25

But the girl is way too into punishment contrivance to

even notice Cam. He quietly slips off while she
continues…
ANOTHER GIRL
No, no, I’m good. I wonder if you
could inject fire ants directly into
the uretha? Might be kind of tough
with the with the curve, but, no,
wait, yeah, I think you could. Yeah,
that way…

The Drunk Dude stumbles past the doorway, a paper bag on

his head. Behind him a group of partygoers follows, the
lead man carries a lit torch, while the others clap their
hands and chant in time.
PARTYGOERS
Flam-ing bag-head!!! Flam-ing bag-
head!!! Flam-ing bag-head!!!

NIKKI
I think it’s obvious who that person
is.

Cam ducks his head into the den.

CAM
You guys have to see this.

EXT. YARD EVE

The Drunk Dude and THE FRICK, a gangly, thin white kid in
his mid 20s, square off against each other, each with a
grocery bag atop their head. The Partygoers form a rough
circle around the warriors.
PARTYGOERS
Flam-ing bag-head!!! Flam-ing bag-
head!!! Flam-ing bag-head!!!

An EMCEE/REFEREE, wearing a gilt and bejeweled bag on his

head, steps to the center of the circle.
EMCEE/REFEREE
From the dawn of time, man has upheld
the warrior ideals of strength and
beauty. Battlefields over the
millenia have borne testament to the
courageous sacrifice of those--
fighting to the death--for their
homeland, pride, and valor.

Various partygoers tip their cups in memory of fallen

heroes.
 26

EMCEE/REFEREE
And that ‘was cool.’ But not nearly
as cool as this.
The rules of Flaming Baghead are
simple, the last man standing with a
bag burning on top of his head wins.
The only other rule is that there are
no other rules.
The victor will be lauded with
praise, glory, and all the lukewarm
PBR he can stomach. The loser,
disgraced beyond all bearing, will be
kicked in the balls, hard!
Gentlemen, light the bags!

Torchbearers set fire to the grocery bags on the Drunk

Dude’s and The Frick’s head.
The warriors slowly circle each other, sizing up the
various conditions--wind, bag material--affecting the
burn rate of their opponent’s bag. They look for
potential weakspots and openings in their opponent’s
defense.
As the bags burn closer and closer to the warrior’s
hairlines, the Frick makes a desperate charge, bag first,
at The Drunk Dude, attempting to knock the bag of his
head. In the thick of battle, The Frick loses his bag. As
it falls from his head, he crumples to his knees in
supplication, grasping for the bag and crying out in
horror reaching, reaching as it just escapes his
fingertips.
THE FRICK
Nnnnnooooooo!!!

DRUNK DUDE
Bbbwwwwoowwrrrwwwrr!!

The Drunk Dude cocks his biceps, firing them as if they

were cannons on a battleship, affectionately kissing each
one after discharge.
The Frick, still crumpled on the ground in defeat, slowly
rises to face his punishment.
An expected hush falls over the crowd. The Frick, though
fallen, has fought valiantly and it’s almost unbearable
for the multitudes to witness his inevitable punishment.
But such is the way of Flaming Baghead.
The Frick gathers himself and rises to face THE BOOTER,
an impartial agent selected to impose the law. The
 27

Booter, an imposing figure cut of granite, wears a steel-

shanked boot, its toe painted gold.
As The Frick girds himself, The Booter backs up exactly
four steps.
The Frick gives a nod. He’s ready.
The Booter approaches The Frick, fully rearing his leg
back and then delivering an arching kick to the groin.
The Frick falls to the ground, gasping in pain. The Crowd
groans collectively.
The Frick writhes in pain, his face red. The Booter
shakes his head slowly, such is the end the Warriors must
face in their vainglorious grab for glory.
To everyone’s astoundment, The Frick struggles back to
his feet.
THE FRICK
Again.

This is unprecedented. The Booter shakes his head, no. He

will not mete out such barbaric suffering, a second kick.
But The Frick insists, motioning to the Booter, “yes,
yes, this is what is needed.” The Frick is proving he is
a Flaming Baghead Warrior for the ages, the only one to
ever take multiple ball-kickings.
The Booter reluctantly lines up. Gasps of horror escape
the Crowd.
SPECTATOR
The humanity!

SPECTATOR TWO
Someone, anyone, please, stop this
madness!

SPECTATOR THREE
Think about the children!

SPECTATOR FOUR
Dude, that sucks.

The Booter delivers the kick.

Again, The Frick collapses to the ground, clutching his
groin.
Tears fill womens’ eyes, men look away, unable to face
the brutality. The Drunk Dude stares vacously at the
ground, he never meant it to come to this.
 28

Stifiling his cries of pain and anguish, The Frick slowly

rises. Gasping for breath, he motions at The Booter to do
it again.
Spectators now break from the ranks, throwing their arms
around the Frick, sheltering him.
THE BOOTER
No, no…it’s just, no…

The Frick allows the spectators to help him up, but looks
away defiantly from the succor they offer. He glares at
The Booter.
THE FRICK
I said do it!

The Booter is now shaking his head, no, no, even while he
lines up again. His body is mechanically going through
the motions, but his heart has long since withered and
died.
THE BOOTER
But why? I, just…

The Frick, with a beatific air about him, gently nods at

The Booter.
The blow is delivered.
The Frick crumbles, convulsed in pain. He wretches,
struggling with his swollen groin.
It is finished.
Vic, Nikki, Cam, Grace, Eric, and Dan are stunned.

VIC
Whoa.

ERIC
Yeah.

GRACE
Dude, that’s some shit. I mean,
really.

Still shaking their heads, they make their way back

toward the house, as The Frick is attended to in the
background.
NIKKI
Let’s go.