(Brett Favre, Brad Childress, Brett’s wife Deanna, Peter King, Jon Gruden, Bus Cook and Jared Allen are in the players tunnel of the Metrodome. All are dressed in fancy clothes except for Favre, who remains in his white T-shirt and red gym shorts, and Allen, who is wearing his Vikings No. 69 jersey)
(On the field, hundreds of footballs fly continuously back and forth through the air. Throwing the passes is a multitude of Favres; they are all dressed in a range of Packers, Jets, Vikings, Falcons and Southern Mississippi uniforms. No one catches the balls, which bounce away aimlessly around on the ground.)
King: (speaking softly, with a tear dancing down his cheek) Brett’s dreams are exactly like mine!
(After each pass lands, the Favre that threw the ball shoots his hands in the air and starts running down the field in celebration. Each one looks and points to the stands as if acknowledging the crowd, even though every seat in the stadium is empty.)
Childress: Get your bearings together, people. We’ve got a job to do. (Childress straightens his tie and strides toward the field. The others quickly follow.)
Gruden: (Still looking at the footballs flying through the air) Look at every one of those tosses! All perfect! All tight-spiraled lasers, just like the Caucasian Jesus Christ intended!
Deanna: How are we supposed to find Brett’s brain in all of this mess? How can know which Brett is the one we’re looking for?
Childress: I have a theory … (turns to Favre as they walk along the sidelines) Brett, throughout your life, when you were on the football field, what uniform or clothes were you wearing the least?
Childress: The red no-contact shirt, in your case. (Turns toward the field, standing on his toes) I have a feeling that if we find a Favre with no pads and in a red No. 4 jersey, we’ll have found our mark.
Cook: Good thinking, he’s spent less time in those clothes than I have.
Gruden: So why can’t we just convince this version of Favre’s brain to not retire? I have to take a shit, I don’t want this to take long.
Childress: Because while most people think at all layers of consciousness, Brett can only think when he’s not aware of it, i.e. at the subconscious level. If he did think like normal folk, he wouldn’t throw into triple coverage as much as he does. We need to dig deep into Brett to get where actual thought occurs.
Gruden: So … maybe two more minutes or something? It’s like there’s Crap Kong trying to get out of my butt right now.
Allen: LOL SHIT YER PANTS FAGGOT
Deanna: (Notices fewer balls are going into the air; sees a lot of the Favres holding their footballs and staring down the group) Why are they starting to look at us?
Childress: They’re not looking at us … (Runs over to Allen) … they’re looking at him! (Grabs Allen’s jersey) Take this thing off right now or you’re going to ruin everything!
King: What’s going on, Brad?
Allen: FUCK YEA SKINS TIME BABY (rips off his shirt and throws it into the stands, immediately patting his belly as loudly as possible; dozens of footballs start pelting the chairs around the jersey)
Childress: (gnashing his teeth) I couldn’t possibly hate you more. (Scans the field again; his eyes widen as he spots a Favre with no helmet and in a red practice jersey) There! I see him! Follow me!
Cook: Watch out for the footballs! (The group runs through the field covering their heads with the exception of Gruden)
Gruden: It honestly would be an honor to get smoked in the face or testicles by ones of these passes.
(Favre’s brain’s projection of itself stands dressed in a red No. 4 jersey in a small opening of Favres on the field, gripping and regripping a ball while looking purposely downfield at nothing)
Childress: Now, once we get to Favre’s brain, we’re going to have to get him off the field, which we can accomplish by telling him he doesn’t have to go any preseason games next year …
(Suddenly, a black flash zooms past the group. It catches one of the balls in the air and takes off for one of the end zones)
Cook: What the goddammit was that? Some guy dressed all in black!
Favre: No! Why doesn’t my o-line tackle him??
(Dozens more Tracy Porters start flying onto the field, grabbing more passes out of the air and running for pay dirt; the Favres start getting frantic)
Childress: Dammit! Get to Favre’s brain now, get him to the visitors tunnel!
(Favre runs over to Favre’s brain and puts him on his shoulders, taking off after the rest of the group; they both raise their hands and fist pump like they threw a touchdown pass)
Childress: If one of these Tracy Porters tackle Favre’s brain, the whole dream world is going to collapse! You can’t touch a player wearing a red jersey!
King: This all reminds me of this one time I drank coffee while flying to Baltimore … (gets caught in the throat by a bullet thrown from a Jets Favre; King falls to the ground holding his throat and coughing violently)
Deanna: Peter King got hit! What do we dooooo?
Gruden: Just kill him so he’ll wake up. (Pulls out a handgun)
Childress: No! You can’t do that!
Gruden: Why? I want to try out my handgun.
Childress: Because! The shots Jared Allen gave us are too strong, he won’t wake up completely! He’d get put in a state of limbo – he’d become dumber than Brett!
Favre: Shit that’s dumb. (Face gets stern) DOWN … SET …
Gruden: Come on, I just got this gun!
(Allen and Deanna grab King and drag him to the visitors tunnel, with more Porters intercepting passes from the Favre projections)
Cook: What the hell is going on here, Brad?! All these goddamn Tracy Porters, where did they come from?
Gruden: Why would Brett make projections of Tracy Porter? Brett’s got one of the shortest memories of any QB in the game!
Childress: (running his hand through where his hair used to be) Because … they’re not from Favre … they’re from me.
Cook: Jesus cheesemaking Christ, Brad! What else is your screwed-up psyche going inject into Favre’s dreams?
Childress: It’s just been haunting me … (turning to Favre) Why did you throw that pass, you idiot? Why didn’t you just run?!
Favre: (flashes an “aw-shucks” smile) I’m just a big kid out there coach!
Deanna: More of those negro fellows are appearing! What do we do?
Childress: (stuttering with frustration) We … we need to get Favre’s brain sleeping. (Pulls out the dream device) We can still do this … (looks up at Gruden) Do you remember your part of the plan?
Gruden: Yeah, but I wish it involved shooting Peter King in the head.
Favre’s Brain: Gunslinging!
(Everyone is hooked up to the dream device except for Gruden and King. They all sit on the ground leaning against some blocking pads; King sits with his eyes closed and blood slowly dribbling down his lips, his breathing labored.)
Childress: You have to keep King alive, Jon. Make sure he keeps sitting upright so his breathing passage doesn’t get blocked.
Gruden: No promises.
Childress: OK, to get us to fall asleep, you’re going to have to describe your offensive scheme with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Jon. That should put us out for a good while.
Gruden: All right, but I think it was pretty interesting myself. First, we’d bring in three tight ends, putting only one wide receiver out. A blocking wide receiver. Then, we’d have Brad Johnson call for any shifts in blocking, maybe call an audible to a fullback dive to Mike Alstott … (notices everyone is sound asleep; stops talking and looks around) Hope Brett projected some toilets, this is becoming a code red emergency in my pants.
(Favre, Childress, Deanna, Cook and Allen are standing in a darkened hallway, with a doorway at its end. They all are wearing the same clothes as before except for Allen, who’s wearing Renaissance-era attire)
Cook: Why did you project yourself wearing that, you walking OWI?
Allen: I’M FUCKIN DRUUUUNK GIVE ME A BREAK
Childress: Brett, where’d did your brain go?
Favre: He’s probably in my private office down thataway. (Points to the only door in the hallway)
Deanna: Oh yeah! This is your “no teammates allowed” quarters you requested when you played with the Jets! (Favre leads the group to the door)
Cook: Careful opening that door, we might get sacked by Darren Sharper thanks to crybaby over here.
Childress: (Exasperated) I knew if you guys understood the risks, you wouldn’t have came along, all right? I’m going to be fine now, I’ve got my mind under control. We’ll be awake in the real world in no time.
Childress: Why, your totems, of course. (Allen, Cook and Deanna stare at him blankly) Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you guys about totems … uh, sorry I guess.
Cook: I’m going to slap that playoff beard off your face, you dipshit.
Childress: Well, I know Brett has his Nerf Vortex football that is guaranteed to spiral every time, and I have my tiny little headset, so we’re all set. Don’t worry, I’ll let you guys know when you’re awake.
Cook: Yeah, you’ve just been a champ about ensuring our safety so far, I’m super confident in you.
Deanna: This is fun, I’m not sure I want to wake up! I feel like Jason Bond sneaking around everywhere!
(Favre reaches the door, which has a piece of notebook paper taped to it that reads “preye-vate: farves only” written in crayon; Favre opens the door, and inside the room sits Favre’s brain, still in practice squad attire, looking out a large window over the New York City skyline)
Allen: (throws his feathered Renaissance hat in the air) HELL YEAH WE FOUND BRETT’S BRAIN FAGGOTS
Childress: Dammit, quit saying “faggots.”
Allen: (face droops in sadness) BUT I’M DRUNK
(Favre’s brain slowly turns around to face the group)
Favre’s Brain: Are we going to leave for Minnesota soon?
Favre: (raises his hands like he threw a touchdown) We’ll show those Packers!
Childress: Let’s hurry up, we wasted too much time in Favre’s last dream. (Takes a step toward Favre’s brain when a yellow penalty flag lands on the floor in front of him as a shrill whistle cuts through the silence) The hell …?
(Like the beginning of a rainstorm, more penalty flags start falling, smacking against the floor and everyone in the room with a whistle accompanying each one; within moments, it’s a complete downpour of flags, and the whistles drown out nearly all sound)
Cook: Goddammit, Childress! I thought you said you were in control!
Childress: (eyes wide) Who sent 12 men in that huddle?! Who can’t count?!
Favre: Twelve is pretty close to 11, coach!
Childress: (Pulls out a dream device) Jared! Deanna! Hook us up quick before we get smothered by these flags! I’m going to need Jared to give us a kick and Deanna to lock herself in a closet because she’s proven to be exceedingly useless on this mission!
Favre: Hahaha he said nuts! Is he drunk or something?
(Favre, Favre’s brain, Cook and Childress are hooked up to the dream device as more flags and whistles fill the air; Allen has them laying on Favre’s brain’s desk so he can lift up the table and slide them off for a kick)
Cook: How are we going to get to sleep in this mess?
Childress: Here, read these … (He hands out printed copies of Peter King’s Monday Morning Quarterback column) Just skip to the “Aggravating Travel Notes” section.
Cook: “On a flight to San Diego, I couldn’t get my iPod to work … (eyes start drooping) … how could I … listen to my … recordings of Dustin Pedroia … reading the phonebook …”
(The stapled sheets of paper fall out of the four men’s hands simultaneously, landing softly on the two feet of flags in the floor. The flags and whistles immediately stop)
Deanna: (Clapping and jumping) Hooray! Now let’s clean up all these flags, Jared. (Starts picking a few up) Do you think there’s a toilet around here we can flush these down?
Allen: I’M FUCKIN DRUNK
TO BE CONTINUED