Wendy vs Clown. 🤣

Screenplay draft

Title: WENDY VS CLOWN
Credit: Written by
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FADE IN.

INT. WENDY'S PARTY SUPPLY SHOP - DAY

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Faded red and yellow shelves sag under stacks of deflated balloons and dusty whoopee cushions. Glitter coats the counter like cheap snow. WENDY HART, late 20s, straight brown hair in a practical ponytail, stands behind the register in a faded polo shirt and jeans speckled with glitter residue. A small scar sits above her left eyebrow.

She counts crumpled dollar bills one by one, lips moving in silence. A single red balloon slips from a high shelf and drifts downward past her face. It lands with a soft squeak on a pile of oversized clown shoes.

WENDY
(to herself)
Fifteen years and still squeaking.

She exhales sharply and tucks the last bill into the drawer. The bell above the door jingles, but no one enters. From the street outside, a bicycle horn honks twice—short, deliberate blasts.

Wendy freezes. Her shoulders tighten. She slams the register shut, twists the key, and flips the CLOSED sign on the door. The sign swings once, then settles.

She moves to the shelves and begins straightening inventory. Her hands linger on a stack of unused whoopee cushions, pressing one flat with her thumb until it stays silent. Another horn honk sounds, farther away this time, almost playful.

Wendy crosses to the front window and peers through the streaked glass. Empty sidewalk. She draws the shade anyway, the fabric rustling like old paper. Back at the counter she wipes glitter into a small pile with the side of her hand, then dumps it into the trash. The can lid clangs shut.

She grabs a broom and sweeps slowly between the narrow aisles. The bristles scrape over a forgotten plastic flower that squirts a weak jet of water onto the floor. Wendy stops, stares at the wet spot, then keeps sweeping. The distant horn does not return.

At the glass case she adjusts a row of gag glasses with oversized noses. One pair tips and clatters against the others. She rights them without expression. The lights flicker once overhead, then hold steady.

Wendy returns to the register, double-checks the lock, and slips the key into her pocket. She stands motionless for a moment, eyes on the deflated red balloon still resting on the clown shoes. A low rubber squeak escapes as the balloon settles further.

She flips off the lights. The shop drops into dim shadow. Only the red balloon catches the last glow from the street. Wendy steps out the back door and pulls it closed. The lock clicks.

INT. WENDY'S PARTY SUPPLY SHOP - DAY

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Shelves sag under crooked rows of deflated balloons in faded reds and yellows. A glass case holds plastic flowers that have not squirted water in months. WENDY HART stands at the counter, ponytail pulled tight, glitter dusting her jeans. She stacks whoopee cushions one by one, pressing each with her thumb to test the squeak before sliding it into a bin.

WENDY
(to herself)
No sense keeping what nobody buys twice.

She opens the ledger beside the register. The total for the week sits at forty-seven dollars. She exhales sharp, flips the page, and traces yesterday's zero. Her finger stops on the empty space where clown kits used to be listed.

WENDY
(quieter)
They ask every month. Same answer every month.

She walks to the back wall and runs her hand along the bare shelf. Dust smears her palm. A single red nose sits forgotten in the corner, its elastic string frayed. Wendy does not touch it. She returns to the counter, counts the remaining cushions again, and writes the new total in smaller numbers than the day before.

The bell above the door stays silent. Outside, a bicycle horn honks once, far down the street. Wendy freezes for half a second, then resumes stacking, pressing each cushion harder than the last.

INT. WENDY'S PARTY SUPPLY SHOP - DAY

Fluorescent lights flicker over crooked shelves packed with deflated balloons and stacks of unused whoopee cushions. Glitter dusts the counter in faded red and yellow streaks. WENDY HART stands behind the register, ponytail pulled tight, counting crumpled dollar bills one by one.

A red nose rolls off the top shelf and lands at her feet. It lets out a sharp squeak. Wendy steps sideways without looking up. Another nose drops. She dodges left, the bills still clutched in her hand.

WENDY
(to herself)
Fourteen, fifteen. Enough for rent if the whoopee cushions sell.

She reaches for the next stack. Her elbow brushes a row of plastic flowers. They squirt a thin stream of water across the counter. Wendy exhales hard through her nose and wipes the wet bills on her jeans.

WENDY
No full kits. Not again.

She moves to the back shelf and inventories the whoopee cushions, pressing each one flat before stacking them. One cushion lets out a long, wet raspberry when she tests it. She flinches but keeps counting.

WENDY
People want balloons and paper plates. Not the rest of it.

A single oversized shoe tumbles from the top shelf and lands upright beside her. The laces are rainbow striped. Wendy stares at it for a beat, then kicks it under the counter with the side of her foot. The shoe lets out one last muffled squeak.

She flips the ledger closed, the numbers circled in red ink showing another week of losses. The bell above the door stays silent. Wendy locks the register and stares at the empty doorway.

INT. MAPLE HOLLOW DINER - DAY

Fluorescent tubes flicker above cracked vinyl stools. Metal napkin dispensers catch the glare. Grease hangs in the air with the smell of burnt coffee. WENDY HART sits at the counter, glitter still dusting her jeans, fingers tracing a ring on her mug.

LISA ROWE slides onto the stool beside her, diner uniform wrinkled from her shift, large purse thumping against the counter leg. She stirs her coffee with a tiny paper umbrella, eyes on Wendy.

LISA
You look like you wrestled a balloon animal and lost.

WENDY
(quick, clipped)
Shop bell keeps jingling for no one. Horns from the street. Same two blasts every time I turn around.

LISA
Some folks collect stamps. You collect bad birthday memories.

Wendy exhales sharp. She glances at the streaked window, street empty beyond it.

WENDY
(whisper)
He said the party never ended. Fifteen years and the gig is still on.

Lisa sets the umbrella aside. She leans in, drawl warm but picking up speed.

LISA
Listen to me. Some clowns never leave until you make them the punchline. You keep dodging, he keeps honking. Start swinging back and the whole act falls flat.

Wendy stirs her own coffee, spoon clinking too loud. A cook drops a plate in the kitchen; the sound echoes like distant laughter.

WENDY
I locked the register. Flipped the sign. Still heard him outside.

LISA
Then stop locking doors and start planning exits. Pie in the face works better when it is your pie.

Wendy stares at the counter, scar above her eyebrow catching the light. She exhales again, longer this time.

WENDY
I do not want the punchline. I want the noise to stop.

LISA
Then you better learn how to write the joke yourself.

INT. WENDY'S SUBURBAN HOUSE - EVENING

Wendy Hart pushes open the front door and steps inside. Faded beige walls catch the last of the daylight through half-drawn curtains. Stacks of unused whoopee cushions sit piled on the coffee table beside a crate of deflated red and yellow balloons. A plastic flower that never squirted water leans against the couch arm.

She closes the door behind her. The lock clicks. She drops her keys into a bowl already holding three crumpled receipts from the shop.

WENDY HART
(to herself)
Still sitting here.

She crosses to the nearest stack and nudges a whoopee cushion with her foot. It lets out a weak, dusty squeak. Glitter residue from the day's inventory clings to her jeans. She wipes her hands on her thighs, leaving faint sparkles.

Wendy moves into the kitchen doorway. More supplies line the counter: a box of unused clown noses, a tangle of rubber chickens, and 

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