The Yacht Club Alibi

A flickering “OUT OF ORDER” sign buzzes like a bug zapper. Maps, stolen HOA flyers, and a police BADGE in a sock drawer.

COLE MERCER paces, still trying to look like a detective while standing in a kiddie pool full of “EVIDENCE” (random junk).

JUNO REYES kneels over a plastic bin labeled: TRASH IS JUST CLUES WITH BAD PR.

Okay, Detective Sad Dad—today’s lead smells like shrimp and embezzlement.

She holds up a glossy YACHT CLUB BROCHURE. On the back: a tiny printed schedule.

“Private refuse collection—discreet route.” That’s not a brochure, that’s a confession.

It’s an alibi. Rich people don’t throw away trash. They outsource shame.

Cole grabs it—then winces as his hand sticks to dried detergent.

Why is everything… moist here?

Atmosphere.

From the corner, a portable police scanner CRACKLES. DETECTIVE DANA HOLT’S voice bleeds through, mid-chase.

HOLT (V.O.)

Units be advised—Mercer possibly with juveniles. Possibly armed with… maps?

Cole freezes.

She’s getting closer.

Then we get faster.

Juno whips out a hand-drawn MAP. A skull icon sits over a little marina doodle.

JUNO (CONT'D)

Yacht club dumpster. Midnight. We dive, we find, we vanish.

Cole looks at the map—then at his badge in the sock drawer.

I used to have warrants.

Now you have cardio.

She slaps a bike helmet onto his head. It says “WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD.”

Moonlight on million-dollar boats. A discreet TRASH TRUCK hums, idling like it’s paid to be quiet.

Juno and Cole crouch behind manicured hedges. Juno wears night-vision goggles that are clearly broken sunglasses.

Rule one: don’t touch anything wet.

Rule two?

There is no rule two. Rule one covers everything.

They creep to a row of pristine DUMPSTERS with fancy stenciling: “HARBOR HOUSE REFUSE.”

Cole flips a lid. Inside: black bags tied like tuxedos.

This is the cleanest crime scene I’ve ever—

A BAG POPS. Glittery shredded paper explodes out like party confetti.

Receipts confetti. Somebody’s nervous.

They dig. Juno pulls out a wad of SHREDDED STRIPS—prints of a receipt with a logo: VALE CHARITABLE FOUNDATION. A partial line: “DROP—SLIP 12—YACHT CLUB—”

Maris Vale.

Told you. Rich people donate. Then they *annotate.*

Cole tries to piece strips together on the dumpster lid like a puzzle. A gust of wind WHOOSHES—

The strips lift, fluttering away like startled moths.

No— NO—!

Cole lunges, half his body falling into the dumpster.

Rule one!

Cole’s feet kick in the air. Juno grabs his ankles, yanks—Cole pops out holding ONE crucial strip between two fingers like it’s a cigarette.

“Slip 12.” That’s a marina berth number.

That’s a location. That’s a—

A slow CLAP echoes.

From the shadows emerge the rival scavenger gang: THE CURB KINGS—teen gremlins in matching reflective vests. Their leader, REX, smirks.

Aw. The Laundry Kids found paper. Want a gold star or a compost bin?

Juno squares up.

Rex. Didn’t your mom ban you from dumpsters after “The Syrup Incident”?

Didn’t your dad ban you from… oh right.

Cole steps forward, defensive.

Back off. This is an active—

Rex flicks the dumpster lid down—WHACK—pinching Cole’s fingers.

COLE (CONT'D)

Ow! Active *ow!* investigation!

Rex snatches the handful of shredded receipts from Juno’s bin.

Finders keepers. Losers get… prosecuted?

He tosses the paper into a SHOPPING CART like a trophy.

Oh, you want a chase?

We want a *humiliation.*

Rex kicks the cart—IT ROLLS FAST—down the service road. The Curb Kings jump on like it’s a parade float.

Juno grabs a second cart, shoves Cole toward it.

Get in.

I’m not getting in a—

Juno shoves him. Cole lands in the cart, knees to chin.

COLE (CONT'D)

—cart.

Juno sprints, pushing. They rocket after the Curb Kings, wheels RATTLING.

Two carts scream into a narrow alley. Trash bins line the sides like spectators.

The Curb Kings’ cart hits a bump—LAUNCHES—lands, barely holds.

Cole grips the cart’s sides, eyes wide.

This is not how police chases work!

It’s how *we* chase! Lean left!

Cole leans right. The cart CLIPS a bin—BANANAS and foam takeout explode.

They close in. Rex looks back, panics, throws a bag of CRUSHED ICE from the cart—

It bursts under Juno’s feet. Juno skids, still pushing, like a hockey player with a death wish.

JUNO (CONT'D)

Cute!

She snatches a dangling POOL NOODLE from a bin (who throws that away?) and JABS it forward.

The noodle WHAPS Rex in the back of the head. He flails.

Ow! That’s assault with— with *foam!*

Cole reaches out from his cart like a desperate claw machine, snags the cart of shredded receipts—

The carts TANGLE. METAL SCREAMS. Both carts spin—

They crash into a pile of recycling with a CLATTERING SYMPHONY.

Silence.

Cole sits up amid a cascade of cans, holding the shredded receipt wad like a newborn.

Juno pops up, victorious, hair full of glitter.

Thank you for shopping at “Regret.”

Rex groans, pinned under a blue bin.

You’re psycho.

We have Slip 12. We have Vale. We have—

A SIREN WAILS nearby. A flashlight beam sweeps the alley mouth.

HOLT (O.S.)

Police! Show me your hands!

Cole and Juno lock eyes.

Rule one?

Don’t touch anything wet.

Juno points down. Cole’s elbow is sunk into something dark and shiny leaking from a bag.

COLE (CONT'D)

…Oh no.

Run.

They grab the shredded receipts and BOLT—leaving the carts, the rival gang, and a very confused pile of recycling behind—

As Holt’s beam swings in and catches only the glitter drifting in the air like a mocking snowfall.

TITLE CARD: BADGE LAUNDERERS