INT. PURE WHITE ROOM - INFERRED DREAM SPACE
MY CAGEY ACHILLES TENDON, MY AILING PSOAS, MY CRUNCHY PELVIS, and MY MILD INTERMETETARSAL NEUROMA (collectively INJURIES) sit around a conference room table smoking cigars. PAUL materializes before them, wearing an all white tuxedo.
Fellas. Can't we come to some sort of agreement?
INJURIES (IN UNISON)
Just forty miles a week. That's all I'm asking!
Fat chance, trash-dick. You'll get 15 if you're lucky. And they're gonna hurt.
Yeah. And they're gonna be slow.
What if I stretch? See a chiropractor? Pop ibuprofen like they're goddamn Skittles? Go to yoga irregularly? Self-massage? Rub prayer beads? Give up jerking off? Anything?!
Not gonna happen, bub.
(Sighs) Alright. Same time again next week?
(Grunts in acknowledgement)
PAUL evaporates into the ether. The INJURIES chuckle and pass around a suckling pig, tearing bites of its flesh out as it completes the circle.