Iggy

From the barn, a cloud of steam bursts out the entrance. Children sitting down, invested in the story of that one kid on the pedestal.

His name is Iggy. 

"And BANG! With my shotgun in my hand, I stepped on their gunshot wound and relished in their pain!"

Steam came out from his toy shotgun's barrel. He blows.

"That's what you get for messing with my people."

Stars in the eyes of the children. Vegetables with faces listening attentively. There's a clear investment in their hearts, tickling their creative minds, but then comes someone shouting from the outside.

"IGGY!" Rhonda blurts out, holding a box of vegetables.

"Don't you dare talk about them stories to them kids, I tell ya." She grumpily tells Iggy.

"What's wrong with a little imagination, Rhonda? The vegetables seem to like it!" He cheerfully replies.

"How the heck are your stories supposed to help out with this drought, huh? Oh, king of stories, let it rain! Praise the storytellers, Hallelujah!" A salty, yet sarcastic response from Rhonda.

Iggy's face is a tad bit broken.

"Stop blabbering crap, will ya?" Rhonda adds.

"I just wanna keep their hopes up. That's all..." He replies.

"...Sicko." Rhonda says. "Come on, kids. Crops! Now."

The children groan as they walk away from Iggy. However, three of the kids walk to him. One of them is Yip, holding a crumpled piece of paper in her hands.

"...I like your story."

Such words from Yip made Iggy smile. She gives Iggy the crumpled paper and walks away. He opens the paper and sees a childish drawing of him with a shotgun defeating stick figures.

Later, Iggy is seen walking in the streets. Farmers from behind working under the heat of the 8 o'clock sun.

He talks to his half-empty corn cob in his hand.

"Corn, is there something wrong with my stories?"

"Personally, there's nothing wrong with your stories. Perhaps the age of the children~"

The cob gets swallowed.

"Guess you're right." Iggy interrupts. He licks his lips.

"Guns don't really work well with kids."

Iggy looks at his workshop from afar. Hand snap.

"Welp, Story time's over! Time to finish that script I'm making!"

Later on...

Vegetables on the table.

Fountain pens on the side.

Papers on the typewriter are set.

A candle lit for daylight.

The typewriter rings.

With a single press, the typewriter makes a sound.

---

INT. RABBIT CAVE - DAY

The scent of lilies flows across the room. Silence from HOP, tears flowing from his eyes.

HOP

Everybody's dead.

An off-tuned piano chord plays.

HOP

And I did nothing to help them.

(Laughs in grief)

What a fool I've become.

All HOP did was look, like he always does, Helplessly sobbing beside the corpses of his friends.

EXT. RABBIT CAVE - DAY

...sobbing in the middle of a thousand dead rabbits outside the cave.

---

"Done!" Iggy says, his fist touching his mouth.

He looks at a half-eaten bell pepper.

"...Do you think I made it too emotional?"

The bell pepper shrugs. Iggy grabs it and eats it.

"Hmm. At least the start is pretty wholesome..."

He binds all the pages and goes outside, riding a floating wheelbarrow. He crusades his work around town.

"HEY! EVERYONE! MY STORY IS DONE!" He screams to everyone in the town center...

Although, no one seems to be listening.

"IT'S ABOUT A HELPLESS RABBIT AND HIS FRIENDS BEING KILLED ONE BY ONE!"

The broken faces of many amuse Iggy positively.

"What? Ya'll hate my comedy stories, so why not try a different approach, right? Promise, You'll like~"

"SHUT UP!" An old man screams at the top of his lungs.

A frightened Iggy greets the townsfolk.

"WE ARE TIRED OF HEARING YOU CHARADING ABOUT YOUR STUPID, GODDAMN, STORIES, WHEN WE'RE HERE, SUFFERING FROM A THREE-YEAR DROUGHT TRYING TO FIGURE SOMETHING OUT~"

"What does it have to do with my stories?" Iggy replies as he grins.

"What we're trying to say is that we're tired of getting bombarded by worthless crap coming out of your stupid mouth."

"I was just trying to cheer you guys up~"

The old man grabs Iggy by the neck.

"Tell me, kid. How is your story supposed to save the lives of every kid in this town, I tell you?"

Silence from Iggy.

"Told you so."

The old man drops Iggy. The townsfolk are laughing at him.

"Are your tomatoes ready for harvest?" The old man asks Iggy.

"...They should be ready tomorrow." Iggy struggles to reply.

"Priorities, son." The old man says as he walks away from Iggy.

Iggy glosses through the pages of his script, feeling disappointed.

Minutes later, Iggy is in a dead treehouse alongside a few kids and an adult. It's a humble super secret story club.

Browsing through the pages, the man reads the final page and closes it.

"...Aside from the occasional mentioning of camera angles, this is really good." The man nods in approval.

His name is Writer.

"Kids, always remember that tragedy makes for an emotionally compelling story. Your senior's got a pretty good grasp of it." Writer tells the children in the treehouse.

"At least your guys appreciate it." Iggy smiles, scratching his head.

Writer pats Iggy on the head.

"You've been carrying this club for years, kid. These younglings are inspired because of you." Writer says.

"You're these kids' heroes. Remember that."

Stars in Iggy's eyes.

"Okay! I'll see you guys again tomorrow!" Writer tells everyone in the treehouse.

"It's gonna be a big afternoon today... Oh boy." A big sigh from his mouth.

On a bench, a few moments later...

"You know, this farming life, I'm starting to get the hang out of it." Writer tells Iggy, smiling.

"Yeah, the first time you moved here, your crops died within two weeks." Iggy laughingly replies.

"Haha, Say, Iggy, do you know exactly why I moved here?"

"...To teach kids how to tell stories?"

"...So, so. But the real reason is..."

Iggy tilts his head a bit.

"I want to entertain the people here, you know, unlock their creative minds?" Writer says.

"It saves people's lives." He adds.

"Heh, it does in some way... At least you succeeded with us kids!" Iggy replies, giggling.

"Yeah... At least..." Speckles of worry scatter through Writer's face.

Iggy stands up from the bench.

"Anyway, I'll see ya!" Iggy tells Writer, walking away from his humble farm.

Many minutes later, Iggy arrives back home.

From his workshop, a cloud of smoke smears the entrance.

Iggy squints his eyes...

"Is that... Fire in my workshop?"

Iggy rushes to the entrance of the workshop...

There is no fire.

However, among the haystacks, a foreign entity graces Iggy's eyes.

...A giant pickle.