bighead splargs again and again...

Screenplay draft

Title: bighead splargs again and again...
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FADE IN.

INT. HORACE'S BATHROOM - MORNING

A single bare bulb swings on a frayed cord above a cracked porcelain sink. Sickly yellow light pools across streaked mirror glass and faded green splatters dried along the basin rim. HORACE SPLARGLEY leans in close, his enormous head filling the reflection. Thinning brown hair stretches tight across the swollen scalp. His pajama collar stands stiff with yesterday’s residue.

HORACE
Not today. Not in front of the mayor again.

He opens the medicine cabinet. Empty ointment tubes rattle in their rows. Horace grabs the last one, squeezes the flattened plastic, and watches nothing emerge onto his palm. He sets it down and presses both palms hard against his temples. A faint wet hiss builds inside his skull.

One green drop swells at his left nostril and trembles.

HORACE
(whispering)
Please.

The drop falls. It hits the sink with a soft plink that echoes off the tiles.

Horace’s shoulders slump. He exhales through his nose, then turns the faucet on full blast. Cold water hammers the basin. He reaches for the stained apron hanging from the towel hook, dips it under the stream, and begins scrubbing the stiff green patches with slow, circular motions. The fabric hisses under his fingers. Each scrub sends tiny flecks of dried goo swirling down the drain.

He pauses, studies his reflection again. The head still throbs, visibly larger than his shoulders warrant. Water drips from the apron hem onto his bare feet. He mutters under his breath, the words barely audible over the running tap.

HORACE
Not today.

The bulb swings once more, casting a slow arc of light across the fresh wet stains on the apron. Horace keeps scrubbing, shoulders tight, eyes never leaving the mirror.

INT. SPLARGTON DINER - MORNING

Morning light leaks through the grease-smeared front windows, turning the red vinyl stools a dull rust. Green stains streak the linoleum in irregular arcs from yesterday’s lunch rush. The kitchen pass-through window fogs with steam from the coffee urn.

HORACE SPLARGLEY pushes through the swinging back door, his enormous head ducking automatically under the low frame. His pajama collar has been swapped for a once-white apron already dotted with fresh puke-green splotches along the hem. He pauses, watery blue eyes scanning the empty prep station.

HORACE
Not today.

He crosses to the deep sink, rubber soles sticking on dried splatter. The faucet coughs once before a steady stream hits the stack of plates. Horace lifts the first plate, scrubs in tight circles, and sets it on the rack. A thin hiss builds behind his left ear. He presses his temple against the cool tile wall until the sound fades.

Green residue flakes from the apron onto the floor. He keeps scrubbing. Water splashes his forearms, mixing with whatever already clings to the fabric. The hissing returns, softer this time, riding the rhythm of his breathing.

HORACE
(under his breath)
Not in front of the mayor again. Not on the breakfast shift.

A single drop forms at his right nostril. It trembles, catches the light, then slips down the curve of his lip and lands in the soapy water with a soft plink. Horace exhales, shoulders slumping. He reaches for the next plate without looking up, the enormous head tilted just enough to keep the next drop from falling straight into the clean stack.

Outside the pass-through, the first customer bell jingles. Horace’s hands never slow on the sponge.

INT. SPLARGTON DINER - MORNING

A single shaft of weak sunlight cuts through the grease-streaked front window, landing on Formica counters already dotted with yesterday’s puke-green burns. The red vinyl stools sit empty. Steam fogs the kitchen pass-through. HORACE SPLARGLEY stands at the sink, apron stiff with dried residue, head bowed so his enormous skull casts a shadow over the drain.

DORIS PLINK pushes through the swinging door from the back, a clean white apron folded over one arm. Her rubber earplug necklace clicks softly against her flour-dusted collar. She stops three feet from Horace and holds the apron out like a baton she expects him to take.

DORIS
Put this on before the first customer smells you.

Horace reaches for it without looking up. His fingers tremble. A tiny green bead forms at the corner of his left nostril and he pinches it away fast.

HORACE
Not today. Not in front of the mayor again.

DORIS
That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that. Holding it in only makes the next one bigger.

She doesn’t raise her voice. The words land flat, like an order she’s given a hundred times. Horace finally meets her eyes. His watery blue ones widen, then dart away.

HORACE
I tried the compresses. Ice. Prayer. Nothing stays in.

DORIS
Because you’re still trying to keep it in. The goo doesn’t care about your plans, Horace. It cares about pressure.

She steps closer, taps the folded apron against his chest once, then releases it so he has to catch it. The fabric smells faintly of lemon and something herbal. Horace clutches it to his apron like a shield.

HORACE
What if the mayor comes in again? What if—

DORIS
Then you splarg on his toupee again and we mop. Same as always. Or you let some of it out on purpose before it decides for you.

A wet hiss builds somewhere deep in Horace’s sinuses. He clamps both hands over his ears, apron still dangling from one fist. Doris watches without flinching.

DORIS
Breathe through it. Or don’t. Your choice. But the bigger you make the dam, the worse the flood.

The hiss fades. Horace lowers his hands. A single drop of green goo falls from his nostril and lands on the clean apron with a soft plink. He stares at it.

HORACE
I don’t know how to let it out on purpose.

DORIS
You will. Or the town won’t survive you figuring it out the hard way.

She turns toward the pass-through, already reaching for the coffee pot. Horace remains at the sink, staring at the fresh green spot on the white fabric. Outside, the first customer’s shadow crosses the window.

EXT. SPLARGTON STREET - DAY

A dull gray sidewalk stretches ahead, its curbs darkened by old puke-green splatter that never fully washes away. Horace Splargley shuffles forward, his enormous head bobbing above hunched shoulders, thinning brown hair pulled tight across the scalp. His apron, stiff with yesterday’s residue, flaps against his stained pajama top. A single bare bulb’s yellow memory clings to the morning light.

Horace keeps his watery blue eyes on the cracks in the pavement. He mutters under his breath.

HORACE
Not today.

A woman pushing a stroller crosses the street without looking up. Two men on a bench turn their heads in unison, their conversation dropping into silence as Horace passes. The smell of old goo rises from a storm drain, sharp and sweet like fermenting limes.

Horace slows at the corner where the diner’s red vinyl reflections used to look cheerful. Now the faded paint only reminds him of every shift that ended in wet plops. He tugs the apron tighter around his middle.

HORACE
Not today. Not on the sidewalk again.

A dog tied to a lamppost whines and backs away, nails scraping concrete. Horace feels the familiar pressure building behind his temples but swallows it down. The sidewalk ahead glistens darker than the rest, a fresh stain from last week’s lunch rush still glistening underfoot.

He keeps walking, head lowered, the town’s wary eyes tracking every step.

INT. SPLARGTON DINER - DAY

The breakfast rush fills the Formica counters with chipped red vinyl stools. Steam fogs the pass-through window. Horace Splargley moves between tables, enormous head hunched low, apron already stiff with yesterday’s dried green residue. His thinning brown hair stretches tight across the scalp under the sickly yellow bulbs.

He lifts a plate crusted with egg yolk. A single puke-green smear on the rim catches the light. Horace pauses, stares at it, then scrapes it into the bus tub

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