EXT. Saints headquarters on Airline Hwy in Metairie -- NIGHT
(Dozens of Saints fans are outside, brandishing torches and pitchforks. Somewhere, Ralph Malbrough is sharpening the guillotine.)
ANGRY MOB: grumble-grumble-grumble-blah-blah-blah! We demand blood!!! BLOOD!!!
(Inside the Saints' practice facility, Head Coach Sean Payton and kicker Garrett Hartley watch from a third floor window as the crowd gets restless.)
PAYTON: Well look at 'em, Garrett.
GARRETT: Coach, I'm sorry. I said I was sorry. I even wept to Peter Finney hoping he might be able to buy me some time, but what can I do?
PAYTON: Well, for starters we've got to take some of the fire out of that crowd. (Pushes intercom button.) Uh, Doris? Could you please dispatch 'The Shockmeister' into the crowd to sex up a bunch of the women? Thank you. (Lets go of intercom button.) That should take a lot out of them.
GARRETT: But what about the guys in the crowd?
PAYTON: Jeremy's told me he's sexed up countless married women in the Crescent City and for whatever reason, the husbands seem content to be in the room watching while it happens. Can't figure it out for the life of me. Must be those "high society" types.
GARRETT: But what if those aren't "high society" types?
PAYTON: J-Shock will sell them his used chewing tobacco, which they can turn around and sell on eBay.
GARRETT: He's got enough?
PAYTON: Did you SEE him on the sidelines during the Bucs game? The guy was stuffing it in his mouth like it was titties or something!!!
GARRETT: Okay...well then what do we do?
PAYTON: (Pushes intercom button.) Send him in, Doris. (Lets go of button.) Well, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Garrett, but we've got put you on IR.
GARRETT: What? I'm fine! I'm healthy!!
PAYTON: Look, I'm trying to save our asses here! Do you have ANY idea how fucking frustrating it is to be haunted by a kicking problem? I've had SEVEN different guys kick for me in four years!! That shouldn't be my legacy, Garrett!
GARRETT: Seven? Really? Who'd you have?
PAYTON: John Carney, Billy Cundiff, Olindo Mare, Martin Grammatica, Taylor Mehlhaff, and you.
GARRETT: Yeah, but coach that's only six guys. Who's number seven?
(In walks a VERY old man.)
THE DANE: Hilsener, bus! (Greetings, Coach!)
GARRETT: Really?!? You're bringing back fuckin' Morten Andersen?!? Dude's gotta be in his 50s!!
PAYTON: Wrong! He turned 49 this past August, so there!
THE DANE: Jeg er bedrøvelig hen til høre om jeres skade. (I am sorry to hear about your injury.)
GARRETT: Again...WHAT injury?
PAYTON: I'm having it leaked that you ruptured something in your foot during that first field goal attempt. Since it was the last time anybody saw you kick prior to the shank, I think some people will buy it, especially when I refuse comment for a week and a half.
GARRETT: You can't do this to me!! I was 21 of 21 on field goals under 50 yards, for Christ's sake! And you're gonna replace me with the fucking Dutchman?
PAYTON: Hey, I need people to not freak out and come down and hang us all from the I-10 overpass, okay? From here on out, Morten will handle everything under 40 yards. You can do that, right Morten?
THE DANE: JEG forsikre jer mig spark ben er kraftig. (I assure you my kicking leg is strong.)
GARRETT: And who handles the ones over 40?!?
MORSTEAD: Greetings! Garrett, I'm so sorry to hear about your foot injury. You seem to be getting around on it quite nicely, though.
GARRETT: For the last FUCKING TIME, I AM NOT INJURED! My foot is fine!!!
PAYTON: Oh really? Uh, Morten you wanna take care of this...?
THE DANE: JEG skal knase jeres fod verily! (I shall crush your foot, verily!)
(Morten Andersen slams the mighty hammer down on Garrett's kicking foot.)
GARRETT: Fuck, you've broken my goddamn foot, you asshole!!
MORSTEAD: Oh, sweet, you like to dress up, too? Hang on a second...
MORSTEAD: We are going to KICK SO MUCH ASS together!!
THE DANE: Verily.
GARRETT: Can somebody call a fucking medic for me?!? Jesus Christ...!