i'm really sorry, mr. witzky.
dad.  behind them, the guys playing football out of bernie's tap have now organized a full-fledged game of tackle in the street, over the objections of their wives and girlfriends, who shout at them to stop.
huh uh. suddenly, the guys playing football run a play right through the middle of them -- sweaty, middle-aged bodies fly in every direction. everybody shouts and lunges backward, protecting their beers. the conversation is broken up. but the football players are upset, and a fight breaks out. the crowd gets out of the way, half to watch the fight with glee, the other half to shake their heads and watch the fight.
yeah. (kurt is looking atihim: i'm fine.
really, mom? how do i look?
you could climb off my back, that'd help. adam walks away.
hi!
want to see what i've got?
not today. come here: tom walks toward him. adam closer. tom walks closer. he's right in front of adam. adam i bet you never saw this before. he points the gun barrel at tom -- -- then swings it around and points it at his own heart.
happy st. patrick's day.
uh.  don't you have it? he giggles.
the surprise. they laugh and look at each other. kurt drinks, then forces the bottle back at adam. adam i'm too wasted.
oh, yeah, so bad. he laughs.
make her stop! make her stop
oh, my god.
is she dead?
oh, my god.
i'm not here.
i wish i wasn't here.
this isn't happening.
what do we do now? kurt and adam are very far away, blobs of light at the end of a black tunnel that's closing in around us. just before everything goes completely black --