We Got Gnomes
Flops hears nighttime rummaging and sets up a camera; the footage glitches to static while gnomish chanting plays, and Dook finds telltale “micro-pints,” confirming gnomes. Lawyer Odie Yotie baits them with a tiny magazine full of legal fine print, catches three articulate “squatter gnomes,” and it’s revealed the missing socks were actually Dook’s experiment, while a mayoral note exempts gnomes from city rules. Rather than evict them, Dook and Flops relocate the trio to the Stoat’s corner kiosk as nocturnal alarms, and Dook slips them the real “Miss Gnome 2025” magazine, ending on a hint of more gnomes in the vents.
INT. DOOK & FLOPS’ LIVING ROOM – EVENING
TV murmurs in the background. A warm lamp pools light over Flops sprawled on the couch, eyelids drooping.
Flops (mumbling into pillow): Five more minutes of... nothing...
Rummaging from the dresser. Flops’ ears twitch. He sits up, looks toward the hallway.
Flops (blinking): ..Dook?
Silence. Flops pads over to the dresser, opens a few drawers. Socks—lots of them—tidy, normal. He shrugs, ambles back to the couch.
He’s nearly asleep again. Rummaging. Louder.
Flops (sits bolt upright): Okay, rude.
He stands, checks again—nothing. He rubs his face, sets a small camera on a stack of books and points it squarely at the dresser.
Flops (to camera): Don’t blink.
He flops onto the couch, remote slack in paw, and drifts off.
INT. LIVING ROOM – MORNING
Dook slips in through the front door, carrying a thermos and a paper bag. The camera’s tiny red LED is off. Flops snores softly.
Dook (gently prodding Flops with a fern): Wake-wake, vulpine pancake.
Flops (sits up, hair askew): You were out. Night noises. Dresser noises. I recorded evidence. Also: cocoa?
Dook (popping open thermos, coughing politely): a-hem—two cocoas.
He coughs out two steaming mugs. Flops takes one. They huddle around the camera.
Flops (scrubbing the trackpad): Okay, watch this... Shadows... shadows... and—
The video goes to static. The audio persists: reedy, rhythmic chanting in a chattery language.
Speaker (audio, faint): gnom’gnom’gnom’—nomina nomi—gnom’gnom—sha!
Flops (squints): Did the universe buffer?
Dook (tilting head): Gnomish packet loss.
Flops scrubs forward. The image returns: the empty dresser corner. Nothing there. A long, slow shadow crosses the frame. Then nothing again.
Dook (stands, sips cocoa, wanders to dresser): Counterfactual sock gravity... mm.
He opens the sock drawer, studies it like an art critic. Half the socks are unpaired, as if a sorting algorithm crashed. Dook dons a detective fedora from nowhere and flips up a magnifying glass.
Flops (still watching): Why did we glitch at the exact moment the shadows got shadowy?
Dook (one knee to the floor, sniffing): Sniff sniff. Micropints. Footlets. A pheromone of fern and thunder. (he plucks up a miniature glass bottle the size of a fingernail) Yep. We got gnomes.
Flops (deadpan): Gnomes?
Knocking. Three quick legal taps.
Odie (off): It’s Odie Yotie, Esquire. You rang?
Flops (whispering to Dook): I didn’t ring yet—oh right, future rings.
MOMENTS LATER – LIVING ROOM
Odie Yotie stands by the TV, briefcase open, noting the facts with a pen that clicks like a metronome.
Flops (gesturing with the remote): Video blackouts, gnomish ASMR, tiny footprints, micro-bottle. And the socks are unpaired for the first time since the Great Laundry Truce of Tuesday.
Odie (nodding): So you got gnomes.
Flops (throws up paws): Why is it instantly obvious to everyone that we got gnomes? I’ve never even heard of them.
Dook (peering through magnifier at the bottle): Gnomes are excellent at being heard-of by not being heard-of.
Odie (snaps briefcase closed): In any case, visibility issues call for a legal approach. Attractive Nuisance Doctrine for Entities Under Three Inches applies. We’ll bait them with a periodical.
Flops (hopeful): A... tiny cheesecake catalog?
Odie (producing a thumb-sized glossy): More compelling. Miss Gnome 2025. Except—(he flips it open; it’s wall-to-wall legal text)—it’s all terms, conditions, and waivers. They’ll gather to dispute the footnotes.
Dook (earnest): Legal footnotes are like tiny ladders for tiny minds.
Odie (placing the miniature magazine beside the dresser, then attaching a postage-stamp-sized placard): By the powers vested in me by the Municipal Small Persons Act, §Itchy-7, any entity reading this ad consents to be gently detained for a brief chat. Call me in the morning if you catch any.
Flops (eyes the trap): This is the weirdest mousetrap.
Odie (straightening tie): It’s a gnome trap. Don’t diminish their union.
INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
The TV hums. Flops lies on the couch under a blanket.
Flops (to ceiling): Gnomes. Why gnomes. Why here.
He falls asleep to the rhythmic commercials for “SALA CITY NIGHT DE-LIGHT: NOW WITH 25% MORE LIGHT.”
INT. LIVING ROOM – MORNING
Dook kneels by the dresser, detective hat on, magnifier up. Inside a transparent, thimble-sized clamshell trap: Three Gnomes! Each one looks like a pointy-hatted chess piece with fierce eyebrows and the posture of tiny union reps.
Gnome #1 (rattling the trap bars): This is illegal advertising! That magazine contained nothing but legal jargon!
Gnome #2 (offended): Yeah! Not even one picture in it! Of anything!
Gnome #3 (eyeing Dook’s mug): Hey, green dude, I’ll trade you this Miss Gnome 2025 magazine for a cup of cocoa.
Dook (considering): Only if it contains actual gnomes.
Gnome #3 (throws up hands): You’re pretty smart for a green guy.
Flops (phone to ear): Odie? We have three... extremely articulate occupants.
Knock-knock—Odie is already at the door. Flops opens; Odie steps in, as if he’d been leaning on the doorframe since last night.
Odie (producing a tiny notary seal): Morning. Let’s take statements. First off—missing underwear is a crime.
Gnome #1 (indignant): That wasn’t us. The green guy hid them behind the sofa.
Flops (turns, lifts sofa skirt): That’s absurd, no one would—oh. That’s a lot of socks.
Flops (holding up an armload): Dook, what the sock?
Dook (sheepish, magnifier still up): It was an experiment to see if socks get lonely. Preliminary data suggests yes.
Flops (starts pairing socks): My guy.
Odie (to gnomes): Then why are you here?
Gnome #2 (hands on tiny hips): We’re squatter gnomes. We live in people’s sock drawers. It’s cozy, linen-scented, low commute. We never steal any. That’s all on the green dude.
Dook (whispers): Habitat-based cohabitation. Symbiotic housekeeping.
Odie (flipping open a document folder): You can’t squat here. Sala City’s got rules.
Gnome #3 (smug): They don’t apply to us. Check your legal papers.
Odie rolls his eyes, humoring them, and slips out the Municipal Rulebook. Inside: a sticky-note in mayoral bubble letters—Bunnyrack's handwriting.
Odie (reading, freezes): “Sala City rules do not apply to gnomes. —Bunnyrack. P.S. Don’t forget carrot day.” ...Oh.
Gnome #1 (folds arms): Told you.
Flops (dropping the last paired sock into the drawer): Okay, so you’re not thieves, and you’re... cleverly immunized. You can’t live in our sock drawer, but I know where you might stay.
The gnomes look at each other, then at Flops, intrigued.
INT. CORNER KIOSK – DAY
The bell tinkles as Dook, Flops, and Odie enter carrying a small shoebox with air holes. The Stoat is behind the counter, counting gum, looking aggressively indifferent until customers appear.
Flops (sets the box on the counter): Hey buddy, can we stash these gnomes here? You’re good at hiding stuff.
Stoat (automatic): I don’t have any maple sy—oh, yeah, totally, gnomes, eh?
He slides a bunch of “MAPLE SY—SUGAR” jugs out of the way and clears a top shelf.
Stoat (peering into the box): They can live there, eh, but only if they can be an alarm at night.
The gnomes pop their heads up, eyes gleaming at the view of endless snacks.
Gnome #2 (saluting): We can chant in G minor. Deterrent mode.
Gnome #3 (nods): And we file incident reports. Carbonless copies.
Stoat (impressed): Deal, bud.
He places the box carefully on the shelf. Odie crosses arms, satisfied. Dook smiles wide, produces a thimble-sized laminated occupancy permit that probably doesn’t exist, stamps it with the notary seal from earlier, and hands it to the gnomes. They cheer in a tiny, surprisingly disciplined way.
Flops (to gnomes): No sock-hoarding. Snack policy is “ask first” unless it’s carrots; then it’s a free-for-all, the mayor did that one.
Odie (hands the Stoat a card): If they unionize, call me before they negotiate their own holiday.
Stoat (tucks card next to lotto forms): Beauty.
Dook steps back, looks at the shelf, then wanders to the door with Flops and Odie. They wave. The bell tinkles as they leave.
Beat.
The bell tinkles again. Dook leans back in, tiptoe quiet. He slides a paper-thin micro-magazine onto the shelf: the real Miss Gnome 2025, brimming with glossy photos of proud, pointy hats, lichen couture, and high-end thimble architecture.
Dook (winking): Here’s the actual 2025 edition.
The gnomes’ eyes go saucer-wide. They grin like they just got away with something they won fair and square.
Gnome #3 (awed): Respect.
Dook finger-guns, exits. The bell tinkles.
INT. CORNER KIOSK – LATER
Quiet. The gnomes nestle in their box, flipping pages with the soft susurrus of tiny paper. The Stoat looks around his tidy domain, smug as a sunlit cat.
Stoat (hands on hips, satisfied): I got gnomes.. Eh?
In the ceiling vent, something rustles and whispers back in gnomish harmony like a miniature choir warming up. The store clock ticks. The snack aisle stands guard.
FADE OUT.
END