Puddle Dude 1000

Screenplay draft

Title: PUDDLE DUDE 1000
Credit: Written by
Author: Anonymous
Draft date: October 10, 2024
Contact: puddleman@domain.com

FADE IN.

EXT. PUPPETMANIA PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Rain falls in thin, steady sheets on cracked asphalt. Neon from the massive PUPPETMANIA sign pulses pink and chemical green across oil-slick puddles. A single storm drain sits at the lowest point of the lot. Abandoned shopping carts lean against the curb beside one overturned stroller.

A yellow rubber glove breaches the surface of the central puddle, fingers splayed. Oil and glitter swirl around the wrist. A second glove follows. Then a head rises, wet hair plastered flat against pale skin, eyes blinking through streaks of parking-lot oil.

DUDE 1000 drags himself halfway out. Water streams from his collar. His soaked button-down shirt hangs two sizes too large. A faded safety-pinned tag on his chest reads "Ben Dude Clone #8." The oversized yellow gloves reach past his elbows, dripping steadily.

He coughs once, spits a mouthful of glitter onto the asphalt, and stares at the glowing store entrance across the lot. His breath comes in short, bubbly bursts. A thin rivulet runs from his nose and lands with a soft plink.

DUDE 1000
(whisper)
Domain Domme.

He pushes up on both gloves, trying to stand. The right glove slips off his tiny hand and lands with a wet slap. Dude 1000 freezes, mortified. He glances around the empty lot, then slowly reaches back into the puddle to retrieve it. Water pours from the cuff as he forces the glove back on.

He stands again. One shoe squeaks. He takes a step toward the neon sign and immediately slips on a patch of rainbow oil. Both gloves slap the pavement to catch himself. He remains on all fours a moment, breathing hard, nose dripping.

DUDE 1000
(sniffling)
Not... yet.

He rises once more, slower. His shirt clings to bone-white skin. The neon reflection warps across the puddle behind him. He stares at the store entrance, gloves hanging heavy at his sides, and takes one careful step forward. The second step produces another loud squelch. He pauses, listens to the drip, then continues toward the curb.

A single droplet falls from his cuff and ripples the oil-slick surface. The neon pulses again, pink then green, across the water. Dude 1000 reaches the edge of the lot and stops, shoulders hunched, staring at the automatic doors of Puppetmania.

He coughs, a tiny apologetic sound, and wipes his nose on the back of one yellow glove.

EXT. PUPPETMANIA PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Rain falls in thin silver needles across the cracked asphalt. Neon pink and chemical green reflections ripple in the oil-slick puddles. DUDE 1000 lies half out of the central puddle, pale skin streaked with glitter and parking-lot grease. His oversized yellow gloves reach past his elbows. The safety-pinned “Clone #8” tag on his soaked shirt flutters against his chest.

He plants one gloved palm and pushes upward. His tiny hand slides inside the rubber. He slips. The glove slaps wetly against the asphalt with a loud, rubbery crack. Water sprays outward in a fan. Dude 1000 freezes, mortified, staring at the empty glove as if it has betrayed him.

DUDE 1000
(whisper, bubbly)
Domain Domme.

He reaches back into the puddle, fingers searching. The glove comes up dripping. He stares at it a long moment, then slowly works his hand inside again, inch by inch, until the cuff seals at his elbow. A single drop falls from his nose and lands on the tag. He sniffs.

DUDE 1000
(softly)
Dignity is staying dry. She said that.

He attempts to stand once more. Both knees lock. He wobbles, catches himself against an overturned shopping cart, and lowers back down. From the cart’s wire basket he pulls three discarded sock puppets, each missing an eye or an ear. He lines them up on the wet asphalt in front of him like a jury.

DUDE 1000
(to the puppets)
I have come for the certificate. You cancelled the line. Excessive squeaking. That was me.

Water drips from his cuff onto the first puppet. It sags. Dude 1000 quickly lifts the glove, but the damage is done. He tries again, this time holding the cuff closed with his other hand.

DUDE 1000
(firmer)
The birth certificate belongs to Clone Eight. I am Clone Eight. You do not own me anymore.

The second puppet tips sideways. Dude 1000 lunges to catch it. His glove slips again. The empty yellow rubber lands with another wet slap. He stares at his bare, bone-white hand, then at the glove, then at the row of soggy puppets. A long sniffle escapes him.

DUDE 1000
(apologetic cough)
Sorry.

He retrieves the glove once more, wrings it out with both hands, and forces it back on. The cuff immediately begins to leak at the wrist. He watches the slow stream of water run down his forearm and pool around his knees. The neon sign pulses. Pink light reflects in the growing puddle beneath him.

DUDE 1000
(quietly, to the puppets)
I will not drip on the certificate. I will not drip on her. I will stand. I will speak. Then I will leave.

He practices the motion again—slowly drawing the glove halfway off, pausing, sliding it back on without a single drop escaping. On the fourth attempt a thin stream pours out anyway, soaking the third puppet completely. Dude 1000 sits back on his heels. Rain drums on the yellow rubber. He looks at the empty glove lying beside him, then at his own tiny hand, then at the glowing entrance of Puppetmania across the lot.

DUDE 1000
(soft bubble in his throat)
One more time.

EXT. PUPPETMANIA PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Rain needles the cracked asphalt. Pink and green neon from the PUPPETMANIA sign ripples across oil-slick puddles. DUDE 1000 remains half-submerged in the central puddle, yellow gloves still dripping, the safety-pinned tag on his soaked shirt bleeding ink into the water.

From the glowing store entrance, DOMAIN DOMME’s voice carries across the lot—low, precise, every syllable clipped as if already edited.

DOMAIN DOMME
Dignity is just staying dry when everyone else is leaking.

DUDE 1000 freezes. One gloved hand slips an inch deeper; water gurgles around his wrist. He stares toward the voice, pale face streaked with glitter and parking-lot sludge.

A CUSTOMER in a dripping raincoat stands under the awning, nodding. Domain Domme holds her clipboard dry beneath the overhang, patent heels clicking once on the threshold.

DOMAIN DOMME
We don’t sell second chances here. We sell limited stock that never gets wet.

She turns slightly. The motion sends a faint chemical-green reflection skimming across the puddle at Dude 1000’s chin. He holds his breath. A single drop forms at the tip of his nose, swells, and falls. The ripple travels outward, distorting the neon sign until it looks like the letters are drowning.

Dude 1000’s free hand twitches toward his collar. The oversized glove catches on the tag; fabric tears with a wet sigh. More water pours from the cuff, darkening the asphalt beneath him. He clamps the glove tighter, mortified, and sinks an inch lower so only his eyes remain above the surface.

Domain Domme finishes with the customer. The door sighs shut behind her. Silence returns except for the steady drip from Dude 1000’s hair.

He waits another full minute, then begins to haul himself forward again, elbows scraping asphalt, leaving twin oil trails. One glove catches on a broken parking line and tugs halfway off. He stops, carefully works it back on, and continues, eyes locked on the now-closed entrance.

EXT. PUPPETMANIA PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Rain ticks on cracked asphalt. Pink and green neon from the Puppetmania sign ripples across oil-slick puddles. Dude 1000 kneels beside a shallow puddle, his oversized yellow gloves gleaming wet under the sodium lights. The "Clone #8" tag on his soaked shirt sticks to his chest.

He lifts his right arm slowly. Water beads at the cuff and runs down the rubber. He pinches the glove at the wrist and begins to peel. The fabric stretches. A thin stream of puddle water pours from the inside cuff onto the asphalt.



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