NFL Coaches Fight Club, Round 2: Jim Mora Jr. vs. Josh McDaniels

NFL Coaches Fight Club: the Tournament. Because we have nothing better to do than predict what might happen if head coaches started punching each other in the face.

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SCENE: Parking lot of the Arctic Circle restaurant in Twin Falls, Idaho. Twilight.

LONG SHOT: McDANIELS walks toward camera, backlit, his face obscured by darkness. Occasional cutaways to his steel-toed boots and the captive bolt pistol in his hand. He walks under a streetlight revealing his black denim clothing and strange 1970s haircut.

CUT TO: MORA, sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck. He is eating french fries dipped in fry sauce. (The non-West Coast audience won't recognize the fry sauce but it will play big in Europe.) McDANIELS reaches into the pocket of his unfashionably tight jeans. He pulls out a quarter and slams it down on the tailgate. MORA looks up from his fries.

McDANIELS: What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss?
MORA (confused): Excuse me?
McDANIELS: The most. You ever lost. On a coin toss.
MORA (resumes eating his fries): Playoff berth. 2005. Tampa came to Atlanta. Lost the coin toss in overtime. Never got the ball.
McDANIELS (tossing quarter in the air): Call it.
MORA: Didn't get to. We were the home team.
McDANIELS: The coin. The coin.
MORA: Yes, I know. We didn't get to call the coin toss because we were the home team.
McDANIELS: No, friendo, the coin I just tossed.

CUT TO: Close up of McDANIELS' hand over the coin on the tailgate, then close on the trigger of the bolt pistol in McDANIELS' hand, then MORA's left eye, wide open.

MORA: I need to know what I stand to win here.
McDANIELS: Everything.
MORA (raising eyebrow): Everything?
McDANIELS: Well, mostly the NFC West
MORA (incredulously): I don't believe you.
McDANIELS (frustrated): Okay, it's true. You're not going to win the NFC West. You might win three more games. Four if those alternate uniforms of yours start making people go blind. But your whole life has been leading up to this moment. And if this is where your road has led you, of what use is the road, friendo?

MORA stands up.

MORA: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. And besides, this road is the most direct route between Denver and Seattle, at least according to Google Maps. Therefore, this road is of much use.
McDANIELS: Call it ... friendo.
MORA: I call it ... heads.

McDANIELS picks up the quarter. Close up on his hand as he reveals the coin shows heads.

McDANIELS: Congratulations. Keep the quarter. It's your lucky quarter.
MORA: It is not for me the quarter of luck. It is for you the quarter of unluck. You do well to get rid of it.
McDANIELS: Who are you? Why do you talk so funny?

MORA reaches under a previously unseen saddle blanket in the back of his truck and retrieves a sharp-pointed fencing sword. He aims it at McDANIELS' neck.

MORA: My name is James Lawrence Mora. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
McDANIELS: But I didn't kill your father.
MORA: No, I am believing you did.
McDANIELS: Your father isn't even dead!

MORA looks confused, then slaps himself across the face three times, forehand, backhand, forehand. Be sure to tell MORA to use the hand that is not holding the sword.

MORA (agitated): My name is James Lawrence Mora. You killed my father. Prepare to die!

MORA charges at McDANIELS, who uses the bolt pistol to knock the sword out of MORA's hand. In one swift motion McDANIELS brings the pistol to rest against MORA's temple. (Tell MORA to ham up a scene of extreme nervousness.) A metallic ping is heard just as the screen goes black. CUT TO scene of the quarter on the truck's tailgate. It still shows heads.

McDANIELS: Twice in a row. It really is your lucky quarter.

McDANIELS raises the bolt pistol to his shoulder, then turns and walks into the sunset. MORA picks up the quarter, sticks it in his pocket, and goes back to eating his fries. FADE OUT with long shot of McDANIELS walking down the street, now dark.