Damage Report

[Biron]

(FADEIN: To a sweeping exterior shot of Jacksonville's immaculate, six-story Mayo Clinic. At the bottom of the screen, "Filmed during RELOADED - JUNE 16, 2012" appears and shortly after vanishes. CUTTO: A scraped-up JACK BRYANT, dressed in a mundane, white hospital gown, sitting on an exam table in undisguised discomfort. Sitting, legs crossed, in a chair tucked against the wall is FIONA LOVE. She forcefully flips through a magazine's pages, not even allowing time to read them, but, with an audible sigh, she finally tosses it aside. She stares at Jack, who seems to be deep in thought. She clears her throat, the obvious pretend variety, which actually manages to capture Jack's attention. He looks at her with a raised eyebrow; Fiona responds by holding her arms out at her sides.)

JACK BRYANT: (gingerly holds arms out with a grimace) "What?"

FIONA LOVE: "What do you mean What? You're in the hospital. You got hit by A CAR. All because you're too damn stubborn to listen. I warned you about Dorchester, Jack. But, NOOO, you wanted to test your mettle. You insisted on picking a fight with the most dangerous, heartless man in the company. How's that working out for you?"

BRYANT: "Well, Ah mean mah ribs hurt like a sonuvabitch. Feels like Ah'm gettin' stuck with a knife every time Ah breathe, but, overall, Ah'd say it's goin' alright."

(Fiona, eyes wide, reaches down to pick up the magazine and, in one quick motion, chucks it at the half-expecting Bryant.)

LOVE: "Great! Now, you're a comedian. You almost got KILLED today, Jack. Dorchester tried to turn you into roadkill and you're joking around about it?"

BRYANT: "Ya' think Ah'm gettin' a kick outta this? Ya' think Ah'm happy? No, Ah'm goddamn pissed. (grimaces) But, seein' as how blinkin' hurts, Ah don't think Ah'm gonna be gettin' mah revenge ta'night. When tha' times comes fer Dorchester ta' pay tha' piper, yer gonna' see, tha' whole damn world's gonna' see, how piss-poor mah sense a' humor is."

LOVE: "You're still not going to back off - (looks up) unbelieveable. Why can't you just let it be? You hurt him. He hurt you. End of story."

BRYANT: (sneering) "That ain't how Jack Bryant's wired. Ah'm seein' this through."

(As Jack finishes his last sentence, the examination room door swings open and a middle-aged African American doctor, wearing a white lab coat and carrying an important-looking folder, steps into the room, closing the door behind him.)

DOC: "Mr. Bryant - I have your X-rays here. With your trouble breathing, we were concerned you might have a punctured lung, but you don't. You do, however, have three fractured ribs. You're extremely luck that your injuries weren't more severe. No head injuries. Just scrapes and bruises."

LOVE: "How long should he be out of the ring to let his ribs heal?"

DOC: (crossing his hands in front of him) "I'd say three to five weeks, but it changes on a case per case basis, Ms. Love. It really depends on how the patient is feeling, if there's still discomfort or issues with breathing. Only Jack will know when he's ready to go."

(Fiona directs a harsh glare at Jack, who has a crooked grin plastered across his face)

LOVE: "Thank you, Doctor."

(With that, the doctor spun on his heel and exited the room. Jack slowly got himself down from the exam table. Fiona, hands planted on her hips, stood in front of him.)

LOVE: "I imagine I won't be able to convince you to take a few shows off."

BRYANT: (straight-faced) "Not unless ya' can deliver Dorchester Stratton's dead carcass ta' me."

LOVE: "Figured."

(FTB)