Foxy Friday

Screenplay draft

Title: Foxy Friday
Credit: Written by
Author: Screenplay Services
Draft date: October 10, 2023
Contact: scripts@snarlco.com

FADE IN.

INT. SNARL & CO BULLPEN - DAY

Fluorescent lights hum over rows of empty desks. Beige carpet tiles absorb the green cast. A single working printer sits silent in the corner next to a dying ficus whose leaves curl like scorched paper. At 8:59 a.m., JORDAN HALE, mid-30s, rumpled button-down half-tucked, sits alone. A bright orange fox-ear headband rests on his keyboard like a dare. His scuffed brown oxfords tap once, then stop.

The elevator dings. ALEX RIVERA, early 30s, sharp ink-black bob, black jeans and leather jacket, steps out carrying a battered portfolio. A tiny fox tattoo shows on her wrist when she adjusts the strap.

ALEX
You wore the ears already?

Jordan slides the headband into the top drawer without looking up.

JORDAN
Not yet. Just... testing the vibe.

Alex drops the portfolio on the nearest desk. It lands with a soft thud. The espresso machine behind the partition lets out a long, dying hiss that echoes across the empty bullpen.

ALEX
Morgan’s looking for last quarter’s numbers. You got anything that doesn’t sound like we’re circling the drain?

Jordan glances at the closed drawer, then at the half-dead succulents lined along the windowsill. Sodium-vapor light from the hallway leaks in yellow through the blinds.

JORDAN
What if we gave them something they actually wanted to watch?

Alex raises an eyebrow. She pulls a chair out, sits backward, arms folded over the backrest.

ALEX
Like what? Another PowerPoint that dies in the first ten slides?

Jordan leans forward, voice rising with that nervous lilt.

JORDAN
Fox ears. Tails. Pranks. Something stupid that trends. The kind of thing clients can’t stop screenshotting.

Alex studies him for a beat. The broken espresso machine hisses again, softer this time.

ALEX
Nobody gets fired for looking ridiculous if the numbers move.

Jordan pulls the headband back out of the drawer, turns it in his hands. The orange polyester catches the overhead light.

JORDAN
Exactly. One Friday. We all show up in onesies. Scavenger hunts in the break room. Maybe a TikTok or two. Morgan sees the Slack photos and thinks we’re saving the firm.

Alex snorts, but the sound isn’t entirely dismissive. She reaches over and flicks one of the fox ears.

ALEX
You realize Terry will film the whole thing and send it to HR the second it goes sideways.

Jordan stands. He walks to the nearest empty desk, straightens a peeling motivational poster that reads “TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK.” The tape is curling at the edges.

JORDAN
Then we make sure it doesn’t go sideways. We do it together or not at all.

Alex watches him. The bullpen stays empty. No phones ring yet. Just the low hum of fluorescents and the faint smell of stale coffee from yesterday’s pot.

ALEX
You’re serious.

Jordan nods once, slower now.

JORDAN
I’m tired of pretending the numbers are fine when they’re not.

Alex stands, shoulders the portfolio again. She heads toward her desk but pauses.

ALEX
Buy the tails on Amazon. I’m not sewing anything.

Jordan smiles for the first time. He tucks the headband back into the drawer, but leaves it cracked open an inch. The orange plastic ears peek out like a signal.

The elevator dings again in the distance. Footsteps echo from the lobby. Jordan straightens his shirt, half-tuck still crooked, and moves toward his monitor as the first early arrivals begin to filter in.

INT. SNARL & CO BULLPEN - DAY

Fluorescent lights hum over rows of mismatched desks. A dying ficus leans against the far wall. Beige carpet tiles show traffic-worn paths between stations. At 8:59 a.m., JORDAN HALE sits alone at his desk, staring at a bright orange fox-ear headband resting on his keyboard like it might bite.

The elevator dings. ALEX RIVERA steps out carrying a battered portfolio, black leather jacket creased at the elbows. She stops, scans the empty room, then Jordan.

ALEX
You wore the ears already?

Jordan’s hand shoots out. He sweeps the headband into the top drawer and shuts it.

JORDAN
Not yet. Just... testing the vibe.

The espresso machine behind the partition lets out a long, dying hiss, steam curling toward the ceiling tiles.

Alex drops the portfolio on the nearest desk. Its corners are taped. She watches the drawer a second longer than necessary.

ALEX
Morgan’s looking for last quarter’s numbers. You got anything that doesn’t sound like we’re circling the drain?

Jordan glances at the closed drawer, then at the half-dead succulents lined up on the windowsill. Their leaves curl brown at the tips. He rubs his thumb along the scuffed toe of his oxford.

JORDAN
What if we gave them something they actually wanted to watch?

Alex tilts her head. The tattoo on her wrist catches the light—a tiny fox silhouette inked in black.

ALEX
Like what, a PowerPoint that does tricks?

Jordan stands. The chair wheels squeak. He walks to the broken espresso machine and taps its side. Another weak hiss answers.

JORDAN
Something they’d actually open on a Friday. Instead of deleting.

Alex leans against the partition. The leather of her jacket creaks once.

ALEX
Nobody gets fired for looking ridiculous if the numbers move.

Jordan nods, slow. His eyes stay on the machine. The fluorescent tubes above them buzz louder for a moment, then settle back into their flat drone. The drawer with the headband stays shut.

INT. SNARL & CO BULLPEN - DAY

Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead. Beige carpet tiles curl at the edges under rows of mismatched desks. A single working printer spits out jammed pages in the corner. The dying ficus leans against a motivational poster that reads "TEAMWORK" in cracked laminate.

Jordan Hale stands at his desk, the orange fox-ear headband half-hidden in the open drawer. Alex Rivera drops her battered portfolio on the neighboring chair and watches him.

JORDAN
Last quarter's numbers are a funeral slide deck. Clients tune out before the second pie chart.

ALEX
Morgan already knows we're circling the drain. You got a magic bullet?

Jordan closes the drawer. He taps the keyboard, pulling up the revenue spreadsheet on his monitor.

JORDAN
What if the numbers weren't the point? What if we gave them something they actually wanted to watch?

Alex raises one eyebrow, the fox tattoo on her wrist flashing as she crosses her arms.

JORDAN (CONT'D)
Casual Friday, but turned up. Fox tails. Ears. Little pranks during the pitches. Make the whole office look like it knows how to have fun again.

The espresso machine behind them releases a wet, dying hiss. Alex glances at it, then back at Jordan.

ALEX
Nobody gets fired for looking ridiculous if the numbers move.

Jordan's fingers still on the keyboard. He studies her face for the sarcasm that usually follows.

JORDAN
You'd wear the ears?

ALEX
I'd wear the ears if it keeps the lights on. You send that email, though, and there's no walking it back.

Jordan looks at the empty bullpen stretching behind them. The green shadows from the fluorescents make every desk look abandoned already.

JORDAN
Then we don't walk it back. We send it together.

Alex nods once, short. She pulls her leather jacket tighter and turns toward the supply closet without another word. Jordan's hand hovers over the send button on the draft email titled "Foxy Friday Proposal."

INT. SNARL & CO BULLPEN - DAY

Rows of mismatched desks crowd the open-plan floor, each one a different shade of corporate beige under harsh fluorescent lights that cast green shadows across the carpet tiles. A dying ficus droops in the corner, its leaves curled and brown at the edges. Peeling motivational posters cling to the walls, one reading “TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK” with the bottom half torn away.

Jordan Hale stands at the entrance, rumpled button-down half-tucked, scuffed oxfords planted on the tile. He scans the empty bullpen, eyes darting from the half-dead succulents on the nearest desk to the broken espres

… (sign in to read + edit the full draft)