Microwave Court

Cramped. A humming MICROWAVE. A wobbly table. A “SEATING CONSTITUTION” taped to the wall like sacred law.

JOLENE RUSK storms in, holding a DUSTY, VELVET-WRAPPED OBJECT from donations.

Okay. Nobody touch it. It came in with the cursed lamps.

MIGS HALPRIN leans over, thrilled.

If it’s velvet, it’s either cursed or romantic.

GRANT PELLIK sits with a clipboard, like he’s taking notes for a nonexistent podcast.

We don’t have “cursed lamps.” We have lamps with… personality.

YVETTE MORROW, cool as ice, peels a sticker off her iced coffee.

If it’s from donations, it’s either haunted or sticky. Either way, wash your hands.

Jolene unwraps it: a SMALL BRASS HAND BELL with ornate etching. It looks important and wrong.

The room quiets. Even the microwave seems to listen.

Oh. That’s a service bell.

No. That’s a “summon consequences” bell.

Or—hear me out—it’s a bell.

JOLENE sets it in the center like a centerpiece at a funeral.

JOLENE (CONT’D)

Breakroom superstition protocol: donated object appears with unexplained significance, we establish its rules.

We do not have that protocol.

We do now. I’m interim folklore.

Migs reaches a finger toward it. Jolene SLAPS his hand away with a napkin.

Ow. The bell likes violence.

Let’s be adults. We’ll test it. Scientific method.

The scientific method is how you end up drinking expired oat milk “for data.”

Grant clears his throat, nods like he’s been accused before.

One controlled ring. If nothing happens, Jolene has to stop saying “cursed” and start saying “pre-owned.”

And if something happens—

—Grant has to wear the birthday hat on the floor for a whole shift.

I hate that I’m invested. Fine. Wager: if something happens, I get first pick of next week’s schedule swaps.

Grant flinches.

That’s… that’s not a superstition wager, that’s extortion.

Call it what you want. Ring the bell or admit you’re scared of brass.

Grant squares up to the bell. The doc crew’s CAMERA briefly catches a quick zoom, like this matters.

Grant lifts it delicately, gives it ONE TINY DING.

Beat.

Nothing.

Then, from the SALES FLOOR—through the breakroom door—a distant, unmistakable CHANT begins.

CUSTOMERS (O.S.)

Manager! Manager! Manager!

Everyone freezes.

Jolene’s eyes widen like she’s watching a horror movie but it’s payroll.

It heard you.

That’s the Summon Consequences frequency.

No. That’s the Summon Understaffed frequency.

Coincidence. Pure coincidence.

The bell, still in Grant’s hand, SHAKES slightly as the door handle JIGGLES from the outside.

STORE INTERCOM (V.O.)

Attention team: unexpected bus group. Repeat—unexpected bus group. All available associates to the floor.

Grant slowly sets the bell down like it might bite.

Microwave Court is now in session.

This is not—

Order! The court finds Grant guilty of ringing the bell during “No Summoning” hours.

What are the hours?

All of them!

Yvette grabs her apron, already heading out.

Verdict: we’re all guilty of being employed. Move.

She opens the breakroom door. The sound of a MOB pours in—shopping carts, complaints, chaos.

Grant, panicking, snatches the bell again.

Okay. Okay—if it summoned them, maybe it can unsummon them.

Don’t you dare—

Grant RINGS it faster. DING-DING-DING.

Immediately: the INTERCOM SQUEALS. A horrible feedback shriek.

STORE INTERCOM (V.O.)

—ALL AVAILABLE—(SQUEAL)—ALL AVAILABLE—(SQUEAL)—

Migs claps hands over his ears.

You made it angrier!

JOLENE lunges, yanks the bell away, and SHOVES it into the MICROWAVE like it’s a containment unit.

Time-out. Thirty seconds. Think about what you did.

Jolene. That’s metal.

It’s brass! Brass is… emotionally microwave-safe.

Grant slaps the microwave button: START.

The microwave HUMS. The bell sits inside like a tiny judge.

They all stare. The humming grows.

On the floor outside: the chant becomes PANICKED.

CUSTOMERS (O.S.)

Where’s the manager?!

The microwave suddenly POPS—a bright SPARK. The lights flicker.

Migs whispers, reverent.

We’re being audited by God.

The microwave DIES. Silence.

Then—ding.

The microwave door swings open on its own.

The bell is gone.

The crew stares into the empty microwave like it’s a missing person case.

Jolene slowly turns to Grant.

Congratulations. You cleared it. It’s… clearance.

Yvette points at the open breakroom door.

The bus group is still here.

Grant, terrified, looks from the empty microwave to the chaos beyond.

So… the bell… left.

It got promoted.

Jolene grabs the “SEATING CONSTITUTION” off the wall, rolls it up like a baton.

New rule: no one rings anything in this room ever again.

What about the timer?

Especially the timer.

They charge out into the noise.

Grant sits alone, sweaty, eyes wide. The doc camera is close.

I don’t believe in curses. I believe in… patterns. And the pattern is: every time I try to be right, retail punishes me.

Beat.

GRANT (CONT’D)

Also, I’m pretty sure the bell is on the floor now, ringing itself.

He listens. From far away—faintly—DING… DING… DING…

Grant’s face drops.

GRANT (CONT’D)

Okay. I believe a little.