"There's no killing what can't be killed"

INT. SAINTS HEADQUARTERS, WAR ROOM - DAY

(Sean Payton is flipping through binders, looking at player profiles and consulting medical charts, and visiting WebMD on his computer.)


PAYTON: Blast it! I can't figure out why all our guys are getting and staying injured! Hip pointers, sports hernias, pulled groins, hamstring issues, knee trouble, foot trouble, finger sprains, if never freaking ends! There has GOT to be a reason for all of this!

(Drew Brees walks up and knocks on Payton's door frame.)

BREES: Mind if I come in, coach?

PAYTON: Damn right, I called you in here because I need to know if you've seen or heard anything from the guys about their injuries.

BREES: What do you mean, coach?

PAYTON: You know, if the guys are talking about any off field incidents involving horseplay or something. Those douchey media types are saying guys, well Jeremy in particular, are getting injured by playing grab-ass all the damn time. I want answers!

BREES: You sure you wanna know, coach? I don't know if you're ready for this...

PAYTON: (slams fist on desk) Dammit, I demand to know why my guys are falling by the wayside here! We've got ONE week to get healthy and I can't be fretting over more injuries!


BREES: Okay, coach. Follow me...

(Brees leads Coach Payton downstairs, into the hallways outside the Saints locker room.)

BREES: (Points.) There.

PAYTON: What?

BREES: There. Straight ahead...



PAYTON: What? It's behind the drink machine?

BREES: No, coach. It IS THE DRINK MACHINE.

PAYTON: What? Dammit, Drew! You got me all worked up here!! I'm thinking Shockey screwed some mobster's wife or the wiring in Lynell Hamilton's head changed and he's set to "maim" or something. The fucking vending machine's the problem?

BREES: Coach, this is no ordinary vending machine...

PAYTON: Oh, come off it!

BREES: Coach, that vending machine has a mean streak a mile wide! It can leap about (stretches arms out) ... It can swallow five men's souls and cake them in corn syrup inside of ten minutes!

PAYTON: Fuck's sake, Drew, quit screwing around!

BREES: I'm not, coach! The guys are absolutely terrified of this thing! Look, they even hired a shaman to kill it...


KING WILLIE: "You can't see the eyes of the demon, until him come callin'."

PAYTON: What? Make sense, crazy black guy.

KING WILLIE: Dis ting be evil man. Dis is dread, Coach Payton. Truly DREAD!

PAYTON: Whatever...

(Coach Payton turns around and is surprised to see The Shockmeister standing by with torches and a chainsaw.)


SHOCKMEISTER: Oh, I hope this guy works out...Fucking vending machine broke my foot!

PAYTON: I knew it! You DID break your damn foot kicking this fucking thing!

SHOCKMEISTER: Damn right I kicked it, coach! Fucking thing tried to eat me! It spit out some rancid cola at me and it hit Fujita. Gave him staph infection.

PAYTON: That's bullshit, Jeremy.

BREES: No, it's true, coach. The thing fired a can at Jabari Greer's junk and gave him that groin pain. It lunged at him and gave Greer that sports hernia, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: Marvin Mitchell's hammy, Carl Nicks' back problems, Pierre Thomas' hip issues, Ellis' knee, McCray's back, Stinchcomb's knee...ALL OF IT connected to this fucking machine.

PAYTON: So unplug it, dickheads.

SHOCKMEISTER: Ain't you seen "Big," Coach Payton?!? These demonic things don't need to be plugged in!!!

PAYTON: Well then, who brought this ghastly fucking thing in here to begin with?!?

BREES: Remember this commercial, coach...?



PAYTON: Yeah. You're telling me that's the same machine?

BREES: No, it's his cousin. Reggie ran that other machine ragged and it dropped dead of a heart attack. This thing came here for revenge.

PAYTON: So have Reggie run this one ragged, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: We tried that, coach!! Remember last year when Reggie sucked ass?!?

PAYTON: ... Uh, okay...so what time frame again?

SHOCKMEISTER: Reggie couldn't tire this one out. This one is determined to destroy us! Reggie had to go into hiding in Kim Kardashian's massive cleavage.

BREES: Oh fuck!!

(Payton turns around to see KING WILLIE get his head cut off by the angry Pepsi machine.)

PAYTON: Holy fuck! Throw the torch, Jeremy! Throw the goddamn torch at it!

SHOCKMEISTER: Coach, fire doesn't do a goddamn thing to it! It only pisses it off more!

BREES: What are we gonna do? This thing has been bad luck ever since it came here! McCray said it got him drunk last week and wouldn't get him a designated driver. And now Brunell is saying the machine stole his talent.

PAYTON: Stole his talent?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, like in "Space Jam." Jesus, don't you watch any fucking movies, coach?!?

PAYTON: Enough of this bullshit. Lemme make a phone call. I know a guy...

(CUT TO: One hour later...)

PAYTON: I'm glad you could come out and help us today.


THE DANE: Gid jer fik alarmeret mig i tidligere tider Coach. (I wish you had called me earlier, Coach.)

PAYTON: Sorry about that. I just learned of this problem today.

SHOCKMEISTER: He gonna fucking handle this?!? He's fucking 50!!

PAYTON: For the record he turned 49 last August...SO THERE!!

BREES: Whatever, Coach. But how's he going to kill this thing? He can't kick hard enough to dent the hull of this beast.

THE DANE: Lave ikke bekymre , Hævede mig bekendt. Jeg har den endelig våben. (Do not worry, Drew my friend. I have the ultimate weapon.)

(The Dane pulls a large hammer from his knapsack. He holds it in front of him and chants. Lightning flashes and everyone is temporarily blinded.)

SHOCKMEISTER: What. The. Fuck?

BREES: Damn. Is that...?


THE DANE: Holde sig tilbage samtidigt med at JEG drabsmand indeværende dyr. (Stand back whilst I slay this beast.)

THE DANE: JEG landsforvise thee af Midgard igen hen til den netherworld verily! (I banish thee from Midgard back to the netherworld, verily!)

(The Dane smashes his hammer against the Pepsi machine, which promptly explodes into a thousand pieces.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, can I borrow that hammer? I wanna impress this chick at a bar...

Return of the 'Magnificent Seven' (Verily.)

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...!