INT. NIGHT - Vincent's Clam Bar, Carle Place, Long Island.
The Islanders are seated around a table, enjoying food and drinks and a few laughs. A boisterous Frans Nielsen sits holding court, regaling his teammates with bawdy stories of his days growing up on the mean streets of Herning, Denmark.
A maître d' sidles up behind Nielsen and clumsily inserts himself into the conversation. Nielsen jokingly pretends to be startled.
NIELSEN: Oh! What the...? I thought I was getting checked over here! Ya hangin' on my neck like a vulture, like impending danger. Whattaya want!?
MAÎTRE D': Fransy, I'm sorry. But I got this letter from this guy [he motions to Brendan Shanahan of the NHL's Department of Player Safety, standing a few yards away]. It's a...
NIELSEN: Whadisit? The check? Yeah, it's no problem. Tell Kimber to put it on my tab.
MAÎTRE D': No, Fransy. It's not the check. It's a fine. From the NHL.
NIELSEN: What fine? Fa what?
MAÎTRE D': For slashing Martin Hanzal in dat game last night. It's not a little one. This is five big ones, five G's you owe here. Five thousand dollars. I mean, it ain't peanuts.
Nielsen looks visibly uncomfortable. The rage inside him is boiling over faster than he can breathe. He takes a drink of his Drambuie.
MAÎTRE D': I don't mean to be outta order or nothin--
NIELSEN: Oh! You don't mean to be outta orda? Geez, it's good you don't mean to be outta orda. You mean like embarrasin' me in front of my friends, callin' me a goon?
The maître d' implores Nielsen to listen, but Nielsen pays no attention. Nielsen grabs the maître d' by the tie with one hand and with the other, he grabs an empty beer bottle.
NIELSEN: You know, sonny, you're a real mutt, you know that? You know how much money I have, and what I mean to this team?
MAÎTRE D': Aw c'mon, Fransy. Don't be like that.
NIELSEN: Whattaya mean, "Don't be like that?!"
Nielsen bashes the beer bottle over the maître d's head. Glass flies. A visible gash opens and blood is seeping out of the man's forehead. The terrified maître d' covers his head and turns to run.
The rest of the Islanders burst out laughing. Nielsen gets one final kick in the man's pants before he's gone from view.
NIELSEN: [turning back to his laughing teammates] Do you believe this mutt?
He turns and sees Brendan Shanahan in the back, looking so nervous he could wet himself.
NIELSEN: And whattya you lookin' at? Ya stutterin' moron!
Nielsen hurls a nearby chair at Shanahan. Shanahan dodges and runs away.
Nielsen returns to the table, incredulous at what's just happened.
NIELSEN: Do you believe that?
PETER REGIN: You know something, Fransy? You really are a funny guy.
The table of Islanders bursts out laughing even harder than before. Nielsen feigns anger at his childhood friend and pretends to hold him down and shoot him.
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