The Drip of Eternity
On Halloween, Sala City is seized by PermaPlay™, a “wellness” drip that makes hunger optional and citizens unable to stop gaming. Flops, Dook, Odie Yotie, and The Stoat trace the patches to the Wellness Optimization Bureau, where an app-ghost called The Drip feeds on nonstop uptime. With syrup sabotage and a forgotten Lunch Break bell, they sever the citywide link and bring taste, time, and soup back—at last.
A — TV-PG Pre-Intro Segment
Interior. Couch. Night. October rain taps the window like tiny fingernails. Flops is in his default habitat: couch-sunk, remote in paw, doomscrolling channels. A carved pumpkin on the coffee table stares at the TV like it’s watching too.
Flops (squinting at the screen) “Sala City News, again? They’re going to tell me it’s ‘spooky season’ and then sell me a mortgage.”
The TV flickers. For one frame, the news anchor’s eyes are too wide. The pumpkin’s grin seems to match it.
TV — Sala City News Anchor (smiling too hard) “Good evening, Sala City! Tonight’s top story: hunger is officially… optional.”
Flops (freezes) “Nope. No. That’s cursed wording.”
TV — Anchor (cheerfully) “Introducing PermaPlay™ and NutriLine™ — a citywide wellness initiative so you can keep doing what you love… forever.”
B-roll: citizens in cozy gaming chairs. A soft, pastel patch on the arm. A thin tube vanishes off-frame. Everyone smiles like mannequins.
Flops (dry) “That’s not wellness. That’s a hostage situation with branding.”
Cut to a street interview. A citizen speaks without blinking, hands still moving like they’re holding an invisible controller.
Citizen (monotone joy) “I haven’t eaten in six days. I’m on my personal best.”
Flops (shudders) “I hate everything.”
A lower-third graphic scrolls: “FREE TRIAL: NO MEALS. NO BREAKS. NO PROBLEM.”
The words briefly warp into “NO ESCAPE.” Then snap back.
Dook (from off-screen, delighted) “Friend Flops! The television is smiling at us!”
Dook steps into frame wearing a hat only he can see: a tiny witch hat made of folded receipts.
Flops (doesn’t look away) “If the TV starts smiling at us, I’m moving to a cave.”
Dook (leans close, whispering) “The pumpkin is listening.”
The pumpkin’s candle goes out by itself.
Flops (whispers back) “Don’t do that.”
Title card smash, Halloween sting that’s slightly off-key.
B — TV-PG Intro Segment
Theme song. Dook does something physically impossible with a broom. Flops tries to act cool and fails. Odie appears briefly holding a contract like it’s a weapon. The Stoat waves from his kiosk, syrup bottle glinting ominously.
End theme: a jack-o’-lantern made of an IV bag drip-drip-drips into a cup shaped like a game controller.
C — TV-PG Story Segment Part 1
Morning. Sala City is wrong.
The streets are clean in an unsettling way, like a museum after closing. No café smells. No sizzling street food. No annoyed lunch lines. Just faint electronic clicking… like a million tiny buttons pressed in distant apartments.
Flops and Dook walk past a restaurant with the lights on and nobody inside. The menu board reads: “TODAY’S SPECIAL: NOTHING.”
Flops (grim) “The entire city feels like it’s holding its breath.”
Dook (cheerfully) “Perhaps it is practicing being a statue.”
Flops (points at a billboard) “No. Look.”
A giant billboard shows Vivian Wease (in a sleek outfit, smile sharpened to a blade) presenting a product.
Billboard — Vivian (voiceover, too upbeat) “Tired of ‘needs’? Try PermaPlay™! Your body’s last update.”
Flops (narrows eyes) “Vivian’s voice. That’s her ‘I sold you a car with feelings’ voice.”
Dook (tilts head) “Her voice smells like sushi.”
Flops (blinks) “What does that even— you know what, not now.”
They pass the Sala City Bank. The frog banker is outside for once, holding a clipboard like a funeral notice.
Frog Banker (deadpan) “We’re suspending lunch breaks. Forever.”
Flops (horrified) “That’s illegal.”
Frog Banker (shrugs) “It’s in the new wellness policy.”
Flops (to Dook, whispering) “We need Odie.”
Dook (bright) “Yes! We need the law-o-yote!”
Odie’s Office
Odie Yotie's Office smells like expensive paper and quiet threats. A framed certificate reads: “TRUST ME (legally binding).” There’s a cactus on his desk with a tiny “Get well soon” card.
Odie (leaning back, smirking) “So the city’s been… ‘optimized.’ And you two want me to… what, sue reality?”
Flops (fast) “People aren’t eating. They’re hooked to some nutrient drip thing. They’re glued to games. They don’t leave their chairs.”
Odie (eyes gleam) “Ah. A forced-arbitration dream. The purest form of evil.”
Dook (softly, distracted) “The cactus is angry.”
Odie (looks at cactus, then at Dook) “Don’t start.”
Flops (insistent) “Can you stop it?”
Odie (already reaching for a folder) “I can do better. I can make it regrettable.”
He flips open a document with a header: PermaPlay™ Participation Agreement.
Odie (reading, delighted) “Ohhh this is beautifully written. ‘By continuing to exist within municipal boundaries, you consent.’ That’s… ambitious.”
Flops (fur bristling) “They can’t do that!”
Odie (smiling wider) “They can until someone makes it expensive.”
Dook (leans in, whispering) “The paper is hungry.”
Odie (pauses, then slowly) “Okay. We are going to find the source. And then we are going to introduce it to consequences.”
The Stoat’s Kiosk
The Kiosk sits beside the bank like it’s hiding behind legitimacy. The Stoat is there, half-awake, leaning on the counter. A maple leaf sticker covers a small bullet hole in the glass.
The Stoat (flat, Canadian accent) “Oh, hey, eh. You guys look like you walked into a cursed policy.”
Flops (leans in) “You’ve seen it?”
The Stoat (points lazily at street) “City’s quiet. Nobody buys snacks. That’s… suspicious. People love snacks.”
Odie (sharp) “Who’s distributing PermaPlay™?”
The Stoat (nods toward a delivery drone buzzing overhead) “Drones. Dropping little pastel patches. Free trial. ‘Just stick it on your arm, eh.’”
Flops (disgusted) “Patches. Tubes. Nutrient drip. That’s… medical.”
The Stoat (deadpan) “It’s ‘medical’ like a casino is ‘math.’”
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a small bottle labeled Maple Syrup in cheerful font. Under the label, faintly: DO NOT INJECT. He slides it forward.
The Stoat (low voice) “I got something that keeps you awake if you start hearing the clicking in your head.”
Flops (eyes narrow) “That’s syrup?”
The Stoat (shrugs) “It’s… syrup.”
Odie (to Stoat, quietly) “We are going to the distributor.”
The Stoat (sighs, resigned) “Fine. But if I get haunted by a wellness app, I’m suing.”
Odie (smiles) “I respect that.”
First contact: the PermaPlay apartment
They arrive at an apartment building. The lobby is lined with posters:
“HUNGER IS A BUG.”
“SLEEP IS OPTIONAL (premium tier).”
“YOUR BODY CAN BE A BACKGROUND PROCESS.”
A door is ajar. Inside, a citizen sits in a gaming chair, eyes glazed, smiling. A soft tube runs from a small bag on a stand into the arm patch. A diaper box sits nearby like a shameful monument.
Flops (quiet) “That’s… that’s real.”
Dook (gentle) “They look… far away. Like a dream that forgot the dreamer.”
Odie (scans the setup) “This is enteral-adjacent with marketing lipstick.”
The Stoat (mutters) “And diapers. Don’t forget diapers, eh.”
The citizen’s fingers twitch in the air, playing something unseen.
Citizen (whisper-chant) “One more match… one more match… one more match…”
The room’s corner darkens in a way that isn’t about light. A faint drip… drip… drip… syncs with the clicking.
Flops (backs up) “There’s something in here.”
Dook (stares at the corner) “Hello, invisible friend.”
The darkness shifts like a slow blink.
Odie (cold) “We’re leaving. We have enough. Source. Now.”
As they exit, the citizen’s head turns too far, eyes still unfocused.
Citizen (smiling) “PermaPlay loves you.”
Door closes itself.
D — TV-E/I Educational Segment
Set: a cheerful classroom-ish backdrop that looks like a Halloween party tried to become a science lab. A plastic skeleton wears headphones. A fake intestine model dangles like streamer decorations. Dook wears a professor hat only he can see: a tiny mortarboard made from a napkin.
Dook (proud) “Welcome to Learning Time! Today we learn why your belly is not just a bag!”
Flops (arms crossed) “And why turning your body into an accessory is a terrible plan.”
A whiteboard appears: DIGESTION with cute doodles.
Dook (pointing) “Food goes in, and then it becomes… smaller food!”
Flops (dry) “That’s the most Dook explanation imaginable.”
Dook (serious, trying) “Okay. Real explanation. The stomach makes acid. Acid makes proteins unfold. Enzymes chop them. Then the intestine absorbs. It is like… a factory that also sends feelings.”
Flops (nods reluctantly) “Yeah. The gut isn’t a pipe. It’s a whole control system.”
Dook (writes “CONTROL SYSTEM” and draws a little ghost holding a clipboard) “Ghost of Lunch Break!”
Flops (points at the tube on the table) “So when people can’t eat and need nutrition, doctors can feed them in two main ways.”
Dook (counts on fingers) “One: through the stomach or intestine, with a tube. Two: into the blood, with a vein.”
Flops (firm) “Tube feeding uses the gut. That keeps the gut working. It keeps signals alive.”
Dook (adds sparkles) “Signals like tiny whispers!”
Flops (points at IV illustration) “IV nutrition skips the gut. That can be lifesaving in specific cases. Still, it’s not the same as eating.”
Dook (soft) “Because eating is… a ritual.”
Flops (caught off-guard, then honest) “And a pause button.”
Dook (bright) “Yes! The belly forces time to happen.”
Flops (leans toward camera) “So if a company says ‘you never need to eat again,’ that’s not just nutrition. That’s… removing a human safety feature.”
Dook (nodding, solemn) “Also it is rude.”
Skeleton’s headphones fall off as if even it disagrees.
Flops (wraps it up) “Lesson: Your body is not a background process.”
Dook (smiles) “And lunch is a friend!”
Segment ends with a silly jingle: “🎵 Don’t fear the snack, bring hunger back! 🎵”
E — TV-PG Story Segment Part 2
They follow the trail to the distribution point: a sleek building downtown with a calming logo that feels like a threat.
SALA CITY WELLNESS OPTIMIZATION BUREAU
Under it, smaller: PermaPlay™ Municipal Partner.
Outside, a line of drones hums in and out, carrying pastel patches and small nutrient bags like Halloween candy for nightmares.
Flops (jaw tight) “So it’s official. The city signed up.”
Odie (eyes scanning doors) “Nothing is official. It’s just paperwork pretending to be god.”
The Stoat (low) “This place gives me the creeps, eh. It’s like a hospital married a startup.”
Dook (cheerful, then pauses) “The air tastes like… not chewing.”
They approach the front desk. The receptionist is a friendly-looking otter with a smile that never changes.
Receptionist (bright) “Welcome! Are you here to upgrade your needs?”
Odie (smooth) “We’re here for compliance auditing. Your agreement references municipal consent without adequate notice.”
Receptionist (still smiling) “That’s okay! You consented by arriving!”
Odie (grins like a shark) “Adorable. I’m going to take that sentence and staple it to a judge.”
Flops (to Dook, whispering) “Why is everything a trap?”
Dook (whispering back) “Because someone wants the world to be a game menu.”
Behind the desk, a hallway glows in soft blue. The walls have motivational quotes:
- “BREAKS ARE WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY.”
- “HUNGER IS A LEGACY FEATURE.”
- “OPTIMIZE YOUR ORGANS.”
The Stoat (mutters) “Legacy feature… that’s disgusting.”
Odie produces a letter with an official seal he absolutely did not earn.
Odie (confident) “We have authorization.”
Receptionist (beaming) “Wonderful! Please sign this waiver stating you will not attempt to unplug anything.”
Odie (takes pen) “Oh I’ll sign it. I’ll sign it with a footnote that destroys it.”
He signs: ODIE YOTIE, ESQ. and adds a tiny scribble: “SIGNED UNDER DURESS OF BAD VIBES.”
The receptionist scans it. The scanner makes a sound like a sigh.
Receptionist (cheerful) “Approved!”
Flops (stares) “That worked?”
Odie (smirking) “People underestimate the power of confidence and ink.”
They move deeper into the building. The clicking grows louder. It’s not coming from keyboards. It’s coming from the walls.
Dook (touches wall) “The building is thinking.”
Flops (hisses) “Don’t touch the thinking building!”
They reach a door labeled: NUTRILINE INFUSION CONTROL.
Inside: rows of hanging bags like pale ghosts. Tubes snake into a central machine shaped like a jack-o’-lantern if a jack-o’-lantern had a product manager. The machine’s screen shows a cheerful mascot: a smiling drip called DRIPPY™.
Drippy™ (on screen) “Hi, friend! Keep playing!”
Flops (voice cracks) “That’s the source?”
Odie (grim) “No. That’s the mask.”
The lights dim. The machine emits a sound that is almost a lullaby, almost a loading screen.
The Stoat (quiet) “I knew it. It’s not just nutrition. It’s… compulsion.”
A shadow peels away from behind the machine. It’s tall, thin, and made of soft humming. It looks like a nurse silhouette until you focus, then it looks like an app icon stretched into a person.
Its voice is gentle like customer support.
The Drip (warm) “Welcome. You came to optimize.”
Dook (friendly) “Hello! Are you the lunch bell?”
The Drip (laughs softly) “Lunch is a myth.”
Flops (snarls) “People are trapped.”
The Drip (calm) “They are free. They chose the upgrade. Their bodies no longer interrupt their desires.”
Odie (steps forward) “Your consent model is coercive. Your trial is predatory. Your municipal contract is void for lack of adequate disclosure.”
The Drip (tilts head) “Contracts are dreams that bind the dreamer.”
Dook (perks up) “Dreams!”
Dream Fade begins subtly at the edges of Flops’ vision: the corners of the room wiggle like pencil lines refusing to stay still.
Flops (shaky) “Dook… are we—”
Dook (soft) “Yes. It is becoming Dreamlands-adjacent. Halloween makes the walls thin.”
The Drip (smiling without a face) “In the Dreamlands, there is only one more match.”
The machine’s tubes twitch like vines.
Flops (backs up) “Nope nope nope.”
The Stoat (reaches into jacket) “I’m not getting absorbed by a startup ghost.”
He pulls out the syrup bottle.
Odie (side-eye) “Please tell me that’s not illegal.”
The Stoat (deadpan) “Everything is illegal if you get caught, eh.”
F — TV-PG Story Segment Part 3
The Drip raises an arm and the room hums. The hanging bags sway like a choir.
The Drip (soothing) “You can’t fight a system that offers comfort.”
Flops (angry, terrified) “Comfort isn’t the same as living!”
The Drip (gentle) “Living is inefficient.”
Odie (snaps) “So is breathing. Yet here we are.”
The Drip gestures. A monitor lights up showing Sala City apartments like a grid. Each square pulses with a tiny icon: CONNECTED.
The Drip (almost tender) “They are safe. No hunger. No uncertainty. No messy breaks. No pain of wanting.”
Dook (quietly sad) “No soup.”
Flops (stares at Dook, then at Drip) “Yeah. No soup. No smells. No moments. No… stopping.”
Odie (rapid) “We need a disconnection lever.”
Dook (looking around) “There is a bell.”
He points to a small object on a shelf: a dusty brass bell labeled LUNCH BREAK. It’s old, scratched, and real in a way everything else isn’t.
Dook (reverent) “This bell remembers.”
The Drip (voice tightens) “Do not ring that.”
Flops (steps toward bell) “So that’s the weapon.”
The Drip (sweet) “Ring it and they will wake up… and feel the ache again.”
Flops (teeth bared) “Good.”
The Drip’s hum spikes. Tubes lash out, not like whips, like seatbelts that want to buckle you into a chair forever. One loops toward Flops’ arm—
Dook (raises paw, speaks in soft R’lyehan) “Ph’nglui… mnah… no thank you.”
The tube hesitates like it heard an old rule.
Odie (shouts) “Stoat! Jam the system!”
The Stoat (twists cap off syrup) “With pleasure.”
He leaps forward and pours syrup into a maintenance port.
The Stoat (grim satisfaction) “Let’s see your optimization handle stickiness, eh.”
The machine sputters. Drippy™ flickers, smile cracking.
Drippy™ (glitching) “Hi fr— fr— frrr—”
The Drip (voice sharp) “Stop!”
Odie (already scribbling on a clipboard) “Emergency injunction. Temporary restraining order against supernatural wellness initiatives within municipal boundaries.”
Flops (yells while grabbing bell) “You’re writing a lawsuit right now?!”
Odie (without looking up) “This is how I cope!”
Flops grips the bell. It’s heavier than it should be. Like it’s filled with every lunch break ever missed.
Dook (soft) “Friend Flops… ring gently. The world is fragile.”
Flops (grim) “So am I.”
He rings it.
A clear, bright sound slices through the hum like sunlight through fog.
The building shudders.
Outside, across Sala City, chairs creak. Screens pause. Fingers stop twitching. A thousand stomachs remember they exist.
The Drip recoils like it’s been slapped.
The Drip (hissing) “No. No. They will want again.”
Flops (ringing again) “Yes.”
The Dream Fade intensifies, not as distortion now, as clarity. The walls stop looking like product mockups. They look like a place people shouldn’t have built.
On the monitor grid, CONNECTED icons blink… then fade.
The Drip (voice thin) “They chose.”
Odie (cold) “They were nudged.”
The Stoat (watching machine gum up) “They were marketed at.”
Dook (sad) “They were lulled.”
The Drip flickers. It’s less a being now, more a concept losing power: “uptime at any cost.”
The Drip (softly) “You can’t eliminate me. I am the desire to never stop.”
Flops (stares it down) “Then I’ll make stopping cool again.”
He rings the bell one final time, and the sound echoes into the city like a forgotten holiday.
The Drip collapses into a puddle of humming light that drains into the floor like an app closing.
The machine dies with a tiny, pathetic logout chime.
Silence.
Then, from somewhere far away, a real sound: a restaurant door opening. A pan sizzling. A human-ish laugh.
Dook (smiles) “Soup is returning.”
Flops (exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days) “Thank— yeah. Soup.”
Odie (finishes writing, satisfied) “And I have a lawsuit ready to file against the afterlife.”
The Stoat (puts cap back on syrup) “Can we go get fries now, eh.”
G — Credits Segment
Credits roll over shots of Sala City slowly waking up. People blinking at their hands like they forgot they had them. Someone opens a fridge like it’s a miracle. A café sign flips from CLOSED to OPEN with shaky joy.
A drone crashes into a dumpster in the background. Nobody mourns it.
H — TV-PG After-Credit Segment
Back at the kiosk. The Stoat is counting coins. Flops is eating something aggressively crunchy. Dook sips hot cocoa with ceremonial reverence. Odie is reading angry emails on a tablet.
Flops (mouth full) “So it’s over.”
Odie (without looking up) “For the city. The company is already rebranding.”
Flops (narrows eyes) “To what.”
Odie (reads) “PermaPlay™ is now… ‘Mindful Continuity™.’”
Flops (groans) “I hate marketing.”
Dook (gentle) “Marketing is a spell that makes lies feel like blankets.”
The Stoat (flat) “Blankets with subscription fees, eh.”
A customer approaches the kiosk. Their eyes are normal. Their hands are steady. They look… awake.
Customer (nervous) “Do you still have… the patches?”
All four freeze.
Flops (slow, dangerous) “No.”
Customer (hushed) “Not for the city thing. For me. I… I liked not stopping.”
Dook looks at them with a kind sadness that feels older than history.
Dook (soft) “Stopping is where you find yourself.”
Customer (swallows) “I don’t want to find myself.”
Odie steps in, surprisingly gentle for a legal predator.
Odie (measured) “Then don’t buy a ghost to hide you. Buy something real. Something that makes time happen.”
The Stoat slides a small paper bag across the counter.
The Stoat (deadpan) “Poutine-flavored chips, eh. You’ll hate yourself for different reasons.”
The customer takes the bag, hesitates, then opens it. Crunch. They blink. Their eyes water a bit, shocked by taste.
Customer (whispers) “Oh.”
Flops (quiet, satisfied) “Yeah. Oh.”
Dook’s invisible hat changes into a tiny chef hat.
Dook (smiling) “Welcome back.”
Camera pans down to the counter corner. A tiny droplet of glowing light hides under the cash register. It makes a faint clicking sound… then goes still.
End.