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VOICEOVER (spoken over sirens and gunshots): Night in Jacksonville. People think this town is like the rest of Florida, full of racists, alligators, and retirees on rascal scooters. They’re wrong. Jacksonville is different. By day, the River City shines like a diamond, so bright that the people in this town go blind to the injustice around them. As the thick blanket of night descends upon the city, the scum of the earth seeps out into the streets from the cracks in the pavement.
These are the vultures that would prey on the weak and defenseless.
I am Jacksonville’s only defense. I am The Flow.
INT. EVERBANK FIELD LOCKER ROOM
BLAINE GABBERT: Hey, good effort, you guys. Way to tough it out. We left our best out on the field there and nobody can take that away from us.
CECIL SHORTS: Hey. Go fuck yourself.
CHAD HENNE:
Suddenly, GABBERT feels a vibration in his Trion:Z Dual Loop Ionic Magnetic Therapy Bracelet. He exits the locker room discreetly, even though he doesn’t have to because nobody is paying attention to him anyway. He flips open a panel on his bracelet, and the chiseled, red-haired visage of THE CHIEF comes into view.
GABBERT: Chief, I was in the middle of my post-loss pep talk. I told you not to interrupt me on game day!
THE CHIEF: Cut the crap, Flow. This is important. We’ve found Dr. Doop.
GABBERT: My god.
CHIEF: We can’t afford to waste time. He has set up a base of operations at the Times-Union Center for the Performing Arts. We’re counting on you to protect The Shield, Flow.
GABBERT: Don’t worry, Chief. Nobody handles pressure better than The Flow.
BLAINE GABBERT exits Everbank Field and steps into the closest port-o-potty. He emerges 45 minutes later wearing a stained and torn baby blue spandex suit about a size too large and off-white tube socks pulled up to the knees. He immediately gets his spandex suit caught in the door hinge and falls over. Nobody notices.
THE FLOW: I’m coming for you, Doop.
INT. THE TIMES-UNION CENTER FOR THE PERFORMING ARTS
THE FLOW: Where are you, Doop? You know you can’t hide from me.
His voice echoes off of the marble walls, and is answered by a rumbling laugh, coming from the stage of the main auditorium. The Flow, surprised, lets out a small yelp and only pees his pants a little bit this time. He gives chase, and follows the laugh to its source. He trips on the steps leading to the stage. DR. DOOP is there, facing the other direction, seated on a backless office chair.
DR. DOOP: Well done, Flow. Very well done. I didn’t think you’d make it this far.
DR. DOOP swivels his chair around and a deafening creak fills the auditorium. JOSH GORDON is curled, purring in his lap, as DR. DOOP strokes his head.
JOSH GORDON: Meow.
FLOW: It’s over, Doop. You can’t win.
THE FLOW attempts to punch DR. DOOP, but misses and ends up falling on his face.
DOOP: How little you know. I’ve already won. You can’t stop me. I know how much you love your precious city. It’s a shame that it is infected with the same virus as mine.
FLOW: What do you mean?
DOOP, laughing: You must know by now. Look around you, Flow. This city is already dead. Just like Cleveland. The people need a hero to rally around, to lift their spirits on Sundays, to give them an escape from the heartless march to death that we all share. You are not that hero, Flow. You’re simply a scapegoat, an insignificant gnat whose only purpose is to carry the burden of a dying team. A dying city. And once this city dies, more will follow. Nashville. Minneapolis. Miami. The curse of the shitty quarterback will drag down this once-great nation, and soon, mediocrity will rule.
JOSH GORDON: Hiss.
FLOW: You’re wrong. This is a league that was built on lofty ideals of training young men to the pinnacle of athleticism, on emotional storylines of redemption, on the bliss of victory and the sting of defeat. Yet, without us, there would be no exceptional players. Simply by being mediocre, we raise the truly exceptional up. Everyone needs somebody to laugh at, Doop. You’ve let your own irrelevance blind you. It’s over.
FLOW produces a football and gears up to throw it as hard as he can directly at DR. DOOP. JOSH GORDON yowls and scampers for the exit.
FLOW: You were supposed to protect The Shield, Doop. Prepare to experience my ultimate attack!
The ball flies 20 feet above DR. DOOP’s head. DR. DOOP laughs.
FLOW: Aw, shucks.
The football suddenly ricochets against a brick wall and rips open a sandbag affixed to a rope, causing the gigantic American Flag attached to the other end to crash down, trapping DR. DOOP inside.
DOOP: Aw, shucks.
FLOW: I think the flag looks better with a little Brown in it.
FLOW lets out a bellowing, heroic laugh, and immediately begins coughing and gasping for air. He heads for the exit and slips on the sand spilled from the sandbag, concussing himself. THE CHIEF’s voice pipes through over THE FLOW’s Trion:Z Dual Loop Ionic Magnetic Therapy Bracelet.
CHIEF: We’re in your debt, Flow. You’re a real hero.
FLOW: *incoherent mumbling*
CHIEF: Ha ha! That’s our Flow!
Next time, on The Continuing Adventures of The Flow: The Jacksonville Jaguars go 2-14 and trade their first round draft pick for a copy of Grand Theft Auto V and half a box of Roasted Garlic flavored Triscuits. Stay tuned for thrilling adventure!