[Ian pulse checks an unresponsive Frank on the couch] Is he dead?
Faint pulse. Hypoxic.
High what?
Barely breathing.
What’s that smell?
Grampy went tinkle in his pants.
Ugh, damn it. Not on the new couch.
[Walks up] Hey, what’s goin’ on?
Frank OD’d again.
How much heroin did he do?
Wow.
Oh. And he’s not dead?
Yet another disadvantage to decades of copious narcotics use.
Should we, like, call the paramedics or something?
No, he’s done this before a bunch of times.
He may be trying to kill himself. He’s been depressed. The dementia’s getting bad.
Hand me that syringe. [Ian hands her one and she pricks Frank's hand]
Ugh!
Sheesh.
Unresponsive to pain.
Stroke?
Or he’s already brain-dead. That happens with overdoses.
I guess it’s up to us to finish him off. Quick so*t to the head, dump his body in the lake. I don’t think anybody’s gonna miss him. What? We’d just be helpin’ Mr. Fuckup finish the job.
You could pillow him. That’s what my dad did to my grandpa so we could sell his double-wide. Couldn’t afford his oxygen refills anymore.
Who is that?
Debbie’s got a new friend.
Hey, you check his pockets, see if he got any money on him?
Trust me, he doesn’t.
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