Concussion Page #7

WEBSTER:

(announcer voice)

--was so ugly when he was born his

momma carried him around upside

down for a week, thought he only

had one eye!

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 14.

Laugh line. But no one laughs.

STRZELCZYK:

(squeezes Webster’s hands)

Mike. My knees are shot. I retired.

I’m done. I just wanted you to

know.

(then; afraid)

What happens when Mike Webster

falls asleep?

WEBSTER:

He remembers.

STRZELCZYK:

I’m starting to forget things,

Webby. I’m hearing myself say this

stupid crap to my kids. I almost

pushed Keana into a wall, man. I

never touched a girl like that.

Webster looks at him. Then getting back into the truck-

WEBSTER:

Don’t give up, son!

(Strzelczyk leaves a roll

of hundreds, walks)

Finish the game and we’ll all be

winners!

(Strzelczyk gets on his

bike and--)

A28 EXT. STRZELCZYK HOME - PITTSBURGH SUBURBS - DUSK

Big rangy house of a pro athlete. Strzelczyk playing guitar

on his porch, some mournful melody. Soft voice incongruous

with his giantness. Flanked by his SON, 9, DAUGHTER, 6.

Car pulls up. Wife, KEANA -- 30, thin, angular face, the

opposite of Strzelczyk -- crosses to him with groceries.

KEANA STRZELCZYK

He really sell his rings?

(he stops playing--)

STRZELCZYK:

That wasn’t Webby. Webby’s gone. I

don’t know who that was.

(and back to--)

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 15.

INT. CHEVY PICK-UP TRUCK - DAY

The plastic bags taped to the windows breathing in and out

like a bellows.

Webster failing at sleep. Stretches across the trash. Then

fetal. Now sits up. Everything hurts. The mosquitoes rage.

Can’t find stillness. He grips his head. Searing hot pain.

He reaches for a Taser. Charges it. The prongs jack up. A

loud crack, like a gunshot. Primed and ready.

He’s sweaty. Desperate for sleep now. Pushes down his pants.

Thigh flesh already burnt. Charred in places.

Brings the Taser to his own meat -- doesn’t even flinch --

triggers -- CRACK! -- blue flash. And Webster’s bulk is rag-

dolled onto the floor of the truck, and we cut to black-

OVER BLACK, in PRE-LAP -- RAP RAP RAP -- the crack of metal

on window glass, then-

30 INT./EXT. CHEVY PICK-UP/PARKING LOT - HOSPITAL - MORNING

Webster - hideously unclean, mouth a cesspool - wakes in an

entirely different location. Forehead-down into the steering

wheel. Security Guard, 60, knocking at his window. He opens-

SECURITY GUARD:

Mike Webster, right? Iron Mike?

Webster isn’t entirely sure. Of that, or how he got here.

Looks up to see he’s parked in front of medical offices.

The guard thrusts his electric bill at him.

SECURITY GUARD (CONT’D)

Can you sign this? My wife’s gonna.

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