$TOPBUNTop Bun Maverick
Legendarily overweight ace Tom Chews returns to Top Bun Academy to out-eat and out-fly a squadron of slim new recruits in a pastry-packed aerial showdown that decides the fleet's fate.
Legendarily overweight ace Tom Chews returns to Top Bun Academy to out-eat and out-fly a squadron of slim new recruits in a pastry-packed aerial showdown that decides the fleet's fate.
Synopsis
Tom Chews, the heaviest and most decorated pilot in naval history, gets recalled when an elite new class of wafer-thin aviators threatens to sideline the old guard forever. Paired with a skeptical instructor and a suspiciously carb-loaded mission, Chews must rally his plus-sized skills for a high-stakes dogfight over the dessert zone where victory depends on who can carry the most calories through supersonic turns. What starts as a weight-loss ultimatum explodes into a glorious, grease-stained spectacle of barrel rolls, cream-puff barrages, and one man's refusal to be grounded by the scale.
The story
Tom Chews is dragged out of retirement and back to Top Bun Academy where he immediately clashes with the new crop of rail-thin recruits who mock his girth and demand he pass a brutal fitness eval or lose his wings. His old rival turned commander gives him one final shot at redemption if he can lead a team through increasingly ridiculous food-themed training drills.
Chews trains his misfit plus-sized unit while trading barbs and buttered biscuits with the arrogant slim recruits, culminating in a series of escalating pranks and mid-air snack ambushes that expose the academy's hidden pastry-smuggling ring. Personal stakes rise when a rival sabotages his jet with diet pills and forces him to confront whether his size is his greatest liability or secret weapon.
In the climactic pastry-laden dogfight over the dessert zone, Chews overloads enemy sensors with flung éclairs and proves that mass equals maneuverability, winning the fleet contract and inspiring the next generation to embrace both skill and second helpings.
The cast
A living legend whose G-tolerance is matched only by his love of bear claws, Chews returns for one last ride to prove girth can win wars.
dream cast: John Goodman
A zero-body-fat hotshot who believes thinness equals superiority until Chews shows him the power of a fully loaded pastry payload.
dream cast: Timothée Chalamet
The academy head who reluctantly bets on Chews while hiding his own secret craving for the old ways of flying and frying.
dream cast: Jon Hamm
The academy's dessert contractor who supplies both the ammunition and the emotional fuel for Chews's comeback.
dream cast: Melissa McCarthy
A rising star recruit who learns humility after getting creamed in a mid-air donut duel with Chews.
dream cast: Pete Davidson
Dream crew
in the style of Edgar Wright — kinetic action comedy
in the style of Simon Rich — rapid-fire absurdity
in the style of Michael Giacchino — soaring heroic themes
Cold open
INT. TOP BUN ACADEMY MESS HALL - DAY A squadron of razor-thin pilots in pristine flight suits hover over kale salads. The doors BLAST open. TOM CHEWS, 52, 300 pounds of pure aviator charisma in a straining jumpsuit, strides in carrying a tray stacked with bear claws. SLIM MCLEAN (rolling eyes) Gravity's gonna ground you before the jet does, old man. Chews drops into a chair that creaks ominously. He takes an enormous bite; crumbs explode like flak. TOM CHEWS (mouth full) Gravity and I have an understanding. It pulls. I push back with frosting. The room erupts as Chews launches a cream puff across the table, nailing Slim square in the forehead. Slow-motion splatter. Sirens wail. Training has begun.
Why now
In an era obsessed with wellness culture and Ozempic bodies, audiences are starved for unapologetic celebration of indulgence, making a gleeful satire about fat pilots winning with sheer caloric audacity feel like cathartic, crowd-pleasing rebellion.
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Screenplay draft
Title: Top Bun Maverick Credit: Written by Author: Screenplay Generator Draft date: 10/01/2024 Contact: topbun@ticker.com FADE IN. EXT. TOP BUN ACADEMY TARMAC - GOLDEN HOUR Golden-hour light bathes the concrete in saturated yellows and creams. A massive shadow stretches across grease-stained slabs littered with pastry crumbs. Fighter jets line the runway, their noses painted like frosted donuts with cherry-red accents. Powdered-sugar contrails drift from idle engines. TOM CHEWS, mid-40s, lumbers into frame. His flight suit strains drum-tight over an enormous belly, fabric stretched to its limit with every step. Aviator sunglasses reflect the low sun, hiding his eyes. Messy dark hair with gray streaks clings to his forehead. Pastry crumbs dot his collar. He pauses, adjusts the suit with a grunt that echoes across the tarmac, then resumes his waddle toward the hangar. A deep navy flight suit clings to every curve. Thick neck folds over the zipper. The suit creaks with each movement. Behind him, a jet's donut nose cone catches the light, glistening like fresh glaze. Chews stops beside a stack of empty éclair crates. He brushes crumbs from his chest, the motion slow and deliberate. His belly shifts, casting a longer shadow that merges with the jet's silhouette. The upbeat rock score swells with food-pun lyrics. Fabric stretches audibly. A single cream puff tumbles from an open cockpit and splats on the concrete near his boots. Chews smirks, double chin folding. He turns his head slightly, sunglasses flashing golden orange. The tarmac stretches empty ahead, lined with more donut-nosed jets under the warm, saturated sky. INT. TOP BUN ACADEMY BRIEFING ROOM - GOLDEN HOUR Golden light pours through high windows, catching the deep navy of flight suits lined in perfect rows. Slim recruits sit at rigid attention, posture straight, not a wrinkle in sight. Powdered-sugar dust floats in the beams like fine contrails. The door swings open. TOM CHEWS wedges sideways through the frame, his enormous belly brushing both sides with a soft scrape of stretched fabric. Pastry crumbs cling to his collar. He grunts, aviator sunglasses still perched on his nose, and sucks in a breath that does nothing to shrink his girth. CHEWS (under his breath, gravelly drawl) Tight squeeze... just like the last bear claw. He shuffles down the aisle, belly swaying, boots scuffing the linoleum. Recruits glance sideways but hold still. Chews reaches the final seat in the back row and drops. The chair creaks like a fuselage under stress. COL. GUTMAN stands at the podium, rail-thin, clipboard gripped like a weapon. His pressed uniform catches the light without a single crease. GUTMAN New policy effective immediately. Waistlines will be measured alongside G-tolerance. Any pilot over regulation gets benched. Chews shifts, his double chin folding against his name tag. He raises one thick hand. CHEWS Does that include the regulation for seconds at the mess hall? A low ripple of suppressed snickers moves through the recruits. Gutman’s jaw tightens. GUTMAN This is not a buffet, Chews. The fleet flies light now. Efficiency over excess. Chews leans back. The chair protests again. He pats his belly once, a slow deliberate motion, and the golden light glints off his sunglasses. CHEWS Efficiency is fine until the fuel runs low and the only thing left is pie. Then size matters, Colonel. Always has. Gutman stares, unblinking. GUTMAN Weigh-in at 0800. Dismissed. Chews remains seated a moment longer, the chair still groaning beneath him, as the recruits file out in crisp formation. INT. TOP BUN ACADEMY BRIEFING ROOM - GOLDEN HOUR Golden light pours through high windows, striping the rows of metal chairs with warm cream and deep navy. Slim recruits sit ramrod straight in crisp flight suits. At the back, TOM CHEWS squeezes sideways through the narrow doorframe, belly brushing both sides with a soft fabric groan. Pastry crumbs cling to his collar. He drops into the last seat; the chair creaks like an overfilled pastry bag. COL. GUTMAN stands at the podium, rail-thin, clipboard in hand, jaw sharp enough to slice pie. GUTMAN New policy effective immediately. Waistlines will be measured alongside G-tolerance. Any pilot over regulation gets benched. A low ripple of snickers moves through the front rows. LT. TRIMBLE, lean and smirking, leans toward the recruit beside him. LT. TRIMBLE That is one hundred eighty calories of snickering right there, gentlemen. Gutman snaps his fingers once. The room falls silent. He points the clipboard directly at Chews. GUTMAN Chews. On the scale. Now. Chews rises slowly, flight suit seams protesting. He adjusts his aviator sunglasses, double chin folding over the name tag. Recruits turn to watch. Trimble checks his watch with theatrical boredom. CHEWS Does that include the regulation for seconds at the mess hall? More snickers. Gutman does not blink. GUTMAN The scale. Or the bench. Your choice. Chews waddles forward, each step sending a faint powdered-sugar dust motes into the golden light. The industrial scale waits beside the podium, its needle already trembling. Gutman gestures sharply. GUTMAN Feet on the platform. Eyes forward. Chews steps up. The scale groans. The needle swings past every marked line and keeps climbing. Trimble whistles low. LT. TRIMBLE That is a new academy record. And not the good kind. Gutman stares at the readout, then at Chews. GUTMAN You are grounded until further notice. Slim-only fleet, Chews. The old guard does not fit. Chews lifts his chin, smirk forming despite the double chin. CHEWS Then I guess it is time to show the new guard how a real bun flies. The recruits erupt in open laughter. Gutman slams the clipboard down. INT. PENNY'S DINER - EVENING Golden-hour light filters through the windows, mixing with warm neon that bounces off rotating pie displays. Plates stacked high with buns and éclairs crowd every booth. Pilots in flight suits clatter forks against ceramic while powdered sugar dusts the counters. TOM CHEWS squeezes onto a stool at the counter, flight suit fabric straining audibly over his enormous belly. Pastry crumbs still dot his collar. He adjusts his aviator sunglasses, then grabs the first bun from a tall stack and takes a massive bite. Chewing sounds echo. PENNY BENJAMIN slides behind the counter, apron tied over her fitted top. She watches him with a mix of exasperation and warmth, then pushes an extra plate of buns toward him. PENNY Slow down or you'll choke before the next mission. CHEWS (chewing loudly) These buns fly better than half the slim recruits out there. Need fuel for the long haul. He devours another, belly pressing harder against the counter edge. Fabric stretches with a faint rip. Penny slides a third plate across without breaking stride. PENNY You always say that. Then the scales talk back. CHEWS Scales are for fish, not legends. Gutman can measure all he wants. I measure by how many I finish. He punctuates with another bite, crumbs tumbling onto his name tag. Penny leans in, sliding one final plate stacked even higher. PENNY Size really does matter when the competition tries to fly light. Chews pauses mid-chew. A slow grin spreads across his double chin. He reaches for the next bun. INT. TOP BUN ACADEMY BARRACKS - NIGHT A single bulb swings over rows of narrow bunks. Deep navy flight suits hang limp on hooks. Pastry crumbs dust the linoleum like powdered sugar on a cooling rack. TOM CHEWS stands alone at the far wall, belly pressing the sink edge. He faces a cracked mirror. The glass warps his massive round face into two chins that fold over each other. Aviator sunglasses rest on his forehead. The tight flight suit stretches drum-tight across his enormous belly, seams groaning with every breath. Golden-hour light has long faded; only the bulb's cream glow remains. Chews leans closer. Fabric creaks like an overfilled pastry bag. CHEWS ( gravelly drawl, slow … (sign in to read + edit the full draft)
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