Odie's Rigatoni

As Dook stirs a pot of rigatoni, Odie slinks unexpectedly through a sealed window, stepping into the kitchen like he belongs there. Just then, a real mushroom on the fridge begins to glow and pulse with shifting colors. The room erupts into a surreal disco rave—RGB lights flash wildly, beatboxing fruit bowls join in, and Flops appears in massive retro bell-bottoms mid-groove. Dook, now in shutter shades, serves the rigatoni with ceremonial flair. Odie, bewildered but strangely compliant, eats in silence. When he finishes, everything vanishes. The lights are out. The music is gone. The mushroom is just a photo. Dook and Flops act like this happens every Tuesday.

Interior Kitchen - Day

The kitchen is an odd mix of chaos and cozy. Dook, wearing an apron that says “PASTA LA VISTA,” is stirring a bubbling pot of rigatoni with a long wooden spoon. There's flour on the counter, a basil plant in a teacup, and a single mushroom inexplicably taped to the fridge.

Dook (humming an eerie waltz): "Mmm... cylindrical joy tubes... you are almost transcendent."

The stove ticks. Dook stares deep into the pot like it’s a portal. Suddenly, without warning, the back window creaks open — despite the fact it's sealed shut. A gust of desert wind blows in, scattering basil leaves like confetti. Odie Yotie slinks in, perfectly composed, holding a briefcase and wearing sunglasses indoors.

Odie (smirking): "Smells like legal ambiguity... or is that just undercooked semolina?"

Dook (without turning around): "Odie. You appear as the rigatoni reaches critical softness."

Odie (taking off his glasses dramatically): "Coincidence? Or... destiny al dente?"

Dook pulls a rigatoni from the pot, examines it, and offers it to Odie on the tip of his spoon.

Dook (whispers): "Taste. And tell me what the void says."

Odie (chews, then nods solemnly): "It says... 'You forgot the salt.' Also, I may or may not be here to renegotiate your lease on behalf of a mushroom cooperative."

Dook (looking at the fridge): "I knew Gregory was getting litigious."

The taped mushroom wiggles slightly.

Interior Kitchen - Continuous

The mushroom on the fridge twitches again. Odie eyes it with disdain.

Odie (pointing his pen at it): "That thing’s been filing subpoenas with fungal ink. I’ve never seen mold work this fast outside of artisanal cheese court."

Dook (gently patting the pot): "He only gets upset when someone breaches the Spores of Agreement. Did you step on his cousin in the driveway again?"

Odie (shrugs): "Hard to tell. They all look like damp punctuation marks."

Dook turns off the heat and begins plating the rigatoni with uncharacteristic grace, like a monk doing calligraphy.

Dook: "Then sit. Eat. We negotiate with noodles, not threats."

Odie (raising an eyebrow): "This wouldn’t be the first time I signed a binding contract in marinara."

Odie sits. Dook places the plate in front of him, adds a single basil leaf, then pulls out a scroll made of lasagna sheets. The ink glistens—it smells like oregano.

Dook (sliding the scroll across the table): "Article One: Gregory retains fridge surface real estate, but forfeits access to the freezer."

Odie: "Mmm. Risky. That’s where he keeps his lawyer spores."

Dook: "Article Two: You stop using my window as an interdimensional access point unless you announce yourself with a pasta pun."

Odie: "I can’t keep giving you free material, Dook. I’m not a writer, I’m a legal shape."

Suddenly, Flops bursts into the kitchen, wearing swim goggles and holding a half-frozen eggplant.

Flops (alarmed): "Why is the fridge humming in C minor?! And who left existential paperwork on my chair!?"

He slips on a basil leaf and vanishes behind the counter with a *thump.*

Odie (to Dook, mouth full of rigatoni): "You know, I come here expecting nonsense, but this—this is structured nonsense. I respect that."

Dook (smiling as he ladles sauce like he’s pouring a red moon): "All good dreams have clauses, Odie."

The mushroom on the fridge starts glowing faintly. Something is being summoned.

Interior Kitchen - The Lights go out

Suddenly — *CLICK*. The lights cut out. Total darkness.

Flops (from somewhere on the floor): "Okay. That’s not me this time."

A low, rhythmic pulsing starts to emerge from the fridge. The mushroom taped to the door is glowing — but not like before. It shifts colors in a hypnotic, seizure-risk spectrum: rave mode activated. Red. Blue. Green. Purple. Back to red. It pulses in time to an invisible beat that somehow feels like it has opinions.

Odie (adjusting his tie nervously): "Why is your mushroom... partying?"

Dook (calmly flipping a switch hidden behind a cereal box labeled “Breakfast of Etherlords”): "Protocol RGB-Delta-Funk. Activating now."

Instantly, every LED strip Flops ever installed — and forgot about — lights up. Undercabinet. Floor trim. Inside the toaster. The sink. They all explode into swirling colors. The microwave flashes “12:00” but in rainbow.

A deep synth baseline hits. Dook pulls out a little remote and hits “Play.” Music erupts: a funky, retro-disco beat with just enough delay to make time feel optional.

Flops (popping up in slow motion wearing massive 1970s bell-bottom pants with a shimmering shirt unbuttoned way too far): "I KNEW this day would come!"

Odie (blinking rapidly as his briefcase vibrates): "Is this... legal?"

Dook (now wearing striped shutter shades and a neon tank top that says “REALITY IS OPTIONAL”): "Only in three states and one alternate dimension. You're technically under dreamland jurisdiction now."

The mushroom begins bouncing in sync with the beat, releasing tiny spores that trail behind like glitter confetti. A smaller mushroom grows rapidly from a fruit bowl and starts beatboxing.

Flops (sliding across the floor): "You’re gonna wanna duck, Odie! There’s usually a fog machine!"

Sure enough, a vent in the wall hisses and releases low fog, coating the floor in a swirling mist that smells faintly of thyme and unresolved emotions. Odie slowly pulls a folded contract from his coat and fans the fog, squinting suspiciously.

Odie: "If I wake up tomorrow with glitter in my legal briefs again, I’m suing the basil plant."

The basil plant flutters. It knows.

Dook (dancing while pouring rigatoni onto everyone’s plates with flair): "Tonight, we dine... at the disco of destiny."

The mushroom on the fridge winks — a tiny eyelid forms and closes briefly — and then it spins like a disco ball, scattering spores like mirrored reflections.

Flops: "Wait... is Gregory DJ’ing now?"

Dook: "He’s always been the DJ. We just had to listen."

Odie finally removes his tie, sighs, and cautiously takes a bite of rigatoni. The music shifts into an Italo-disco remix of 'Fur Elise.' He doesn’t hate it.

Interior Kitchen - Moments Later

The final beat echoes, the lights flicker—then all at once, everything cuts out. Silence. Darkness. A faint electrical hum fades into nothing.

Odie blinks. The house is pitch black, save for the soft amber glow of the stove clock blinking “--:--.” No music. No LEDs. No fog. No mushroom disco. The mushroom on the fridge is just... a photograph. Laminated. Scotch-taped. Innocent.

Odie (looking down at his empty plate): "...Did I eat rigatoni in a rave hosted by a fungus, or have I finally snapped?"

He glances around. Dook stands calmly at the stove, now in his normal apron, humming quietly. Flops is seated cross-legged on the counter, munching on a raw bell pepper in his giant bell-bottoms, as if nothing happened.

Odie: "The lights went out. There were... spores. There was a beatboxing fruit bowl."

Dook (without looking up): "Mmm. Tuesdays."

Flops (mouth full): "Technically it’s a prelude to the midweek mushroom veil. But yeah, pretty standard."

Odie (rubbing his forehead): "You taped a picture of a mushroom to the fridge."

Dook: "Of course. Gregory doesn’t like being perceived in 3D outside of rave-law jurisdiction."

Odie: "Right. And you both—you both—just accepted that?"

Flops (cheerfully): "You're lucky it wasn't cactus night. Those get pointy."

Odie picks up his briefcase. He looks at it like it might start dancing again. It doesn't. He slowly makes for the door.

Odie (softly to himself): "I need to find a courtroom. Or a nap. Maybe both."

He opens the door and pauses.

Odie: "If the picture starts DJ’ing again, I am invoking statute 47-B."

Dook (raising a spoon in solemn acknowledgement): "Only if you can prove it was sentient and charging cover."

Odie leaves, closing the door gently behind him. Outside, a lone crumpled basil leaf flutters across the porch in the wind. Inside, silence returns.

Flops (swinging his legs lazily): "You think he’ll come back for squash night?"

Dook: "He will. He left his aura behind. It’s in the sugar bowl."

They both glance at the sugar bowl. It rattles slightly. Fade to black