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Suffering head trauma from a recent wrestling match, Dewey is
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That next day. DEWEY’s classroom at Sycamore Trails. DEWEY sits at his desk, disheveled. There is a plush brain on his desk, with two eyes and a flat mouth. DEWEY slams his head down on the desk. After a moment, the lights shift to a sinister red.
CARL (Whispers.) Dewey� Dewey�
DEWEY (Sits up.) Hello?
CARL Dewey� Dewey�
DEWEY Who is that?
The plush brain, CARL, moves and turns to face DEWEY. It speaks in a crusty, trainer’s voice.
CARL Hey, Dewey, it’s me, Carl.
DEWEY Carl?
CARL I’m the discarded lobe of Damaged.
DEWEY I am really due for my meds�
CARL Probably, but that doesn’t mean I have nothin� to say.
DEWEY Like what?
CARL For starters, you need to stop bein’such a wuss!
DEWEY Huh?
CARL You’ve given up on the best part of yourself: me.
DEWEY My frontal lobe?
CARL No! Damaged.
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