MATT PRATER: [lugs wheelbarrow full of horse manure to dumpster] Agh, this is awful. Why is this league completely hardass about some things but woefully lax on others? Why couldn’t I have just punched someone on video instead of drinking a beer?
PRATER: What the-
WES WELKER: HEEEEY MAAAATT WHAT’S UP BUDDY YOU
YOU GOTTA TRY THIS DUMPSTER THING MAN
IT FEELS SOOOO GOOD, LIKE
LIKE WHO WOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT CRUSHED MILK BOTTLES ARE AMAZING FOR YOUR BACK
I ALSO MADE A PILLOW OUT OF A CHICKEN CARCASS AND A BIG JOHNSON TEE SHIRT FROM 1998.
No, no I’m good. Are you okay Wes? Did you fall over again? You’d better get out of there before someone catches you. The Shield is everywhere. It’s always watching. Knowing. Protecting. If they see you babbling in a dumpster, people might think the NFL is full of athletes driven to madness by a system that exploits their fleeting talents for billions of dollars and gives them a lifetime of pain and mounting health problems.
WELKER: Matt. It’s all good buddy. Okay? OKAY? I’ve never felt better! You don’t get it, Matt. It’s like. I can feel everything right now. And I just want to share it with everyone in the world! What’s inside this dumpster? I’ll give you a hint, pal. It’s truth. Inner peace. YOUR SOUL.
PRATER: Wes, that’s…that’s a bag of poop. You do realize you’re cradling a pile of dog feces in your hands.
WELKER: THEY ARE BUTTNUGGETS OF ENLIGHTENMENT, MATT.
PRATER: I don’t care what you call them, Wes, now drop the crazy shit and tell me what’s going on.
WELKER: [drops shit] Look, okay. So I went to this big horse race thing in Kentucky, and yeah I guess things were going well and this guy gave me a pill that he said would help with the concussions. You know, clear your head up – make you feel things again. And it worked! I took one with my drink and- Oh man, it’s fantastic. At the end of the night I was just giving money away, partying, and really living in the momen-
PRATER: WAIT. THEY LET YOU DRINK? THAT IS SOME BULLSHIT.
WELKER: -and I guess I just couldn’t stop. You don’t want to stop! And it’s not like anyone found out. The derby was months ag-
[A massive aircraft appears over the horizon. It swoops down, and the back hatch opens. Immediately, tanks are seen rolling out, along with hundreds of paratroopers. They all land in a rough circle around the dumpster.]
SHIELD: [yells into microphone] WESTOPHER WELKER, PLEASE COME OUT OF THE DUMPSTER. YOU ARE ACCUSED OF COERCION WITH MIDNA, A CREATURE FROM THE TWILIGHT REALM, IN AN APPARENT PLOT TO OVERTHROW THE NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE.
PRATER: It’s not- [sighs] it’s MDMA, guys. You typed it wrong into Google.
YOU PROBABLY AREN’T ALLOWED MIDMA EITHER. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.
WELKER: What? How can you do this? I was finally happy!
PRATER: Well, it can be considered performance enhancing, I guess.
WELKER: OH MY GOD.
I DON’T KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM. MY DRINK MUST HAVE BEEN TAINTED. Please don’t take my Old Spice contract from me! It’s all I have.
PRATER: Wes you make millions of dollars a yea-
You gave all your money away at the derby, didn’t you.
PRATER: Look man, you’re going to need to come clean, so just come on out of there, and maybe we can alternate duties cleaning out Mr. Elway’s stall.
SHIELD: NOT SO FAST THERE “METH WELKER”. heh get it.
PRATER: God you people are dumb.
SHIELD: WE NEED TO KNOW WHO GAVE YOU THE PILLS.
WELKER: Look, I…I don’t even know who he really is. He goes by the name ‘Heisenbuick’. I didn’t recognize him!
[Looking on from a distance, a shadowy figure whispers ‘Omaha’ into a headset. The dumpster explodes, hurling Wes onto the pavement.]
PRATER: WES! Oh man, are you okay? [leans in and immediately exhales in relief] He’s still breathing, he’s just out of it!
SHIELD: MEN, ARREST THAT DRUG ADDICT. SAY, KICKER, HOW LONG DOES IT USUALLY LAST WHEN HE DOES THIS?
PRATER: Eh, about four weeks.
SHIELD: GOOD ENOUGH. JUSTICE HAS BEEN SERVED.
HEISENBUICK: *puts on sunglasses, walks away*