INT. MANSION BEDROOM — MORNING.
An alarm comes to life and starts vibrating across the dresser. A hand slams down to shut it off. This hand belongs to Memphis Grizzlies’ starting small forward, CHANDLER PARSONS.
(to no one in particular) YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
CHANDLER is wearing Gucci pajamas and yawns as he lazily pulls back his million thread count Gucci sheets and puts on his Gucci slippers.
He strolls into a neighboring room that is embroidered with gold wallpaper and plastered with signed pictures of various rappers. The room is littered with bunk beds stacked like decks of cards. This is CHANDLER’s ENTOURAGE ROOM. Twelve young 20-something dudes’ faces peer up at him, hazy from the night of debauchery before.
Y’ALL READY, FAMMMMMM???!!!!
Like a military battalion, the ENTOURAGE fires up their morning routine. JAY-Z’s “On to the Next One” rumbles in the background. Some begin picking up the droves of Bud Light Lime and Michelob Ultra bottles around the house. Others begin preparing breakfast. It’s like Snow White’s dwarves but without the animated birds.
INT. RANGE ROVER — DAY.
On the way to the GRIZZLIES’ PRACTICE FACILITY, CHANDLER sips on a tasty MIMOSA that he routinely and secretly keeps in his Gatorade bottles.
Ay yo, helluva night last night, right? DAMN!
The ENTOURAGE nervously nods in unison.
(looking at one of the ENTOURAGE) Don’t worry, bro. She wudn’t THAT fat–little thick tho!
This ENTOURAGE member laughs. Once CHANDLER stares daggers at the rest of them, they all start boisterously chortling.
Someone take a sweet Insta story of me while I’m driving!
Because CHANDLER only allows the twelve members of the ENTOURAGE to have one smart phone between them, like mice to a wedge of cheese, the ENTOURAGE all rush to get the phone and capture CHANDLER’s first social media post of the day. The “she wasn’t that fat” member emerges victorious and happily uploads the post.
The RANGE ROVER pulls into the PRACTICE FACILITY.
INT. GRIZZLIES’ PRACTICE FACILITY — DAY.
CHANDLER confidently struts in, greeting each member of the GRIZZLIES’ MEDICAL STAFF by name. One staff member, a beefy physical therapist with a shimmering shaved head walks up to CHANDLER. This is ROD. The two dudes share an elaborate handshake.
CP! Thinking of playing tonight?
Ehhhh, flip a coin?? (he shrugs)
The entire GRIZZLIES MEDICAL STAFF erupts into laughter.
Man, you know I can’t be rushing things. Like you always say —
— “listen to your body.” Yeah, Chan, I know I always say that. But it’s been almost four years, ya know? We were thinking you might play your first back to back tonight.
(starting to get annoyed) C’mon Rod, man. Shit. It wasn’t ME who payed ME 22 MIL a year.
I know but all scans are clean, knees look great
(He looks back at his staff)
We just thought may–
CHANDLER shushes ROD, slowly putting his index finger on ROD’s lips, almost petting them.
Now let’s get rollin’. What we got on tap for today? WHO I GOTTA FUCK TO GET A HOT TOWEL AROUND HERE?!
INT. WORKOUT AREA — DAY.
CHANDLER proceeds through his rehab, which mostly consists of sipping on his Gatorade bottle and walking around the gym, examining himself in the mirror. He mounts an elliptical.
Only doing 15 seconds, someone snap a story real quick.
The ENTOURAGE dutifully fulfills his request. CHANDLER, feeling exhausted, goes to get a workout-ending massage.
INT. MASSAGE ROOM — DAY.
As the female masseuse kneads his back like bread, CHANDLER peers back every minute to wink at her. Suddenly, the doors fly open, as if they did so to honor the dark figure walking through them. A TALL MAN in a svelte suit walks in with mucho style and swagger. The TALL MAN approaches the massage table. This is VINCE CARTER.
Just don’t think it’s ti–
His words are cut off as VINCE violently SLAPS CHANDLER across the face with the power of 1000 pythons. Spittle flies from CHANDLER’s mouth. He slowly returns his gaze to VINCE.
Whad I tell you?
(regaining composure) Sorry, Coach. Was hard to look you in the eyes laying like this. Won’t happen again. Don’t think I can play though.
Rod says your ass is tip-top. Way I see it, you got two choices. One, you lace em up. I’m happy, you’re happy. Two, you lace em up. I’m happy, you ain’t.
A snide smile creeps up on VINCE’s face.
Now … we Gucci?
… yeah … we Gucci.
As quickly as he entered the room, VINCE is GONE, like smoke dissipating after a fire. CHANDLER lays there like a dead fish. He somberly turns to the massage artist.
Better skip the happy ending today, baby.
INT. MANSION LIVING ROOM — DUSK.
CHANDLER’s ENTOURAGE sits in a semi-circle, all in matching black hoodies and holding candles. A worn-in HAMMER rests on the coffee table. The HAMMER stares at CHANDLER. CHANDLER stares at the HAMMER. Engraved on the HAMMER’s side is “Plan B.”
(to HAMMER) Long time, long time, homie.
CHANDLER ponders and ponders some more. A bead of seat collects on his brow. Deep EXHALE. His fingers slowly wrap around the HAMMER’s handle. He raises it HIGH above his head. BEAT. The HAMMER is vibrating with CHANDLER’s nervousness, but his concentration is that of a brain surgeon.
… fuck it.
Like THOR, Chandler swings down the HAMMER towards his knees with reckless abandon.
INT. MANSION LIVING ROOM — NIGHT.
CHANDLER’s knees are swollen purple bowling balls, wrapped in ice an inch thick. He casually leans back.
Aight, caption it “minor setback for a major comeback.” Now … where’s the spot tonight? Kylie and Lil Christlie are in town.
He grins as the opening hook of Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” jams.
FADE TO BLACK.
[banner image from ClutchFans — https://scontent-a.cdninstagram.com/hphotos-xap1/t51.2885-15/10533045_259510620905695_202081908_n.jpg%5D