A Tiny Mishap
Dook pops in from a fern portal with a Dreamlands gadget that zaps Flops and shrinks him to Twinkie-size. Wearing a sock-poncho, mini-Flops endures maple “medicine” at The Stoats's Kiosk, we see Odie’s first legal blank, and Bunnyrack’s joyful attempt at babying Flops. Back home, they flip the device from “Tinify” to “Bigify,” restore Flops, and toast cocoa—plus a firm new rule: bring manuals.
INT. LIVING ROOM — DAY
Flops is sprawled on the couch, half-ironic, half-invested, watching a cheesy Sala City soap. The melodramatic theme sting is mid-swell.
Flops (munching stale popcorn, squinting at TV): I swear this show’s stunt-double just married his own disguise.
Behind the couch, a fern-infused ripple opens in the air with the soft hush of leaves parting. Dook steps through like he just came in from the mailbox, clutching a peculiar contraption that looks half slide projector, half beetle.
Dook (cheerful, brushing fern spores off his shoulders): I’m back! Got snacks! And... a thing.
Flops (not looking back): If the snack is plot armor, give it to the lady in the sparkly cape. She’s about to trip into a fountain for the third time.
Dook sets the DREAMLANDS TOY on the kitchen table, its barrel conveniently pointed right at Flops.
Dook (setting it down with ceremonial care): Ta-da. Limited-time dreamlands special. The vendor was shaped like a Möbius pretzel. Very persuasive.
The device bonks the tabletop. A toggle flips. A crystal hums.
Flops (glancing over, unimpressed): What was that even?
Dook (shrug-honest): I don’t actually know, it was on sale in the Dreamlands.
A filament inside the toy flashes. A clean beam of light zaps Flops. Nothing... at first.
Flops (resettling, dismissive): Anyway, dinner—thinking maybe—
Flops’ voice begins to creep upward in pitch—chipmunk at first, helium balloon soon after.
Flops (alarming squeak mid-sentence): —tacoooo—wait. Why do I sound like a cartoon subpoena?
He SHRINKS. Five percent. Ten. Twenty. Clothes remain very much normal-sized. In seconds, he’s Twinkie-tall, swallowed by his shirt like a linen avalanche.
Flops (from under a hill of fabric): I’m all naked! And tiny! What did you do!?
Dook pauses, considering the cosmic responsibility of friendship.
Dook (mildly curious, nodding to self): Wardrobe malfunction remedy first.
He pads to a drawer labeled in decal script: “SINGLE, ORPHANED & WIDOWED SPECIMEN.” Inside: a neat roll of socks, lonely survivors from countless laundry skirmishes. Dook plucks the smallest, a very clean ankle sock with proud stripes.
Dook (fetching scissors, measuring by eye): Three portals... head, arm, arm.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Back at the laundry dune, a tiny paw pokes out. Dook offers the micro-poncho.
Flops (popping free of his shirt-sleeve canyon, mortified but pragmatic): No commentary. Just... hand it over.
He wriggles into the sock-poncho. It fits like a tunic for a legendary squeak warrior.
Dook produces a magnifying glass with a little gramophone horn taped to its rim—some improvised visual-audio loupe.
Dook (lowering the contraption in front of Flops): Observe, the See-and-Hear-ifier. Now you are both visible and audible at scale.
Flops (peering at his reflected mini-self, squeaky indignation): I’m a limited edition. Fix me!
Dook (bright grin, decisive): Adventure awaits!
He puts on a shirt with a sturdy chest pocket.
Dook (cupping hands): May I?
Flops (sigh, then climbing): Pocket me, chauffeur.
INT. STOAT’S KIOSK — DAY
The bell tings. The Stoat stands at the counter, browsing a glossy magazine with suspiciously tasteful maple leaves on the cover. The gnomes in the side aisle are busily absorbed in Miss Gnome 2025.
Dook (presenting pocket): Consultation, please. One abbreviated fox.
The Stoat (leaning in, accent drifting in): Huh. That’s a wee buddy, eh?
Flops (folding his arms, extremely tiny confidence): I am regulation size in spirit.
The Stoat thinks. Then, with the solemnity of a pharmacist, he produces a lilliputian tasting spoon and a thimble of syrup.
The Stoat (sage-nod): Maple. Fixes most mornings, might fix this. Open up, eh?
Flops eyes Dook. Dook gives a tiny thumbs-up. Flops licks the syrup in quick fox laps, pupils dilating at the sugar spike.
Flops (smacking tongue, letting the sweetness settle): That didn’t work. I’m still tiny. Also that was... a legally actionable amount of sugar.
From the aisle, a gnome peeks over the magazine, sees Flops, and snort-laughs. The gnome returns to reading about the “mulch couture” section.
Dook (waving to gnomes): Be well, short scholars.
Gnomes (without looking up): Shhh. Talent portion.
The Stoat (cheery): Next time, try Grade B, stronger flavor, eh?
Dook (grateful bow): Duly logged.
Dook and Flops takes farewell with The Stoat and head to Odie's Office.
EXT. Odie Yotie, Attorney-at-Claws — DAY
A brass plaque reads “Odie Yotie, Esquire (Fine Print Enjoyer).” Inside, stacked law tomes lean like a bookish skyline.
Odie (slick, already calculating): Present your facts. No metaphors, unless billable.
Dook lowers the pocket. Flops waves like a postage stamp on vacation.
Flops (squeaky, brisk): I was regular size. Now I live in a sock.
Odie’s ears twitch. He flips through three annotated tomes, lips moving in legal cadence.
Odie (murmuring in legalese cadence): Small Person Statute might not apply—doctrine of original dimensions—assumption of scale risk—force majeure via dreamland artifact—
He stops cold. Closes the book. Stares into the middle distance.
Odie (quiet, shaken): For the first time in my life... I’ve got nothing. I feel unwell now. I’ve never before drawn a blank. Ever.
He sits. He breathes. He is, startlingly, humbled, staring blankly.
Dook (gentle): Take water. Un-law yourself briefly.
Odie (hoarse chuckle): I’ll invoice the existential crisis later.
EXT. BUNNYRACK O’BUNNY — MAYOR’S OFFICE — DAY
Bunnyrack lounges behind an oversized desk, doodling a city logo that is just a happy cloud saying “Welcome.”
Dook (presenting pocket citizen): Visiting hours for civic delight.
Bunnyrack gasps, delighted, eyes sparkling.
Bunnyrack (hands clasped): Tiny friend!! Look at your little poncho!
Flops (deadpan squeak): I am a tax-paying adult.
Bunnyrack melts, utterly convinced he is encountering a baby.
Bunnyrack (calling to aides): Fetch a bottle! Warm, gentle, oat-adjacent!
Flops (bristling): If you hand me a bottle I will file a formal complaint in triplicate at a ludicrous volume.
Dook (polite but firm): Thank you kindly, but unnecessary unless it contains experimental growth hormones.
Bunnyrack (pouting, then bright again): We’ll add “Bottle Initiative” to the next council meeting. For morale.
Dook nods, takes his leave with ceremonial gravitas, and they start to head back home.
INT. LIVING ROOM — SUNSET
Home again. Dook sets Flops on the kitchen table, then rotates the dreamlands device, scanning its cryptic toggles. There, in plain engraved script: “TINIFY — BIGIFY.”
Flops plants his paws on his hips.
Flops (flat, incredulous): Dook. This thing has a switch that literally says “Tinify — Bigify.”
He flips it to BIGIFY. Then steps in front of the barrel with the confidence of a fox who has taken sufficient maple risks for one day.
Flops (deep breath): Ok. Make me big again.
Dook flips the master lever. A lens irises open. A beam pulses.
Flops grows. Slowly. The sock-poncho, tragically, does not.
Flops (alarmed): The sock-poncho isn’t growing!
He yanks it over his head and tosses it aside. The growth continues, neatly scaling him back to full Flops.
Dook, in a flurry of etiquette, scribbles “Whoops” on a black card and hands it over like a courtroom placard. Flops covers his modesty, walks with dignified shuffle to his heap of original-size clothes, suits up, and returns to the couch.
Flops (buttoning, settling into familiar groove): Dook... next time you bring toys from the Dreamlands, make sure you get a manual with it, preferably with the batteries not yet installed.
Dook nods solemnly, then sets down a mug with two hands.
Dook (soft, proud): Cocoa?
Flops accepts, sips, exhales. On the TV, the stunt-double in a fake mustache unveils that he’s been his own twin’s ex-fiancé all along. A fountain awaits.
Flops (composed): You know... I missed like six plot twists. Which means this show advanced one triangle and two half-fountains without me.
Dook (tucking the device into a high cabinet labeled “Look Later”) We learned a knob. That is progress.
Flops (clinking mug to Dook’s): To knobs labeled clearly.
Dook (content): To reversible adventures.
On the counter, the device’s toggle rests squarely on BIGIFY. A tiny brass tag under it reads, in small decorative letters: “USE RESPONSIBLY, OR AT LEAST CUT ARMHOLES.”
END.