INT. OFFICE – DAY

Open in an office in Landover, Maryland. It is the day before Christmas, and a winter storm has shut down the D.C. Metro area. A bitter wind blusters outside the windows.

JAY GRUDEN: …I wish you’d reconsider, sir. Christmas is not a time to be dining alone.

DAN SNYDER: Bah! Pishposh! Christmas is a day just like any other day – a day for work! A day to turn this franchise’s fortunes around! Look at the Jews! They don’t celebrate Christmas, and they’re all rich! Rich as Nazis!

GRUDEN: Sir, I really don’t think…

SNYDER: [interrupting] I suppose you’ll be wanting the entire day off tomorrow?

GRUDEN: Well, yes, sir, my brother’s family is coming to visit.

SNYDER: I hope you and that clan of slack-jawed troglodytes aren’t planning to eat yourself into such a stupor that you can’t coach properly the next day.

GRUDEN: Of course not, sir. We’ll be having a meager feast this year – the medical bills have been mounting and…

SNYDER: [rolls his eyes] Yes, yes, I didn’t ask for your life story, Gruden. Take the day. But I expect you to report early on Saturday to make up for it. We’ve got a game, you know.

GRUDEN: Of course, sir. The team and I will be ready. Before I leave…there’s a pair of men here to see you.

SNYDER: [hopefully] Haloti Ngata and his agent?

GRUDEN: No, sir, they’re from the Native American Relations Council.

SNYDER: Ugh. Just buy them off with a tractor or two and send them on their way.

GRUDEN: I tried that, sir, and they declined. They are very intent on speaking with you.

SNYDER: [sighs] Fine. Send them in.

GRUDEN obsequiously backs out of SNYDER’S office and ushers a pair of Native American representatives into the office. They glance uncomfortably at the giant [*Redacted] s logo behind him.

SNYDER: Not THIS again. How many times do I need to show you the grassroots twitter accounts, most Indians are NOT offended by this team’s name.

CASINO REP 1: That’s not what we’re here for, Mr. Snyder.

SNYDER: Then what do you want?

CASINO REP 2: As you know, Christmas is a time of great loneliness and sorrow for people who don’t have or are estranged from their families. Those people often turn to gambling in our casinos.

CASINO REP 1: Many of these people lose everything they have, up to and including the shirts off their backs. We’re here to collect donations of clothing for these unfortunate souls, such that they might stay warm through these winter nights. We thought you might be able to donate some unsold [*Redacted] s merchandise.

SNYDER: Why don’t you just give them their money back?

CASINO REP 2: Oh, we’re not going to do that. That would cut into our profits, and if you think we’re going to give one red cent back to the men who stole our land and forced us to move to Okla-fucking-homa, you can forget it. Plus, these degenerates would just turn right around and start gambling again, until they have nothing left. The entire Daily Fantasy Sports empire is built upon that principle.

SNYDER: Will these “unfortunates” be coming to [*Redacted] s games and cheering for the team?

The two casino representatives glance at each other, frowning.

CASINO REP 2: It’s unlikely.

CASINO REP 1: Few of them can afford tickets.

CASINO REP 2: And most of them lack the political connections they would need to receive free tickets as thinly veiled bribes from local lobbyists.

SNYDER: Oh, so these reprobates will be sitting, destitute on the streets, decked out from head to toe in [*Redacted] s gear? Can you imagine how demoralizing that would be for my players, to see themselves supported by an army of mustard-stained, miserable flea-ridden vagabonds? I think not. I won’t be making a donation this year, or any other year. Good day, gentlemen.

CASINO REP 2: [pleading] But sir, there must be SOMETHING you can donate. The contents of your stadium’s lost and found. Perhaps some unsold blankets…

CASINO REP 1: We’re aware of the irony of Native Americans giving away blankets.

SNYDER: [enraged] You’ll get nothing, and you will LEAVE immediately or I will call security and you will be MADE to leave. I SAID GOOD DAY.

The casino representatives leave and SNYDER sighs and resumes peering at a set of balance sheets that lay out his player’s salaries and how much money he will be able to throw away on overpriced contracts during free agency. The wind continues to howl outside, but is joined by a low moaning sound. SNYDER looks up, confused. The moaning grows louder, and eventually it is accompanied by the sound of chains jangling.

SNYDER: [frightened] Who’s there?

The wind increases, and it is as though the windows have vanished – snow blows THROUGH them straight into the room and swirls above the carpet. SNYDER’S eyes widen as the snow begins to coalesce into a spectral form, floating several inches off the ground. The figure glides towards SNYDER’S desk, dragging behind it a set of first down chains. As it comes closer, it is revealed to be soaking wet and shivering from the effects of a Gatorade shower. The features of the ghost finally resolve into those of a handsome, powerful-looking man.

SNYDER: Jack Kent Cooke?

GEORGE ALLEN: No, you idiot! In life, I was the coach of the Washington [*Redacted] s, George Allen.

SNYDER: Well, I was thinking pretty seriously about ditching Gruden, and it’s never too early to start interviewing new candidates…what’s your coaching philosophy?

GEORGE ALLEN: In my life, the quest for victory was all that mattered to me.

SNYDER: I’m listening…

GEORGE ALLEN: I never gave a shit about family, or friends. Unless, of course, you’re talking about my buddy Richard Nixon. I didn’t think anybody could hate cripples more than me, but old Dick sure proved me wrong. He used to joke that if he couldn’t make it in politics, he’d open up a chain of milkshake parlors staffed entirely with epileptics. And I suppose my eldest son was all right; watching him break a pool cue over my daughter’s hippie boyfriend’s skull was one of the few times I found myself smiling away from the football field. Why if not for that [series of unrepeatable racial slurs] he would have taken his rightful place in the White House by now! But in truth, all I truly cared about was winning. And yet I never won the big game. THOSE FUCKING CHEAP SHIT DOLPHINS ROBBED ME OF MY DESTINY! As such, I am condemned to walk the earth.

SNYDER: Oh, you mean like Aldon Smith! I wonder how much guaranteed money it would take for him to promise he won’t get another DUI.

GEORGE ALLEN: No, what I mean is that I cannot rest!

SNYDER: Oh, you mean like JJ Watt! Yeah, he DOES have a high motor. When is his contract up?

GEORGE ALLEN: No, I mean that I cannot pass…

SNYDER: Oh you mean like Ryan Mallett!

GEORGE ALLEN: …on to the next world! [ALLEN’S GHOST drifts through SNYDER’S desk and grabs him by the suit lapels, pulling him up out of his chair and into the air] Listen to me, you sniveling little shitweasel! I am here to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. It’s not a GOOD chance – say about the same odds as the Browns winning a playoff game in the next five years – but it’s a chance. You will be visited by three ghosts tonight. They’re gonna hit you with a whole bunch of pansy liberal crap about how you need to change the ‘Skins name. Be warned!

There is a bright flash of light, and the room is instantly restored to its former stillness.  SNYDER finds himself once again sitting at his desk.

SNYDER: [blinks his eyes repeatedly, mistrusting his senses] Such a disturbing vision! I must have fallen asleep at my desk and had a nightmare! Surely that’s it – I’ve been working too hard – I need to go home and get some sleep!

SNYDER gets up from his desk and crosses the room to leave, but stops as he notices a wet spot on the carpet.

SNYDER: That miserable oaf Gruden must have spilled my Fiji water again!

SNYDER crouches down to touch the carpet and frowns as he looks more closely.

SNYDER: What is this color? I’ve expressly forbidden the employees from drinking flavored water! Like Vitamin Water, or Crystal Light, or…[brings his fingers to his nose]…Gatorade.

[end of Part 1]