INT. DAVIS'S APARTMENT – DAY
The TV flashes breaking news:
"Live car chase on Interstate 80—armed suspects dressed as cowboys have fired on police. At least one officer presumed dead. Citizens urged to stay clear…"
Camera pans across a flaming cruiser, mangled like paper, smoke towering over a mass of flashing red and blue lights.
DAVIS (pale, mumbling):"Oh... my actual god… that is Jake."
He stumbles backward, nearly trips on the knocked-over beer can from earlier. The news anchor continues:
"…the suspects appear to be wielding authentic 19th-century firearms… and may be mentally disturbed."
DAVIS:"Mentally disturbed?? Those lunatics are from a video game! What the f—"
Davis frantically grabs his phone, scrolls past "Mom," "Dealer," "Domino's," and finally taps a contact marked only as:
🧼 MERC-CLEANUP GUY
Phone rings… once. Twice.Then it clicks.A voice comes through.
UNKNOWN MERCENARY (cheerful):"Yo! You're live with your favorite violence consultant-slash-chimichanga enthusiast. If you're calling to confess to a crime, say nothing and hang up. If you need help cleaning up a mess, congrats—you just unlocked level 2 of your anxiety spiral!"
DAVIS (whispers):"…I need the kind of help that involves guns. And body armor. And probably… a flamethrower."
UNKNOWN MERC (gasps):"Oooooh! Is it a wedding? Wait—is it a kid's party gone wrong? Did a bouncy castle flip over on a nun again?"
DAVIS:"There are... five cowboys loose in the city. Like, real ones. With revolvers. One just blew up a cop car."
UNKNOWN MERC:"Cowboys, huh? Please tell me one of them is named Butch and another wears a snakeskin thong."
DAVIS (dead serious):"I'm not kidding. One of them's Dutch. Another's named Arthur. Jake's with them. I think… they glitched out of a video game. Into this world."
UNKNOWN MERC:"Oh sh*t. This is some Jumanji-meets-Red Dead Redemption type crap. I LOVE IT. Alright, I'll bite. Where they headed?"
DAVIS:"They're on the highway. Probably headed toward the city center. Can you track 'em?"
UNKNOWN MERC:"Already hacked the news chopper feed. I see 'em. One's hanging off the back of a pickup like it's the Oregon Trail on meth. God bless America."
DAVIS (groans):"Just stop them before they make it to Times Square or something. I don't know what's going on anymore."
UNKNOWN MERC (mock serious):"Sir, I'm going to need a down payment before I throw myself into your five-star-wanted-level sandbox. Do you accept chimichangas, blood diamonds, or Venmo?"
DAVIS:"…How much?"
UNKNOWN MERC:"One Taylor Swift ticket. Front row. Signed. Or, you know, two thousand cash. But Swifties hit harder than bullets, so choose wisely."
DAVIS (mutters):"…You'll get your money. Just fix this."
UNKNOWN MERC (singing):"Yippee ki-yay, motherfu—"
CLICK.
INT. HIGHWAY – SAME TIME
Camera cuts back to Jake behind the wheel of Davis's Honda Ridgeline, swerving between lanes as Dutch, Arthur, John, and Micah try not to get shot or fall out. Sirens, chaos, burning rubber—classic.
Jake checks his mirror.
JAKE (sweating):"Guys... I think help's coming. I just don't know what kind of help."