The Trumayne Show
A sliver of moonlight illuminates the dark bedroom. There’s baby-making music playing in the background.
FEMALE VOICE
(gasping)
Oh my god! It’s so big!
A male voice nearby chuckles confidently.
MALE VOICE
Uh ha. Well, of course it is.
The man had just taken his head scarf off and we see his bulbous, glowing, bald head directly in the path of the moonlight. We watch closely as his abnormally giant cranium pulses in conjunction with the 808s coming out of the stereo system. She can’t take her eyes off the source of his power.
He begins taking off the rest of his clothes.
THE WOMAN
Oh wow! And your dick is a pretty nice size, too.
THE MAN
Wow. Thank you. I actually really appreciate that.
THE WOMAN
(admiring)
It’s just like—look at you. Look at that head of yours. I’m just—you’re so handsome… I just don’t know what to—
He presses his finger to her lips.
THE MAN
Hush.
He takes that same finger and slides off the strap on her left shoulder.
THE MAN (continued)
Now come here, girl.
The next morning the man in question wakes up with a smile on his face. This is TRUMAYNE WATTS, our protagonist. Blinking his eyes open, he turns over to look at the woman sleeping in his bed. She’s fast asleep. With his eyes finally adjusted to the morning light, he looks up and on the ceiling is a taped 24-by-36 inch poster of Soulja Boy, staring back at him.
TRUMAYNE
(saluting)
Yes, sir. You already know.
Immediately, he hops out of the bed and darts for the bathroom to start his morning routine.
Inside the bathroom. The sink is lined with all kinds of products, but they’re neatly organized from smallest to largest in terms of bottle size. He hums a tune as he brushes his teeth in strong, vigorous strokes until he has to gargle and spit.
Then, in a near-single fluid motion, he sweeps through his entire skincare routine with utter precision, plucking bottles and returning them to formation. He splashes ointment dollops onto his palm in perfectly proportioned amounts, and covers his skin with different substances until his face bears a dense, natural glitter. He takes one look in the mirror at himself and smiles.
TRUMAYNE
(saluting again)
Yessir. You already know.
Lastly, he moves to an abnormally wide tub at the end of the line of bottles. He spins open the top and scoops out a creamy lavender-colored gunk, working it between his hands. He smacks the substance onto his viciously oversized bald head (no fr, its like 3x times the size of a normal bald headed nigga), sculpting it like icing on top of a cupcake, and then massages it through until it’s absorbed by his lush, glowing scalp. Another look in mirror.
TRUMAYNE
(flexing this time)
Yessir! You already know!!!
He then brushes through his luscious beard, takes one last look in the mirror, smiles, and heads out.
Outside of a large, industrial sports facility. Trumayne pulls up in a small, efficient electric vehicle. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he spins them around his finger—via the keyring—5 times before exiting, counting each spin.
TRUMAYNE
1… 2… 3… 4… 5.
Trumayne hops out, there’s a real pep in his step.
We’re inside a large auditorium that seats about 15,000. Right now, there’s only a few people in it. Trumayne sits down in a row of empty spectator seats, right next to Hecky Nawlings, the star player for one of the best teams in the biggest American sports league and one of the most famous men on the planet. Hecky is sitting courtside at a private players’ practice, as its the morning before a big game.
Trumayne thrusts his microphone into Hecky’s face, to which Hecky doesn’t much flinch.
TRUMAYNE
So, Hecky, how do you do it?
HECKY
Well, you know. I just stay in my lane. Trust the work. It’s all about the work, for me. I think about everything I’ve been through, all the repetition and… hard work, which centers me to my purpose in between those lines and I just, well… I just play.
TRUMAYNE
Mmmmm, beautiful. And for the fans who hear that and go ‘That guy is just like me.’ You know, the ones that look to you for motivation. What do you have to say to them?
HECKY
Keep at it. Whatever you’re doing. Just stay focused, and keep at it. Keep going. That’s life.
TRUMAYNE
Spoken like a true champ. Thanks so much for doing this, Hecky.
HECKY
As always, my friend.
Before leaving, Hecky gives him a hearty fist-bump and then rubs the top of our journalist’s head. On this contact, the large head glows with warmth and then it pulses to the same pattern as the Grindin’ beat. Smiling, Trumayne gets up and moves to a nearby table and begins typing away frantically into his laptop, transcribing what he learned from Hecky’s interview for immediate publication.
BRRRRRMMMMP!
The sound of a buzzer. A close up on a scoreboard and it says:
WE WIN!
The same sports facility from before is now filled to the brim with extras—I mean, people. We’re at capacity. Trumayne hurries from his courtside media seat past a crowd of people into the tunnel.
We’re inside the post-game press conference room, where most of the packed room is waiting for Hecky’s arrival.
Hecky, fresh from an amazing performance and a clutch team win, enters the room, stretching his legs comfortably at the podium. From the podium’s point of view, we see a hand feverishly waving above a big ass bald head, hoping to catch more attention than the other esteemed journalists in the room.
PODIUM MANAGER
You, sir, with the extremely large head.
TRUMAYNE
Hecky, it’s me again…
HECKY
My guy! Long time, no see.
TRUMAYNE
Haha! Good one. Hecky, before the game, you said something along the lines of ‘Just doing my thing and staying in my lane.’ I thought that was the key to tonight’s win. But frankly… I’ve been covering you for what feels like my whole career and your message has hardly changed much. Is this still a good way to describe your feelings about your performance, even after all these years?
HECKY
Why, of course, yes it is. And thanks for that question.
TRUMAYNE
Do you have any more to add?
HECKY
Well, yeah. I would say I just try to keep at it, every single day, and take what the defense gives me out there. I trust the hard work, and I just go out there and leave it all on the floor.
TRUMAYNE
Mm-mmmm-mm! Well said! Another bar!
HECKY
Haha, my man.
TRUMAYNE
Thank you, Hecky.
HECKY
Anytime, brotha.
We’re outside the sports facility and it’s dark. The parking lot is pretty empty. Trumayne takes his car keys out of his pocket, unlocks the door and gets in. Before doing anything else, he spins the keyring around his finger and begins counting.
TRUMAYNE
1… 2… 3… 4… 5.
Trumayne puts the key into the ignition while humming the same tune he hummed brushing his teeth that morning. He drives off from the facility as the moon rises higher into the night sky.
Outside Truymayne’s house. He’s pulling into the driveway, but he notices something off.
TRUMAYNE
Wait, that’s weird.
One of the bulbs on the lighted-path to Trumayne’s front door is flickering on and off. He turns the car off and gets out to check it out. Before he gets a few paces...
TRUMAYNE
Fuck!
He quickly runs back in the car, sits down in the driver’s seat and frantically spins the keyring 5 times.
TRUMAYNE
1! 2! 3! 4! 5!
Trumayne’s breath shortens, his adrenaline rises and we see his head vibrating. He closes his eyes tight and waits for the ringing sensation to subside. After a few moments, he takes a deep breath, gathers his belongings and scurries into the house.
Inside the house.
TRUMAYNE
Honey! I’m here.
A distant female voice registers his arrival:
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Okay! How was your day?
Trumayne takes the time to remove his shoes and put his things down in their designated spots by the front door.
TRUMAYNE
You already know! Another one for the books, what can I say? Hecky was phenomenal today.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Oh, of course. Isn’t he great every day?
The voice is coming from upstairs, it seems.
TRUMAYNE
You can say that again!
After shedding all his work things, Trumayne reaches for a large head scarf on a nearby hanger and wraps it around his enormous scalp, covering every inch of it comfortably.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Were you able to get something to eat on your way home, baby?
TRUMAYNE
Yeah, they had food in the media room I was able to get my hands on!
There’s a slight pause in conversation.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Well. Whenever you’re ready, sweetie, I’m up here!
We’re at the top of the stairs now, watching Trumayne enthusiastically walk up them. We can hear a soulful tune floating through the cracked door to his bedroom as he approaches.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
There you are. Are you ready?
TRUYMAYNE
Oh, you know it.
Trumayne flings the bedroom door open, and a curvy silhouette is sitting on the edge of the bed. Her shape is only legible courtesy of the moonlight backlighting her.
THE WOMAN
Welcome home, hubby.
He walks over to her, and stands above her. Even in the flat darkness, he could tell she was giving him the most seductive of eyes.
TRUMAYNE
You already know… wifey.
Trumayne proceeds to take off his head scarf.
THE WOMAN
Oh my god! It’s so big!
Trumayne chuckles confidently.
TRUMAYNE
Uh ha. Well, of course it is.
His bulbous, glowing, bald head catches the moonlight coming in through the window. The baby-making music playing in the background causes the abnormally giant cranium to pulse in conjunction with the 808s coming out of the stereo system.
The woman—his wife of 9 years, DONNA WATTS—can’t take her eyes off the source of his power. And just like that, they get right into their nightly ritual. Trumayne begins taking off the rest of his clothes.
DONNA
Oh wow! And your dick is a pretty nice size, too.
TRUMAYNE
Wow. Thank you. I actually really appreciate that.
DONNA
It’s just like, look at you. Look at that head of yours. I’m just—you’re so handsome… I just don’t know what to—
Trumayne presses his finger to her lips.
TRUMAYNE
Hush.
He takes that same finger and slides off the strap on her left shoulder.
TRUMAYNE
Now come here, girl!
He throws his wife back onto the bed and they proceed to make love, holding each other tight as they stare directly into each other’s eyes. It’s on.
DONNA
Fuck me harder!
Trumayne grunts.
DONNA (continued)
Look at you with this big ass fucking head!
Trumayne grunts again, but deeper this time.
DONNA (continued)
(looking deep into his eyes)
You fuckin me, ain’t you?
TRUMAYNE
Damn right, baby. Now look at my shit!
DONNA
Oooh! Yeah??
Donna’s eyes darts upward.
TRUMAYNE
Don’t take yo eyes off my shit! You hear me?
DONNA
Hell no I won’t!
Donna is screaming, her eyes fixated on his endless scalp.
TRUMAYNE
Matter fact, hold my shit while you ride this shit!
Donna digs her grip into the firm flesh of his gigantic head, palming it with two hands like a basketball. And off that action, it warms and glows with sensation.
DONNA
Fuck yeah, I’m holding this big ass head of yours while you fuckin me like this!
TRUMAYNE
Now lick it!
DONNA
Lick this shit??
TRUMAYNE
Yeah, lick it!
Donna licks it.
Trumayne lets off a deep, deep LOUD spiritual grunt.
It goes on like this for ~2 more minutes, before Trumayne finishes and they fall into each other’s arms, exhausted.
MOMENTS LATER
Deep, deep breaths fill the air. The married couple, post-event, settles into their respective sides of the bed, ready to fall asleep.
POV: As Trumayne drifts off, his eyes gradually close. But just as they almost fully shut, we notice a dark figure moving around in the room.
Trumayne jolts himself awake. It’s Donna, almost out the door.
TRUMAYNE
What are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?
DONNA
I’m just feeling a little restless, I’m gonna go downstairs and watch some TV.
TRUMAYNE
Wait, what do you mean? After—you know, the thing—we usually fall asleep here until morning.
DONNA
Yeah, yeah I know sweetie. But, tonight I wanted to try something else tonight before I fell asleep.
TRUMAYNE
I’m sorry I don’t understand. We’re supposed to stay here—in the bed—until tomorrow morning. That’s just how it works.
DONNA
Baby, I’m gonna be here in the morning when you wake up.
Trumayne’s head, still slightly red from the activity, starts to vibrate from stress. It starts pulsing again, but this time not on beat. He closes his eyes in agony and starts to take some deep breaths. Donna walks back to the bed, and gets under the covers.
DONNA (continued)
Okay, okay, okay. Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.
Trumayne sighs, and before long he falls into a deep, well-earned slumber.
THE NEXT MORNING
Trumayne is waking up. But he isn’t smiling like the previous morning. Something feels different.
He turns over and his wife next to him is wide awake staring directly at the ceiling. She looks at him and gives a hesitant half-smile, as if to appease.
Trumayne rolls out of bed—neglecting to look up at the poster on the ceiling—and makes his way to bathroom, groggily moving through his morning routine. By the time he comes back out, Donna is no longer in the bed.
Inside the sports facility. It’s not very lively. Trumayne walks in, hoping to make the most of another private players’ practice before a big game. He sits down in his usual spot.
Hecky is nowhere to be found.
We watch as Trumayne gets up to question a few of Hecky’s teammates, but they don’t have much to add. On the opposite side of the court, other media members, also looking for a pre-game soundbite, speculate amongst themselves about the mysterious absence. Trumayne yells out to them:
TRUMAYNE
He must be saving his energy! You already know Hecky’s not one to skip out on pre-game.
They all look in his direction, offer no response and go back to their conversations. Trumayne sits back down in the empty row and practices his keyring spins.
BRRRRRMMMMP!
The sound of a buzzer. A close up on a scoreboard and it says:
WE LOSE!
We’re in the press conference room, hours later, post-game. The vibes are tense. Hecky lumbers into the press-conference room, seemingly anxious and jittery. Very different from his relaxed presser the night before. Before he even has a chance to get settled, all the hands in the room jolt to the ceiling.
Hecky raises both of his hands, palms down, and sends them downward. Like an orchestra conductor, all the journalists’ hands go down when does this.
HECKY
I just want to say a few things before we get into any questions.
The room is hushed, and no hands are raised… except for one. Our large-headed protagonist has his hand raised and waving frantically, hoping to get some special treatment.
HECKY
That means you too, brotha.
Trumayne’s hand lowers slowly.
HECKY (continued)
I wanted to explain my poor performance tonight as well as address some other… important… happenings in my life…
And… well…
… that’s because, effective immediately, I am shifting careers. I no longer want to play this game.
Gasps all over the room. Cameras flash and a wide-eyed, frantic murmur emerges from the media personnel in attendance. Hecky pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and reads off it:
HECKY (continued)
(reciting)
My athletic prowess has taken me to new heights, and I am thankful for all the blessings it has afforded me, but it’s time to hang it up. This context that you know me in has served its purpose. Rather, it has run its course. I will be taking some time for myself and consulting with my family to decide which of my side interests I will pursue next.
There’s a moment of hush after Hecky says this. This is real. The most popular player in the game has just sworn against the sport he single-handedly popularized and is pivoting right before our eyes.
HECKY (continued)
I’m sorry this is coming so abruptly, but I felt there was no need to prolong it any further. I want to thank the fans, the media—many of whom I have great relationships with—and most certainly my peers and fellow players. I hope my path can be informative for those who may be going through something similar.
Hecky re-crumbles the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket. ALL of the hands in the room shoot up, while pulsating camera flashes punctuate this historic moment.
HECKY (continued)
Actually. You know what. No further questions.
Hecky walks off the podium. This causes even more pandemonium. Every single member of the media rushes after Hecky, who puts his hood on and makes a swift path towards the exit of the stadium. The entire room of journalists, photographers and team security empties and spills out into the hallways, following the commotion.
Except for one.
Trumayne sits, slack-jawed and still. The large, bulbous dome sitting above him has lost its color, and it’s shape looks more deflated than usual.
TRUMAYNE
What…
Stuck in a state of shock, he stares off into the distance, murmuring to himself, unable to process the news he just heard.
TRUMAYNE
I… don’t… understand…
wh…at… do I do…
… now…?
We’re back in the bed: Trumayne is just waking up. Was that a bad dream? He looks to his left, and his wife is not in the bed. Shit, if it is a bad dream, it’s still continuing.
He sluggishly moves to the bathroom to complete his morning routine.
Trumayne is making his way down the stairs, fully dressed.
TRUMAYNE
Baby?
No response. Trumayne bends around the corner to the kitchen. It’s a very boilerplate kitchen, with no pictures of the two of them on the fridge, no decorations or anything. But fully functional. There’s a note on the counter, folded in half.
Trumayne picks it up and the writing is a little chickenscratchy. It reads:
Hey Trumayne,
I had to go to my sister’s for a few weeks. I’m not feeling too well. I hope you can understand.
-Donna
Trumayne drops the note on the ground. His head begins throbbing. He’s taking deep breaths. He picks up his belongings and heads out the door. Just as he opens the door, he stops.
TRUMAYNE
Wait, what? Sister? You ain’t never tell me you had a sister, Donna. The fuck is going on?
Trumayne hustles back to the counter and there’s a new note on it, neatly folded. He picks it up and it’s the same chickenscratch writing:
Hey Baby,
I took a solo trip to the park to clear my head. I needed the fresh air, with everything going on in the world. I left some treats in the fridge for you. I’ll be back later tonight.
-Your One and Only
Trumayne sighs, but then looks around on the floor for the old note, it’s nowhere to be found. That’s odd. He opens the fridge. There are some of them lil grocery store mini-cupcakes in there. He takes one and eats it quickly to calm his nerves. Off that, his head pulses with vitality. Deep sigh.
Trumayne rushes out of the house.
Outside the sports facility. Trumayne pulls up in his car and there’s a group of people removing the banner from the front of the entrance. They are all wearing the same light grey T-shirt with red writing on it. Trumayne spins the keyring 5 times and then gets out.
CREW MEMBER
He’s here! Move! Move! Move!
The group of people all scatter before Trumayne can approach the entrance. The banner hangs half off and a ladder is underneath. He walks closer to the entrance, but one of the people, a young woman in her 20s is heading back towards him.
CREW MEMBER (O.S.)
Girl, come back! He’s gonna see you!
CREW MEMBER #2
I don’t give a damn, we not fuckin gettin paid anyway.
The young woman walks up to the ladder and grabs her phone off of it.
CREW MEMBER #2
Scuse me, sir.
Trumayne just looks at her. She walks off. On the back of her shirt it says “The TRUMAYNE Show” in bright red writing. Trumayne looks on, confused but in a daze. He enters the building.
Inside. The facility is in a state of pure transition, far from the lively energy of a game. Chairs are stacked in the corner, there are a bunch of large lights and light stands in another section. The players that are usually practicing at this time are nowhere to be found. There are only a few people and they seem to be handymen types. Trumayne walks over to his usual floor seat row and takes out his laptop.
He opens a new blank writing document and titles it:
THE POST-HECKY REBUILD STARTS NOW
He looks around, surveying, looking for a way to write to this.
TRUMAYNE
Hmmmm.
A couple of seats away he notices a brown box in one of the chairs, but on the very outside of it it says “Trumayne”, written in sharpie. There’s a large post-it note on it that says:
NEED TO GET RID OF. FREE, TAKE ONE PLEASE
He scoots over to it, opens the box and there’s a pile of the same shirts the woman outside was wearing.
TRUMAYNE
What—
SECURITY (O.S.)
Sir! We can’t use this facility anymore. The studio shut us down for goo—
Trumayne turns around to a female security guard.
SECURITY
Oh, it’s you. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm…
The guard just walks away.
TRUMAYNE
Huh?
Moments later, the house lights of the facility shut off one by one. The backlight of Trumayne’s laptop is the only thing left. He doesn’t leave though. He starts typing away, and we hear the echo of each keystroke throughout the empty facility.
Back at Trumayne’s home, it’s dark out. We see him enter through the front door.
TRUMAYNE
Honey?
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Yes?
The voice is coming from upstairs. Trumayne sighs. He flings off his belongings, grabs his head scarf off the rack, and sprints up the stairs while putting it on.
We’re upstairs. Trumayne flings open the bedroom door, and there’s that silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. Only: It’s even curvier than usual.
FEMALE VOICE
Welcome home, husband.
Trumayne moves closer. He kneels at the bedside, spreading open her legs and leaning his large covered head towards her, like an offering. There’s a brief pause, until:
FEMALE VOICE
(aggressive)
Now lemme see that dick, boy!
Trumayne stands up and stumbles back in horror. He flips the light switch on and a totally different woman than Donna is sitting on the very edge of the bed. She is beautiful, curvy, but much lighter in complexion than Donna was. She smiles, assuredly:
NEW DONNA
Uh. Hey!
TRUMAYNE
Donna? Wait. No. What? What the fuck is going on here? Who are you?
NEW DONNA
I’m Donna, baby. Remember.
New Donna gets up and walks towards him. Trumayne looks her up and down. Damn. She thick as hell.
Trumayne takes off his headscarf and waits. New Donna doesn’t respond to the reveal of his big ass head, pulsating from anxiety. She just keeps walking towards him. We look down at Trumayne’s pants and he has an erection coming through. He looks down at it, too. Then back at her, approaching.
TRUMAYNE
Awww, hell!
Trumayne runs out of the room.
We’re downstairs.
Trumayne runs out of the house.
We’re outside.
Trumayne gets into the car, spins the keyring 5 times, puts the key into the ignition and speeds off into the night.
FADE TO BLACK
OVER BLACK WE HEAR A COUPLE BLACK VOICES:
VOICE 1
See, I just feel like he handled that really well. Especially with everything going on. Very professional.
VOICE 2
He’s so good. So believable. He deserves better than what they tryna do to him.
VOICE 1
Right! I’ve never seen him be bad in anything.
VOICE 2
This whole thing is on the producers. Get him off here and on sumn where his talents can be used properly.
VOICE 1
Preach.
We hear the sound of a TV cutting off.
