Table Read - Little Man - Act 1 / Part 1

Episode Date: March 28, 2023

ACT 1 / PART 1: Doug's life is a mess until a popsicle from a strange ice cream man turns him into an eight-year-old. To reverse the curse, he has to become a decent human being in just 10 days. But with time running out, can he save himself and become an adult again? The clock is ticking and the stakes are high! ____ LITTLE MAN:  A hysterical irreverent comedy! "SHALLOW HAL" meets "13 GOING ON 30"...with a generous, dusting of "SUPERBAD." Our all-star cast absolutely destroys this script...guaranteed. You'll laugh out loud! Imagine a world where karma is a magic blue popsicle. LITTLE MAN is a comedy about a foul-mouthed loser who gets an unwanted "do-over" as an 8 year-old. But to turn back into a grown-up, this little d-bag has 10 days to become a decent human being or he'll stay a kid forever. It's hard to be good when you've been bad for so long. Time's running out. Tick tock! CAST & CREW: Narrator:        Tim Friedlander - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3418020/ Doug:          Brian Thomas Smith - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1705502/ Little Doug:      Bowie Bundlie - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm6717726/ Ethan:          Reuben Uy - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm6080777/ Francine:        Anthea Neri Best - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm8189822/ Julia:           Jillian Clare - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0163510/ Carl:           Petri Byrd - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0370257/ Priya:          Chhaya Néné - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm5847066/ Tyler:           Matt Curtin - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm8580549/ Ashford:        Ruben Ray- https://www.imdb.com/name/nm8980484/ Natalie:         Savannah Beattie- https://www.imdb.com/name/nm8044748/ PRODUCERS / DIRECTORS: Jack Levy - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0506446/ Mark Knell - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0460673/ Shaan Sharma - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3459555/ WRITER: Charmaine Colina - https://writers.coverfly.com/profile/writer-41ede17ef-8461 SOUND: Recording Engineer:     Eric Milos - https://www.linkedin.com/in/eric-milos-48a6a061/ Mix Engineer:          Torrel Alexis - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm2514639/ Sound Design & Music:   Jack Levy - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0506446/ Management:          Jon Brown - Ensemble Entertainment                      [e-mail]                      https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0113904/ ____ Follow Table Read (@TableReadPodcastLA) on Instagram for more info! Visit: https://www.tablereadpodcast.com/ Contact: [e-mail]   See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Ready? One, two, three. Table Read Little Man! Woo! Get nice and quiet and we'll rock it. Little Man. Written by Charmaine Colino. Fade in. Exterior, suburban park, day. Ducks glide on the pond. Strollers and joggers go by. Puppy training. Tai Chi, kids toss a football, a

peaceful Sunday. Thrash metal blasts in the distance. It gets louder. Ducks scatter, babies cry, puppies howl, leashes tangle. The Tai Chi master loses his flow. Total chaos. Doug Evans, 30, white, rocks out in a beat-up car. Megadeth shirt, Dodgers hat, three-day beard. Could clean up well, if he cared. He flicks a cigarette out the window, checks phone. Text from Ethan. Trash day tomorrow, please don't knock over the bins again.

Trash day tomorrow, please don't knock over the bins again. Bam! A football bounces right in front of Doug's car. Shit! He pulls over, gets out, grabs the rogue football. Three kids, eight to nine, shout and wave to him. Here! Over here! Doug grins, motions for the kids to back up for a long pass. They do. He raises the football and

hops in the car and drives off with it. The kids shout and bolt after the car. The chase is on. In rearview mirror, the kids run like crazy. Doug almost feels bad. Brake lights go bright. The car stops.

Bumper sticker. My dog is smarter than your honor student. Doug holds the football out the window with one hand. The kids catch up. Almost there. Doug hits the gas. The car surges. The kids scream.

The chase continues. One kid eats it. Doug cackles. He speeds away, leaving the pissed off kids panting in the street. In car. Doug tosses the football into the backseat, onto a pile of soccer balls, baseballs, basketballs. He's done this before. Exterior, center point mall, day. Suburban retail paradise. Cineplex, Olive Garden. Doug's car swerves into the parking lot. Takes up

two spaces. Interior, burrito Boss. Mall food court, day. Mexican fast food. Doug cuts to the front of the line where Robbie, 17, Latinx, bright, friendly, takes orders. Welcome to Burrito Boss. Number six-o, amigo. I'd be happy to get that for you. Points to name tag. And it's, uh, Robbie.

You speak English? Ooh. Robbie ignores the insult it's, uh, Robbie. You speak English? Ooh. Robbie ignores the insult, smiles, keeps it professional. Number six, bacon burrito combo with bacon guac and pico de bacon. Your English is, like, really good, dude. Beat. Darn. We're out of bacon, but you'll love the new Grande Burrito Del Tonto.

Not on the menu yet. Free. You da man, Roberto. Kitchen. Three teen workers, 16 to 18, keep the orders moving. Burrito Del Tonto. The teens freeze. With precision, they form an assembly line. Teen one plops beans on a tortilla. Teen two adds guac, cheese.

Teen three sticks a hand down his pants to his crotch. Later, food court. Doug beats an amputee, 60, on crutches to the last seat. He devours his burrito. Every bite licks his fingers. Later, elevator. He devours his burrito. Every bite. Mmm. Licks his fingers. Later. Elevator. Packed.

Doug eyes a cute woman, 19. He flirts. Mouths high. A pubic hair in his teeth. She scoots further away. A fart squeaks. Passengers wince. The woman covers her nose, glares at Doug, who points to an old lady, 85, next to him.

Doors open. Passengers can't exit fast enough. Alone, Doug lifts a leg. Thunderous farts. Relief. Interior, Phone King Day. On Purple Banner. Low prices, big Phone King deals. Odd mashup of T-Mobile and medieval times. Frazzled sales reps, 20 to 30, in purple shirts, can't keep up with the throngs of excited shoppers. Two reps hustle to restock a display.

This is whack. What's the deal? I don't know, but check that out. Shoppers swarm for selfies with a creepy-looking mannequin in medieval wear. Cedric, phone king mascot. He has a big sword. Where's Doug? Employee break room. Couches, lockers.

Doug rummages in the fridge. On the bulletin board, manager of the month, Tyler Fogle, store 38. Behold the rising star's photo. Big smile, fuzz stash, huge boobs graffitied in black marker on his Oxford. Not some lame middle schooler doodles. These have shading and perspective. Doug slurps Chinese takeout. Not his.

Fingers covered in black marker. Sales floor. Tyler, 25, unlocks a display case. He's got the style, swagger, and sensible footwear of retail management. Doug mock kneels at his feet. What is thy bidding, my master? You're 37 minutes late.

I changed the tire for an old lady. Corporate called. My office. Now. He weaves through the crowd and around shoppers posing for Cedric selfies. Doug takes in the chaos, smirks. Later, Tyler's office. A phone king shrine. There's a portrait of a businessman,

70s, and a huge crown. On the brass plate, Dave Wang founder. At his desk, Tyler steeples fingers. Doug lounges in a chair, plays it cool. Last night, your Instagram post. Holds up his phone. It's a selfie of Doug and Cedric holding his big sword at his crotch.

Like a giant phallus. Apparently, hashtag Big Phone King Deal is blowing up on social media. Engagement shitstorm. Sweet. Mr. Wang is impressed by the out-of-the-box rogue marketing stunt. Doug leans forward. This is his moment. It's getting shoppers back in the store.

Check out all the memes. On Doug's phone, scroll memes of people having fun with gripping big objects at crotch level. Just like Cedric's big sword. Bats, lightsabers, pool noodles. Hashtag big phone king deal. Doug grins with pride.

A very risky move. One that could have backfired badly. Totally right. I got a lot more amazing ideas. Hey, my raise gonna be on this paycheck or the next? Doug, you're a loose cannon. I have to let you go. Doug's face falls. He stands disappointed, angry. Screw this bullshit. Interior Doug's room, Ethan's house, day. Doug's cave, a pigsty. Video game console, beer cans, posters of thrash metal bands and bikini girls.

Doug dozes on a mattress. Beside him, a pile of fast food containers. Rustling in the pile. Glimpse of a ratty tail. A tiny dog pops out. Patchy hair, rat-like tail, pizza in his mouth. It's fugly. He truly lives up to his name. Doug wakes. Hey, don't eat that. He pries away the stale slice and eats it. Fugly barks protest.

Hops on Doug's belly. They share. Fug, your old man fucked up again. He scratches the dog's head. Heavy sigh. A side of Doug he doesn't like to show. Vulnerability. But you still love me, huh? Fugly licks his face. Doug cracks a sad smile. Fugly leaps down, barks, and paws at messy shelves by the mattress. Doug ignores him. Fugly persists. Doug groans, reaches for a box under some hustlers.

Fugly sniffs it, wags his tail. Exterior, Ethan's house, day. A Volvo pulls into the driveway of a craftsman bungalow. Curbside, there's a knocked-over trash bin by Doug's car. Interior, Doug's room, day. Box opened, contents on floor. Pencils, markers, tabbed books, dozens of old sketch pads. Doug flips through one. Reveal pages of axe-wielding warriors, badass Amazons with heaving bosoms, biomechanical reptilian beasts, aliens, and

fugly in a Dodger's hat, all rendered with skill and artistry. Sound of a door shutting. Doug shoves his stuff in the box. Glimpse of a book title. Make creativity make money. Box goes back on the shelf where there's an old photo of two boys, eight, at Dodger Stadium. A chubby-cheeked slob and a nerd in glasses.

A girl, 11, photobombs bunny ears behind them. Doug! Later, kitchen. Tidy, stylish. At the table, Ethan Reyes, 30, Filipino-American, types on a laptop. Clean cut, handsome in glasses. Ralph Lauren meets Charles Schwab. He sips a hard seltzer.

Doug grabs Cheetos on top of the fridge. Pours some into Fugly's bowl. The dog munches. Charles swab. He sips a hard seltzer. Doug grabs Cheetos on top of the fridge, pours some into Fugly's bowl. The dog munches. Fucking twat waffle, Tyler. He doesn't get it. We're out of mayo. Pops a beer, chugs. Ethan pauses typing. Tell me you didn't get fired. Nah, let go. Doorbell.

Fugly barks crazy. Fugly cave! The dog hushes, darts down the hall and into Doug's room. Foyer. It's Priya Patel, 30, Indian-American, smart, stunning. She smiles, holds up a foil-wrapped tray. Look what Nani made. Ethan kisses her.

Yum, can't wait. And Doug's home. Kitchen. Doug chomps Cheetos. Ethan and Priya enter. Hello, Doug. How are you? Awesome. Awesome.

Hold on, I'll get one. Awesome. We can always add one to this. Awesome. Great. Would you like a samosa? She lifts the foil. Doug winces at the fried dumplings.

Ugh, they smell. So good. Priya's grandma made them. Priya plates two for Doug. He shoves one in his mouth. Good. Right, right, the chutney. Priya opens a container Doug. He shoves one in his mouth. Good. Right? Try the chutney. Priya opens a container of pulpy green sauce.

Oh, that's gonna give me the shits. Nice to see you. Gotta go. She grabs Ethan's hand, beelines to the door. Doug watches them wistfully. And farts. He pokes at the samosas. Sticks Cheetos inside of one.

Sound of a door shutting. Muffled arguing. Ethan returns. Doug, we need to talk. There's something I've been wanting to... I know, you're gay. It's cool. I'm not.

Would you just listen for a minute? Ever think about working on your social skills? Be nicer? Why? It's cool. I'm not. Would you just listen for a minute? Ever think about working on your social skills? Be nicer? Why? It's a real question. Ethan's frustration grows. No one likes you. Lots of people like me. Okay, name one person. One. Diamond, Coco, Asia, Bambi, Sugar. Strippers get paid to like you. Ricky. The bouncer who you tip? Doug tosses a Cheetos stuffed samosa to Fugly. Fine. Prius. Priya is only nice to you because I told her you're a little special.

Special? As in? Ethan fiddles with his seltzer. Guilty. You told her I'm retarded? On the spectrum. It's the only way she'd put up with you. Look, we've been friends a long time.

I'm your only friend. Ever wonder why? Well, seeing as I'm special, nope. For a good-looking guy, you can't keep a girl more than one date. I'm cool you're gay. Seriously. You don't finish what you start, like night school. Homework sucks.

You've been let go from ten jobs. Now eleven in five years. Your point is... You act like a thoughtless, irresponsible prick. Common courtesy? What's that? You lie and cheat. You still hit people. Your biatch sister had it coming.

In 22 years, I've never heard you say, I'm sorry. Prius put you up to this. You're a perpetual child. Grow up! That stings. Doug stomps out. Foyer.

Doug? Come on. The prick has left the building. You don't have to be a prick. I'm trying to help. I'm your friend. Are you, Ethan? Or am I just your retarded charity case?

Fuck you. Porch. Doug bursts out the door. Then Ethan bursts out the door. Come back! Let's talk about this! I only said those things because I care! Damn it, Doug!

Don't do this! Damn it, Doug! Don't do this! Doug keeps on walking. Ethan retreats, slams the door. The old neighbors, the Lewis's, 80s, observe from their porch swing. Mrs. Lewis turns to her hubby, nods knowingly. Interior, booby trap club, day. Dark skeezy, music thumps, Doug enters,

takes in the scene. Home. Safe. Ricky, 30s, the burly bouncer, fist bumps Doug. Who let the dog out? Who? Who did? I don't know.

Yo boss, how'd it be? King of phones? Fan-fucking-tastic. They do a boxing move. Doug slides him a bill, gets escorted to a VIP table. Sugar, 20s, sashays over in a skimpy outfit. Off work early, Dougie. I'm celebrating my promotion. Waves a credit card.

Sugar shimmies. Three more strippers, 20s, run over to join the fun. Let's get this party started. Club music cranks louder. Exterior, booby trap club, day. Super. Three hours later, the door swings outward. Doug exits, fist bumps Ricky. He shuffles off, singing and gyrating.

Pour some sugar on me. In the name of love, pour some sugar on me. Later, player. Later, Allie. Still singing, Doug stumbles along. He slows to a trudge, quiets, and stops. Anger flashes across his face. He kicks a beer can, falls on his ass, doesn't get up.

I'm the fucking king of phones. Hangs his head. The faint chimes of an ice cream truck tinkle in the distance. Doug lifts his head. Exterior, suburban street, day. Kids, four to ten, swarm an old ice cream truck emblazoned with the Mr. Chili logo. A happy walrus and a hat and bow tie. Doug wades through the kids. A girl, eight, steps up to order. What can I get for you, miss? Cuts in front. Bullet peach popsicle.

Hey, what's your problem, mister? Doug ignores the girl. The kids glare daggers. In the truck window is Carl, 70s, black. If Morgan Freeman were an ice cream man. Good-natured, wise, twinkle in his eye. He sports an old-school ice cream man's uniform. There's a line, young man. It's for my kid. He's sick. Carl looks to the girl for the okay. She nods. Carl digs in the freezer case, but he's no fool.

All out of polar peach. Damn. It's my... my kid's favorite. Then I'll take a, uh, shit, a, uh... Language, young man. He scans the treat menu. Kids sigh, hurry up, today, et cetera. Super Lemon Snowball. Sold the treat menu. Kids sigh. Hurry up. Today, etc. Super Lemon Snowball.

Sold the last one. Okay. Blackberry Blizzard. Backordered. Cloud Burst Cream. Recalled Listeria. Glacier Goo. No can do.

Vanilla Ice Ice. Maybe. Carl digs in the freezer case again. Doug Bounce is hopeful. The crowd has dwindled to nothing. Carl comes up empty. You don't have to shit on a shingle, reads name tag. Carl. Read that again. You don't have shit on a shingle. Oh, ha ha. That's something different.

Yeah. I was like, that's weird. You don't have to shit on a shingle. Who's shit on roofs? You don't have to shit on that shingle. Yeah, you don't have to. You have options. All right. You don't have shit on a shingle.

Reed's name tag. Carl Beat. I have just the thing for you. He digs and surfaces with a sparkling, swirly blue popsicle. Doug is mesmerized. The plastic wrapper twinkles in the light. Printed on the wrapper is an image of a little boy under an umbrella. Rain bounces off of it.

El Nino. A limited edition classic. Guaranteed to take you back. What flavor is it? Blue. Not a flavor. It's a color. Like orange?

Doug's got nothing. Carl chuckles, then looks Doug's got nothing. Carl chuckles, then looks Doug in the eye. Guess you still got a lot to learn. Okay, Boomer, how much? On the house. For your little boy. Moments later, on truck rear.

Bringing out the child in you since 1972. The truck drives off. Tinkling music fades. Doug sits on the curb, devouring the blue popsicle. He winces. Brain freeze. Doug's POV. Sparkly double vision.

Exterior, Ethan's house, night. Lips stained blue, Doug stares at Ethan's empty parking spot. Interior, Doug's bedroom, day. Doug snores, still in his clothes from the night before. Interior, Ethan's room, day. Crate and barrel to Doug's frat house. On the desk is a framed old photo, just like Doug's. Doug peeks in. No Ethan. He didn't come home. Exterior, big top burger. Day. The old circus-themed burger joint has seen better days.

Burnt-out neon lights read, Big TP Urge. Drive-thru. Doug's car. A sad clown, 30s, works the order window. Doug checks his phone. No texts. No voicemail. Doug checks his phone. No texts. No voicemail.

He flings it onto the seat. Exterior, suburban street, Doug's car, day. Traffic jam. Doug leans out the window. Orange cones ahead. In Doug's car. Thrash metal blasts. Burger in one hand, steering wheel in the other.

Doug flips a U-turn. Detours onto a tree-lined street. On yellow sign. Slow school zone. Doug fumbles the burger. It lands on the floor. He reaches. Blank!

Soccer ball bounces off his hood. Doug breaks. Fast food flies everywhere. Son of a bitch! He pulls over. Gets out. Sees at the dents. Old dents. Hey, mister. everywhere he pulls over gets out seize of the dense old dense hey mister can you get our ball under that car two kids seven eight stand behind a chain-link school fence you little twat waffles dead in my hood this cars a classic. It's an old piece of poop.

A third kid appears. Wyatt, seven. Small, sweet, bully prey. Can you get our ball, please? Innocent eyes on Doug. Ethan's words echo in Doug's head. You don't have to be a prick. Doug groans, gives in.

He crawls under a car, reaches. He emerges with the soccer ball. The kids cheer. He raises the ball to toss it over the fence and freezes. Looks at the ball in his hand. He's never returned one. You don't have to be a prick. Doug thinks and thinks. Give him the ball already!

Too good, motherfucker. Doug tosses the ball over. Oof, and hits kid one in the face. Thanks, mister. The kids scamper off. Wyatt looks back, waves at Doug. Doug waves too. Goofy smile.

He shrugs, turns to his car. Gone. What the? Screams. Down the block, Doug's car turns the corner. Shit-stained, cornhole cocksucker! Doug chases his stolen car. Sparkly double vision returns.

Chimes of an ice cream truck. Doug rounds the corner. Eyes widen. Flash of a Mr. Chili truck. Brakes squeal. Impact. Darkness. Interior hospital, day.

Doug's POV. Eyes slowly open. Regain consciousness. A fuzzy image comes into focus. It's a woman. Long, wild hair. Come hither eyes. She wears the armor corset of a badass Amazon warrior princess.

Wielding a mighty spear. She winks. Doug's hallucination vanishes and is replaced by the angelic face of Julia Jones, 27, multiracial. She's adorable in a sweater and pearls. She smiles, then runs to the door. Come back. Come back. Come back. His voice sounds high.

He's awake! Doug's POV. Bed railings, monitors, a hospital room. A nurse enters. Pink stethoscope, crayon-pattered scrubs. Nurse Cora, 45, Filipina, is in charge. All five feet of her. Our patient's finally up.

She takes his pulse. Doug's POV. His arm is wiry, skinny. What the fuck? Mouth, young man. What's your name? Throat-clearing sound. Doug? Doug, I'm Julia. We want to help. A big orderly enters with a tray. It's Ricky from Booby Trap. Ready for some

grub boss? Ricky! Who let the dog out? Ricky does a double take. We'll be back. She leaves with Julia. Ricky sets the food on a table. You work here? Sure do. Let's see what we got. He lifts the plate cover. Reveal tater tots, carrots, and brown nuggety things.

Mmm, dino nuggets. Dang, I forgot the jello. I'm on it, boss. No, it's okay. Stay here. Ricky exits. Wait, I'm coming with you. He pulls off the blanket and gasps in horror.

Gasp in horror. Bathroom. Doug's POV. Mirror. Sink. Everything is too high. Little feet step onto an overturned wastebasket. In the mirror, a little boy version of Doug stares back.

Holy shit! Now give me an alternate where you're like, holy shit, you know, kind of comes to you. Holy shit! Messy hair, chubby cheeks, just like in the old photo. He opens his mouth, a big gap where two front teeth should be. Uh. He peers down, slowly opens his pajama bottoms. Nurse's station.

Cora on phone. Julia holds up a teddy bear for her to see. No! One more, give me one that's a bit extended. Yeah, one that's like, whoa! Like they hear it through the entire hospital. No! They dash down the hall toward the commotion.

Doug's hospital room. No! Quick cuts. Exterior hospital. Exterior traffic jam freeway. Exterior city. Exterior traffic jam freeway. Exterior city. Exterior earth from space. Back in the room, Doug weeps on the floor.

Fetal position. My dick. My one true friend. Hey, Bowie, I like it, but a little more crying first. So you can give me a couple seconds of that. He has some ugly crying. My dick. My one true friend.

One more time. Don't throw away my one true friend. Don't just toss it out. Try to get it out. Keep it going. My one true friend. Sound of voices. Doug sits up. Cora and Julia rush in.

They see Doug asleep in his bed, food untouched. Julia tucks the teddy bear under his arm. Poor thing didn't eat. He's scared. He's alive because of you. What happens now? Cora pulls the privacy curtain around the bed. He'll be put into foster care by end of day.

Doug's eyes pop open. Later, Ricky returns with green jello in a bedpan. Opens curtain. I'm back, boss. Need to wee-wee. Elevators. On blue balloons tied to the wheelchair of Mrs. Johnson, 38. Dazed and exhausted. She holds a newborn in a blue blanket.

Mr. Johnson, 40, pushes her. A smiley sweater vest church dad encircled by a tornado of eight loud boys, two to nine. Boy-nado. The huge family squeezes into the elevator. Boy-nado fights to push buttons. Glimpse of choo-choo pajamas Doors close Exterior hospital entrance day

In the loading zone, Mrs. Johnson and Boynado climb aboard a big passenger van the size of an airport shuttle Ricky and a security guard, 40s, burst out the doors Inside van Boynado bedlam Punching, teasing, crying. Toys fly over rows of seats. Hot wheels are hurled to the back of the van. Doug dodges them, giggling from a car seat beside him. A toddler, Malachi, 2, holds out a goldfish cracker to Doug. Doug looks out the window. The search party searches. Hospital parking lot.

The Johnson's van rolls out the exit. In the window, Doug's face is pressed to the glass. Sneaky grin. A shower of goldfish crackers land on his head. Interior van. Moving. Day. Mr. Johnson drives,

immune to the mayhem. His wife weeps silently. Doug scans the street signs. Crackers in his hair. Hey kids! How about a Johnson family sing-along to welcome your new baby brother? They sing the most annoying Sunday school song on earth. Father Abraham had many sons. Many sons had Father Abraham had many sons,

many sons, Father Abraham, I am one of them, and so are you. So let us all praise the Lord. Father Abraham, many sons,

Hands on ears, Doug screams. He's drowned out by the singing. Projectile puke splatters his face. He gags. Malachi claps. Exterior, Johnson's house, day. The van pulls into a two-story colonial. They're still singing.

Exterior, Johnson's backyard, day. War zone of toys and boys. Doug blends right in. He surveys the yard. Spots bikes by a locked gate. Interior, kid's bedroom, night. Lights out, quiet. Boynado sleeps.

Bunny slippers tiptoe. Doug steps on a squeaky toy by a crib. Malachi wakes. Doug makes a shh motion. Gives him the toy. Adios, mother puker. Exterior, Johnson's backyard, night. Doug picks a lock with a fork.

Mounts a bike. He can't reach the pedals. Exterior, suburban streets, night. Sound of rumbling. Bunny slippers power a big wheel. Doug barrels down the sidewalk on the red plastic tricycle. He spots a police car. Rolls behind a bus stop bench.

The police car passes. Doug rolls out. Interior, Ethan's room, night. Lights dimmed Ethan sits in a chair In just boxers and a necktie Oh, yeah

Priya in sexy lingerie Has a clipboard and pen Uh, these numbers don't add up, Mr. Cuddles You've been very naughty Oh, don't fire me, boss I'll do anything Banging on the front door interrupts the fun Moments later, foyer Oh, don't fire me, boss. I'll do anything. Banging on the front door interrupts the fun.

Moments later, foyer. Ethan trudges to the door. Open up, Ethan! Ethan looks in the peephole. No one. He turns away. Louder banging. Looks again. Still no one. Doug's room. Fugly whines and scratches the closed door.

Ethan, open the damn door! Foyer. Ethan opens the door. A boy in choo-choo pajamas runs in. Heads straight for the kitchen. Ethan stumbles after him. Hey, hey, hey, wait! You and your stupid advice!

The boy opens the fridge, cracks a beer. Ethan grabs it. Kid, this isn't your asswipe! It's me, Doug! Ethan, who is it? Uh, no one. Beer right there, honey. The boy cracks another beer. Ethan yanks him from the fridge. You don't live here. Go home. It's me, dumbass. A kid me. Doug nut punches Ethan. Ethan gasps, goes down in agony. Hurts like hell, huh? But it's even worse for you and your triplets. Climbs a chair to reach the Cheetos. Little League, fifth grade. You had to get a custom-made cup for nut number three. Plops on the floor by Ethan. Digs into the Cheetos. How? You can't be...

Oh, it's me, bitch. Who's this? Why are you on the floor? Priya stands there in a skimpy black silk robe. Doug's head snaps to take in the view. She ties her robe quickly. My sister's kid. We were wrestling. She needs a babysitter. Babysitter?

Right now? I like hugs. Doug runs to Priya, hugs her around the middle, plants his face right below her bosom. Awkward. Ethan hobbles over, pries Doug off of her. An orange Cheeto dust imprint of Doug's face left on Priya's robe. Later, Priya stomps to the door, dressed, purse in hand.

Ethan trails. Mayo-covered Doug shares a sandwich with Fugly. Let's not make this into a big deal. Don't be mad at Mr. Cuddles. He makes puppy dog eyes, pulls Priya close. It works. We'll go over the numbers tomorrow. Priya's POV.

Doug fondles his chest, makes obscene sucking motions with his mouth. Exterior, Ethan's house, night. Priya's car peels out. Ethan chases, gives up. Doug pops up next to him with an empty jar. Out of mayo, Mr. Cuddles.