Title: "Trolls 3: The Shot Showdown"
The morning sun spilled golden light into the Pop Village as the first rays crept through the cracks of the bunker’s door. Inside the lair, a familiar tension buzzed in the air. John Dory stood firmly in his cramped room, pacing back and forth, his tail twitching erratically behind him, a telltale sign of his anxiety.
“IM NOT TAKING IT!” he bellowed, throwing himself onto his bed in a dramatic display.
Clay, his brother and the mastermind behind their familial antics, crossed his arms and frowned. “You HAVE to take it!”
“NOOOOOOOOO!” John’s voice echoed in the small space as he kicked his feet against the wall. The sound reverberated through the bunker, prompting Floyd, who was still recovering from his recent ordeal, to peek out from the makeshift sick area.
Clay pressed on, his tone firm, “JOHN—”
“CLAY YOU KNOW I HATE SHOTS!!!!!!!!” John roared, his voice tinged with a mix of furious denial and sheer panic.
“WTOMROY—” Floyd stuttered, his tail drooping in response to the escalating argument. “W-What’s happening?”
John’s eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and defiance as he shot a glare out at his siblings. “I’m FINE! Just a cough!”
Branch, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a skeptical expression painted on his face, chimed in. “Right, and I’m the troll king.”
“SHUT UP, BRANCH!”
“Gentlemen, we can’t have this,” Clay refined his gaze, desperation creeping in. “You need that shot. It’s going to help you.” He narrowed his eyes. “And it’s not like it’s the end of the world!”
John slumped against his wall, a defeated grunt escaping his lips. “But it feels like it is!”
Clay leaned in, his tone changing to one of authority. “Don't make me call Bruce!”
“CALL HIM, I’M LITERALLY THE OLDEST! HE IS MY LITTLE BROTHER!” John shot back, finally standing defiantly, his arms crossed—his tail flicking aggressively behind him.
“Yeah, by LIKE FOUR YEARS!” Clay threw his hands up in frustration, his lime green hair standing almost on end.
“NOOOOO!” John pushed past Clay and bolted to his room, slamming the door shut and clicking the lock in a swift motion.
Clay sighed deeply, pulling out his bug phone. “This calls for a call to action.” He dialed Bruce, who was at his cozy restaurant back on Vacy Island, busy flipping pancakes for his brood of kids.
Riiing… Riiing…
“Hey! Clay!” Bruce’s familiar voice echoed through the phone. “What’s up? Everything alright at the bunker?”
“Not even close! John Dory refuses to go to the doctor for his shot. He’s locked himself in his room!”
Bruce chuckled, a fatherly grin on his face. “Classic John. Remember when he was scared of that one bee at the picnic?”
“Bruce…” Clay shot back, exasperated. “This is a serious situation! We need your help to get him out! We think he might be getting worse!”
“Alright, alright. I’m on my way,” Bruce said with a sigh. “How long do you think I’ll be away?”
“Pretty long, knowing John. You might need to —”
“Understood. I’ll bring some muscle. Be there in a flash.”
With that, the call ended, and Clay felt a hint of hope. He turned toward Floyd, who was nervously biting his lip, his tail curling around his legs as he almost melted into the floor.
“Floyd, you okay?” Clay asked, trying to gauge his brother’s state.
“Y-Yeah, just… worried about John. He really hates shots, doesn't he?” Floyd said quietly, glancing at the locked door with concern.
“Yeah, well, he’s going to get one whether he likes it or not,” Clay insisted, the grin returning to his face. “And now, we wait.”
Meanwhile, Branch threw on his leaf vest and shook his head. “It’s going to be a long day.”
A few hours later after some distractions and waiting game, the door creaked open, the morning light spilling over the tired face of John Dory. His eyes widened as he saw the familiar tall figure of Bruce making his entrance with grumbling kids trailing behind him.
“John!” Bruce called, arms wide open. “I’m here!”
“Don’t come any closer!” John shouted, retreating back, the panic evident in his eyes as he nervously fiddled with his brown jacket.
Bruce held up his hands. “I’m just here to help, little bro.” He looked around the bunker. “The more the merrier, right guys?”
“Yeah!” his kids chimed in unison.
Branch glared. “This is NOT a celebration!”
“Look, John, we weren’t like this when it came to you getting shots before,” Bruce said, his tone softening. “Remember when we had to hold you down as we gave you those flu shots?”
“Because you guys were being me—”
“It’s for your own good!” Clay interjected, stepping forward. “You’ll feel better once you get through this! Think of the music! You want to perform like a true troll, right?”
“Exactly, buddy!” Floyd supported, lifting his droopy tail slightly in encouragement. “You’ll be back to your charming self in no time.”
“Charming? More like a grumpy troll.” Branch muttered with a grin.
“Oh, shut up!” John shot back, but he felt his resolve weakening.
And just like that, the bribery, the camaraderie, the chaotic love of brotherhood started breaking through John’s wall. “Fine, but I swear, if I die…”
Bruce chuckled, “You’re not going to die! Let’s go get this over with!”
With the entire clan supporting him, they began the trek to the doctor. But John wasn’t going quietly—the moment they turned the corner toward Dr. MoonBloom’s office, he put up one final fight.
“NO! Not happening!” John yelled, throwing himself to the ground, furiously kicking his legs like a toddler.
“He’s putting on a show,” Clay remarked calmly, watching as Floyd tried hauling their stubborn brother from the floor.
“C’mon, John! You can be tough about this!” Floyd pleaded, his wide, innocent eyes looking up to his brother.
“HELP! FLOYD HELP ME!” John yelled, tears of desperation. Branch and Bruce ended up trying to pull him while he yanked and twisted in an effort to break free.
The struggle continued until Dr. MoonBloom stepped out, her hands holding up four gleaming shots. “Oh my. Looks like someone has been avoiding their medical attention!”
“NO, NO, NO!” John protested, his face falling pale as he stared at the small syringes that loomed over him like giant swords.
“Brace yourself!” Bruce said as Clay and Branch seized him from both sides and held him down.
“Hold him! Hold him!” Dr. MoonBloom instructed, and for the next few torturous moments, John’s screams could be heard echoing through the walls of the clinic.
“IT HURTS!” he yelled, the pain floods of memories cascading back to him—every shot he ever loathed seemed to rise to the surface like an enraged tide.
At last, when the ordeal was over, John darted out of the medical pod. “I’m outta here!” He shouted, bolting and leaving his brothers in a state of disbelief.
“Did that really just happen?” Floyd asked, peering after his elder brother with worried eyes, his tail drooping even lower.
Clay sighed. “What an idiot…”
John’s voice faded in the distance, but they knew that his spirit would return to them soon enough; he always did. In the meantime, the band together slowly settled back, each sharing a knowing smile at the bonds that could withstand even the fiercest of struggles.