**[INT. INDUSTRIAL DUMPSTER – NIGHT]**

*Dark. Metallic clangs echo. A single beam of moonlight slashes through the dumpster’s open lid. **Jordan Peterson** emerges from a mountain of refuse like a prophet born from garbage. His hair is tangled. His eyes—haunted. He cradles a cracked container of Lysol wipes like an infant.*

**JORDAN PETERSON (whispering)**
There’s... *still moisture in it.*

*He licks his lips.*

**JORDAN PETERSON**
Do you understand what this means? Someone—*somewhere*—looked at this and said, “No more.”
They looked at *potential order*—a tool for *rebirth*—and they said,
*"Into the void with you."*

*He starts pacing in circles inside the dumpster like it’s a philosophical coliseum.*

**JORDAN PETERSON**
Cleanliness is next to *godliness*—not because it’s nice, not because it’s polite—
But because it’s a defiance. A *rebellion* against entropy!
Every time you wipe down a countertop, you are *slaying the serpent of primordial chaos!*

*He holds up the Lysol wipes like an ancient relic.*

**JORDAN PETERSON**
This is a scroll. A sacred text.
And they *discarded it.*

*Beat. He drops to his knees, grabbing a half-empty spray bottle of bleach.*

**JORDAN PETERSON (weeping now)**
There’s *still bleach in it.* You could clean a *sink*.
You could purify a *cutting board*!
But no. It was easier to toss it. Easier to say,
*"I give up. Let mildew reign."*

*A rat scurries past. He points at it, trembling.*

**JORDAN PETERSON**
Do you see him? That’s not a rat. That’s a *symbol*. He knows what we’ve forgotten.

*A siren wails in the distance. Peterson looks toward it, suddenly calm.*

**JORDAN PETERSON**
They’re coming. But it’s too late.
I’ve already mopped my soul.