QT Silly

Screenplay draft

Title: QT Silly
Credit: Written by
Author: A. Nonymous
Draft date: October 10, 2024
Contact: qt@sillyfilms.com

FADE IN.

INT. WACKY RABBIT SLIM’S - NIGHT

A neon rabbit in a tuxedo flickers above empty booths, its bubblegum pink glow pulsing against mustard-yellow walls. Rubber chickens dangle from ceiling fans like chandeliers, their latex skin catching the light in greasy highlights. The floor sticks with old seltzer spills. Deep bruise-purple shadows pool under cracked red vinyl seats.

Q.T. SILLY sweeps slowly, his shiny rental tuxedo swallowing his thin frame, bow tie crooked. He pauses, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a whoopee cushion. He squeezes it once. The long, wet fart echoes off the linoleum.

Q.T. SILLY
Perfect.

He sets the cushion on a booth seat and sweeps another pile of rubber chickens into a corner. One chicken bounces, lands on the counter, and stays there staring at the ceiling fan. Q.T. tests the cushion again. Another blast, louder this time.

The front door creaks open. JULES WINNY steps inside, six-foot-two, cheap black suit shiny at the elbows, gold chain tangled in chest hair. He carries a scuffed briefcase in one meaty hand. The neon rabbit blinks twice as he crosses the threshold.

JULES WINNY
This the place where the Royale with cheese monologue happens?

Q.T. SILLY
We’re not doing Royale with cheese. We’re doing Royale with clown makeup.

JULES WINNY
Even better. Let’s hear it.

Q.T. sets the broom against the counter. He opens a small case on the nearest table, revealing jars of white greasepaint and a red foam nose. The smell of burnt coffee drifts from the empty kitchen pass-through. Q.T. dips two fingers in the paint and streaks a test line across his own cheek.

Q.T. SILLY
See? The briefcase is the MacGuffin. Foot-fungus cream recipe inside. We rob the place, we argue about the briefcase, we squirt seltzer instead of bullets. The whoopee cushion sells the whole thing.

JULES WINNY
Ain’t that right?

Jules drops the briefcase on the booth seat. It lands on the whoopee cushion. A long, mournful honk fills the room. Jules doesn’t flinch. He opens the case, pulls out the cushion, studies it like evidence, then sits. The cushion gives one final, dying wheeze beneath him.

Q.T. SILLY
That’s the energy. We keep the camera rolling no matter what. No breaking character.

JULES WINNY
If it ain’t on the page, it ain’t on the stage—unless the page is stupid, then we make it stupider.

Q.T. nods too fast, pompadour wobbling. He sweeps one last rubber chicken off the counter. It lands on the floor with a wet slap. The neon rabbit flickers again, buzzing louder. Jules opens the briefcase a crack, peers inside at nothing, then snaps it shut.

JULES WINNY
Where’s the rest of the crew?

Q.T. SILLY
Midge is in the back. The others show at midnight. We do the table read first, then the take.

Jules leans back. The suit strains across his shoulders. A single rubber chicken swings above his head like a metronome. Q.T. watches it, then looks at the empty diner, eyes bright with the pink neon.

Q.T. SILLY
This is gonna be the one.

INT. WACKY RABBIT SLIM’S - NIGHT

A flickering neon rabbit in a tuxedo blinks above empty booths. Rubber chickens hang from the ceiling like chandeliers. Mustard-yellow walls catch the pink glow from the sign outside. Q.T. SILLY, thin frame lost in a shiny rental tux two sizes too big, sweeps the sticky linoleum. He stops, pulls a whoopee cushion from his pocket, and squeezes it. The flatulent honk echoes off the empty booths.

The front door opens. JULES WINNY, six-foot-two and squeezed into a cheap black suit shiny at the elbows, enters carrying a scuffed briefcase. A gold chain tangles in his chest hair. He sets the briefcase on the counter with deliberate care.

JULES WINNY
This the place where the Royale with cheese monologue happens?

Q.T. SILLY
We’re not doing Royale with cheese. We’re doing Royale with clown makeup.

Jules pulls a tube of white greasepaint from his pocket, unscrews the cap, and dabs a fingerful onto his tongue like it’s caviar. He chews slowly, face twisting at the bitter taste.

JULES WINNY
Clown makeup. Even better. Let’s hear it.

Q.T. Silly sets the broom against a booth. The bow tie on his tux hangs crooked. He gestures at the briefcase.

Q.T. SILLY
The script says the case holds the secret formula for foot-fungus cream. You open it during the robbery and the whoopee cushion pops. That’s the gag.

Jules leans on the counter, lowering his voice to a gravelly baritone. He plants both palms flat like he’s about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.

JULES WINNY
See, that’s where you’re wrong, Q.T. The Royale with cheese bit stays. It’s iconic. Ain’t that right?

Q.T. SILLY
It’s not in the page. We changed it at table read number three.

Jules scoops more clown makeup onto his finger and points it at Q.T. like a loaded prop gun.

JULES WINNY
If it ain’t on the page, it ain’t on the stage—unless the page is stupid, then we make it stupider. Ain’t that right?

Q.T. Silly’s voice cracks upward. He tugs at his crooked bow tie.

Q.T. SILLY
We’re not making it stupider, we’re making it ours. The foot-fungus briefcase is the MacGuffin. The Royale line is dead.

Jules opens the briefcase anyway. Inside sits only a single red whoopee cushion. He lifts it, studies the nozzle, then presses it against his own cheek. A slow, wet raspberry escapes.

JULES WINNY
Then we do both. Royale with cheese while the cushion does the talking. The diner staff will never know what hit ’em. Ain’t that right?

Q.T. Silly stares at the deflating cushion. Pink neon pulses across the mustard walls. He exhales through his nose.

Q.T. SILLY
Fine. But the monologue ends when the cushion fires. No ad-libs after that.

Jules snaps the briefcase shut. A single fleck of clown makeup clings to his missing front tooth. He grins.

JULES WINNY
Deal. Now where’s the seltzer guns?

INT. WACKY RABBIT SLIM’S - NIGHT

A flickering neon rabbit in a tuxedo blinks above empty booths. Rubber chickens dangle from ceiling fans like half-dead chandeliers. The floor sticks with old seltzer. Q.T. SILLY sweeps another pile of rubber chickens toward the corner, his shiny rental tuxedo already stained at the cuffs. The bow tie sits crooked on his thin neck.

JULES WINNY stands by the counter, briefcase tucked under one massive arm. His too-small black suit shines at the elbows. He watches the broom move in slow arcs.

Q.T. SILLY
This here’s the whole game. We do the robbery clean. No Royale with cheese talk. The briefcase is the real thing.

JULES WINNY
What’s in it that makes anybody care, ain’t that right?

Q.T. SILLY
Foot-fungus cream. Secret formula. The kind that fixes everything. We open it on camera and the audience loses their minds.

Q.T. stops sweeping. He taps the briefcase with the broom handle. A faint whoopee-cushion wheeze leaks out. Jules does not flinch.

JULES WINNY
Empty inside. That part of the vision?

Q.T. SILLY
Exactly. We never show what’s really in there. The mystery sells it. The guys we rob think it’s cash. The audience thinks it’s the cure. We cut before anybody opens it for real.

JULES WINNY
And when the guns go off?

Q.T. SILLY
Seltzer. All seltzer. Looks wet, sounds wet, camera keeps rolling. We hold the moment. Nobody breaks.

Jules sets the briefcase on the nearest booth table. The vinyl cracks under the weight. He flips the latches but does not lift the lid.

JULES WINNY
I say the line about the cream right after I take the case. Slow. Like it’s gospel.

Q.T. SILLY
You say it after the seltzer hits the lens. That way the audience knows the briefcase is everything.

Jules nods once. He presses the lid down until it clicks. The neon above them flickers harder, turning his gold chain the color of old mustard.

Q.T. SILLY
We run it once the place clears. Midge keeps the back door locked. No real customers after midnight.

JULES WINNY
Then we make the mess on purpose.

Q.T. SILLY
On purpose. Every time.

I

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