traveler, went searching for the nearest bar.

By the time the speech was over, Evan and Rachel were good and drunk. They dropped their partisan angst and gave into the weightiness of the moment. Engaging in jocular banter, I asked Evan to name three accomplishments of the Bush administration. Hard pressed to find an answer- to be fair, the alcohol had taken effect- he slurred that ‘Bush wasn’t a racist,’ an indirect reference, I suppose, for his aid package to Africa. When the karaoke began, he became loud and boisterous. So much so, the bouncer (yes, the Holiday Inn had a bouncer that day) kicked him out. With Rachel’s prodding, I lobbied on his behalf. Maybe because he considered me a responsible adult- I was mistaken for many erroneous attributes that day- the bouncer grudgingly allowed Evan back inside.

An hour later, thoroughly intoxicated, it was time to say goodbye to my new friends- we said we’d keep in touch, but, naturally, never did- leaving Rachel in charge of Evan’s supervision. I stumbled out of the bar and staggered back towards the bus station. I had to catch the 6 o’clock Greyhound to Philly, where I would fly back to Los Angeles. Tramping through the frigid conditions as dusk settled in, I was comforted by the notion that I had witnessed, firsthand, a glorious piece of American history, even if it was at a third-rate hotel with a couple of Obama haters.

EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sunny day. Magnificent yachts line the harbor. Down a wooden pier, each boat gets smaller and smaller… at the end, a tiny, ragged sailboat- a rusted bike lays on the deck.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and books from a wide range of subjects. A fraternity paddle and photos of happy, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed ‘SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL’ T-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk.

Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat (SAUCY) sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: Know this gonna fuck up your credit, don’tcha? Shit, you won’t be able to get a Discover card- and they hand out those to the fucking homeless…

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his laptop as he munches cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

He opens World of Warcraft, a fantasy game. Chooses an avatar- healer. Next, occupation. Scrolls through all the options. Like in his real life, it’s a super tough decision…

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. He eyes his cell: a ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector.
He shudders, fear coursing through him. Declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to the game. Back to fantasy.

EXT. COLONIAL MANOR, PHILADELPHIA SUBURB

Ritzy ‘hood of the Grey Poupon crowd. Mercedes and Bentleys pack the spacious driveway. Classical musical plays…

INT. KITCHEN, MANOR

A big-time lawyer and his pals nibble stuffed mushrooms & sip wine spritzers, chatting about hedge funds- rich guy shit.

They’re gathered to watch the Super Bowl. Well, in theory, anyway. They think a turnover’s a fucking pastry. Fortunately-

ANGRY VOICES O.S.: Ah, bullshit! Cocksucker! Fuck you!

LIVING ROOM.

A flurry of beer cans PELT the 100-inch plasma on the wall.

Six hardcore fans- decked head to toe in Eagles gear- SPRING off the plush sofa, chucking the finger at the screen.

KATE (35), a Philly detective who could pass for a Jersey trucker, is the leader of these misfits. After all, she’s the big-time lawyer’s girlfriend- she invited these heathens.

KATE: Hey, c’mon! JESUS! This ain’t Stahley’s. Fuck. (to lawyer, explaining) Super Bowl tradition. You throw cans and curse- brings good luck.

MIKEY (40), her skinny, dim-witted brother, eyes her quizzically.

MIKEY: It does? Well, shit.

Pounds his beer so he can hurl the empty can.

KATE (grumbles): Goddammit. Knew I shouldn’t brought you fucking idiots.

Just then, she gets a text. Horror spreads across her face.

KATE: Looks like the ref’s not the only one robbing us. Some asshole just jacked the Mint.

MIKEY: What, like the gum?

KATE: Yeah. Someone robbed ‘gum.’

A fat dude, BROWNIE, scarfs down tortilla chips drowning in bean dip.

BROWNIE: Peppermint or spearmint? Can never tell the difference.

MIKEY: Fuck ya talkin’ about? One’s green, one’s blue- like Eagles, Cowboys.

BROWNIE: Fuck you, Cowgirls!

MIKEY (grabs his dick): Suck on this, Jerry Jones!

KATE: No, dickheads. The U.S. Mint. You know, the place they make coins? Things you use to pay for your haircuts?

Snatches her purse. Tosses a can of beer inside. And another.

MIKEY: You’re goin’ to the office now?

KATE: Duty calls, bitch.

Slugs down her beer as the lawyer sashays over.

KATE: And you assholes are leaving, too. I can’t trust you here alone.

MIKEY: What?! Game ain’t over yet.

LAWYER: It’s alright, babe. We’re in the ‘bro zone.’ Go Eagles! Mess ‘em up!

The guys eye the douchebag sipping a wine spritzer.

KATE: Fine. Don’t bitch at me when there’s puke in the bean dip.

The lawyer rushes over to greet her before she goes. All sexy-

LAWYER: Hey, babe. Don’t you wanna tell me something?

KATE: Yeah. You’re low on Kettle One.

And bolts out the door.

BROWNIE: Awright, so… which one’s green and which one’s blue?

MIKEY: Ah, Jesus Christ.