>>40514857
Let’s set the scene:
Interior — New Jersey dive bar, late night.
The neon lights flicker. “Money for Nothing” by Dire Straits starts playing from the dusty jukebox. Those opening guitar licks are smooth. Something's about to go down.

Tony Soprano, in his usual bowling shirt, is leaning on the bar nursing a whiskey. He’s in a mood — something about Carmela giving him the cold shoulder. A couple of local punks are laughing too loud, one bumps into him.

>“Now look at them yo-yos, that’s the way you do it...”

Tony turns.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

Enter: E.T.
He waddles in from the bathroom, glowing finger held up like he’s still trying to get a signal. He’s got a little leather jacket on now — maybe he’s been hanging with Christopher. Nobody notices him at first.

The punk mouths off. Tony stands up.
Punk: “What’s the matter, grandpa? You own the place?”
Tony: “No. But I know the guy who does.”

BOOM. First punch.
Tony clocks the guy. Cue the second guitar riff, drums kick in harder.

Bottles shatter. Chairs fly. A guy dives over the pool table.

E.T., meanwhile, gets dragged into it accidentally. Someone throws a barstool and it bounces off his head. He blinks, drops his glowing heart-to-heart empathy schtick, and lets out a deep, angry screech.

E.T. uses telekinesis to hurl an entire beer tap across the room. A guy crashes into a jukebox. The music doesn't stop.

>“We got to install microwave ovens, custom kitchen deliveries...”
Tony and E.T. team up.
E.T. levitates a guy upside down while Tony pummels him midair, all to the chill groove of Mark Knopfler's guitar. A slow-motion shot shows beer flying through the air like blood spatter in an action movie.

Final shot:
Bar in ruins. Tony sits back down, adjusts his collar. E.T. climbs on a barstool next to him, eyes glowing faintly.

Tony mutters,
> “Next time, you’re driving.”
Cue fade-out as the song hits the outro.