FITZ, NARRATING: You know what a secret is?
(Phone ringing) It's a commodity.
It's leverage, control.
The old man's secret?
(Zipper unzipping)
That jerkoff still jerks off to his ex-wife.
Would one you stupid cock jerkys answer the fucking phone?
Why should I answer the phone?
I'm the assistant office manger, not some secretary!
Meghan's secret is obvious.
She's a hermaphrodite
who bought her son on the black market.
At least that's what I'm telling everyone.
Clinically brain-dead.
Support our troops.
I don't even want to guess what his deal is.
Fitzpatrick Motors. How may I direct your call?
But I'll bet it involves a storage locker,
illegal immigrants and a branding iron.
Richard, line two!
My secret? Don't have any.
I live my life like an open book.
Fitz here.
Straight up. No bullshit.
Richard Fitzpatrick is an honest man,
making an honest buck.
Sure, I can show you where Dexter Laine died.
Fifty bucks.
For 100 bucks, I can show you photos of the chick
who blew him to death.
And Dot Foxley's secret?
Hey, this is a private call.
None.
It's obvious she wants me.
♪
♪ Without you ♪
♪ I'd find my smile ♪
♪ Without you ♪
♪ I'd have won by a mile ♪
♪ Without you ♪
♪ Oh, life would be so grand ♪
Sync & corrected by honeybunny www.addic7ed.com
I'm not going to let you turn Fitzpatrick Motors
into a morbid roadside attraction.
I wouldn't have to if you hadn't stuck your nose and your mouth
where it didn't belong.
You killed my meal ticket, lady.
(Gasping)
I didn't kill him.
It was the vodka and Alzheimer's meds.
But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?
Hey, Dex Laine was my idol.
Most people would show me a little sympathy
in light of his recent passing.
Or they would cut me a little slack.
Or they would take off my slacks,
which goes back to showing a little sympathy.
Whatever little scam you're trying to pull,
I will stop you.
She has all but admitted it. She is out to get you.
I thought we agreed she wasn't the shadowy figure.
LARRY: Well, based on recent events,
she is once again my prime suspect.
Jesus, Encyclopedia Brown Nose,
it's obvious she was just trying to make me jealous.
Hm, or murder you on the Beaver Moon.
FITZ: You know what?
Fuck the Beaver Moon,
fuck the prophecy and fuck the shadowy figure.
What I need is money, land and the Summer Wind Lounge.
Got it? No.
What you need is to identify your mystery nemesis.
Otherwise there won't be a Summer Wind Lounge,
because there won't be a Richard Fitzpatrick.
This from the guy who turned my last piece of property
into a toxic wasteland?
That was you.
Let's not play the blame game here, okay?
Let's get out there and earn! Come on!
Sounds like you got a plan.
Damn, he's got a plan.
How does a deceased man sign his own souvenir shirt?
The autographed one should go for 50, easy.
But if you shut up, I can get you one
for the low, low price of 40...
49...
49.99.
Plus 10%.
Start signing.
The crowds will be here soon.
The crowds? Yeah.
I posted a message on the Dexter Laine website,
and the fans are going ape shit.
Richard, this isn't honouring a legend.
It's unscrupulous exploitation of a man's death.
I'm wearing a tuxedo.
What is--?
Okay, clearly, you're exhibiting signs of textbook denial.
Hey, hey, that's your very first stage of grief,
an emotional milestone.
I am not denying.
I am cashing in.
And, frankly, Dex Laine would be offended
if I didn't take advantage of his death.
When was the last time I wore this tux?
WOMEN: Go, Fitz.
No, no, no. Fitz! Fitz!
Richard, are you okay?
I'm fine.
Hey, what did that stir stick remind you of?
What does it mean?
It means there's a drink somewhere
that needs to get stirred.
Fuck off.
Yeah, I thought that Uncle D died on the bus.
Ah, creative licence.
Oh, we should splash some fake blood around.
Make it look more gory. People love that shit.
Yeah, yeah, hey, I can't get the real stuff, you know?
I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a--
Look, Fitz, I need to talk to you about something.
(Sighing) (Lighter clicking)
You can't talk and work at the same time?
The tension's still there, you know?
Between you and me, a dude can get jealous
when his best friend gets a girlfriend,
but I don't want what Dot and I have
to come in between us.
She's not your girlfriend, Josh.
Fitzy, buddy, don't be like this.
Dot's blown every guy at the fucking dealership.
Except for Larry, but he doesn't have a dick and me,
which is a mystery that will rival Stonehenge
for what the fuck is up with that?
Hey, you know what?
What Dot and I have is honest
and true and pure
and honest.
Like that fairytale in the swamp
with the guy.
Remember, with the--?
You know what?
I'm not talking.
For two days.
Fucking stoner.
Step right up. (Car horns tooting)
See where legendary crooner Dexter Laine died.
MAN: Get a real job! It's incredibly sad.
Where the hell is everybody?
Well, most of Uncle D's fans are elderly, Richard.
It's going to take them days just to get out of bed.
Well, you better step your game up.
I need lines around the block, reservations.
I need a waiting list before fucking Dot
shuts this shit down.
Right on track.
You're shifting from denial to anger. Rarr!
Ahem.
(In German accent): How much for the VIP tour?
I'm Richard Fitzpatrick.
Right this way.
Cash in advance.
Richard, please, I'm begging-- He's got a gun.
Of course he does. He's German.
Bavarian.
(German accent): Right this way.
Got a gun.
(Sighing)
This is remarkable shrine you've erected in Uncle D's honour.
I consider it a public service.
Make sure you tell all your friends.
Ah, so cool.
I understand you were with Uncle D when he expired, yeah?
It was natural causes.
You misunderstand me, Herr Fitzpatrick.
I seek only to know more about the condition of the death.
Tell me, was it tragic?
It was very tragic, like an opera.
His feet--?
Were they freshly bathed?
He showered compulsively.
What about shoes?
Was he wearing shoes?
Sandals perhaps?
No, slippers.
Oh, slippers.
Yeah, this is good.
Now, were the toenails--?
Were they neatly trimmed
or was Uncle D careless in his maintenance?
What about the hair? Were they hairy?
You like feet, do you?
Do not judge me!
Whoa, take it easy Baron von Pervy.
I'm a breast man.
You're a foot man.
A dead-foot man.
Really? A necro-podiphiliac?
That is seriously fucked up.
Not nearly as fucked up as what I would do with those feet
if I could have just one night with them.
And if I could facilitate this night of passion,
what would you be willing to pay for it?
A lot.
LARRY: Oh, Richard, t-this is bad.
How can you be so calm?
We could get caught at any second.
Hardly. The security guard's a drunk.
We have plenty of time,
as long as you don't fuck around.
There he is.
You know, cutting off a dead man's feet
is not a healthy way to mourn your idol, Richard.
You know what else isn't healthy, Larry?
Ignoring debts to Lebanese mobsters.
If they don't get Summer Wind sanitation money,
I won't make it to the next Beaver Moon.
Yeah, but maybe if we just explain what happened and--
I'll give you 1,000 bucks right now to shut the fuck up.
Good for you. Stage three, bargaining.
(Liquid sloshing) (Sighing)
Hold on.
What is that?
There, on his neck.
And that?
Richard, what is--? What is--?
What is that?
Oh, for fuck's sake.
That's a penis, Larry.
That's what men have.
No, no, I mean that mark.
Right there, look.
Well, that's a hickey given by a woman with braces.
Huh?
What, you think I wouldn't recognize
the sweet, sweet scarring
that can only come from a woman's mouth?
I've seen that mark before, Richard.
It's like the train-track scar on your backside.
Wait, wait!
Train tracks!
Richard, what are the signs the fortune-teller warned you about?
Remember?
Jesus, Ansel Asshole.
I don't have time for this shit.
We are here for one reason only,
payola for Uncle D's admittedly attractive feet.
Now give me that. No, ow. Stop.
Give me that. Give me that.
Yeah!
Really?
Let me see that mark.
(Sighing)
Fine, make it fast.
(Camera clicking)
I knew it! A perfect match!
Thank you, Uncle D.
Your death has given Richard a chance at life!
If we know Uncle D nailed Dot, do you think I did too?
Yes, yes, and now we can right the wrongs
you perpetrated against her and save our lives.
Even better, that means I drilled her precious wetland
before anyone else at the dealership.
Suck on that, Josh!
I will never take your sloppy seconds! Yeah!
I suppose that is a victory as well! Yeah!
Fuck off, Larry.
Now, where did I leave that bone saw?
Okay, just-- If we could maybe--
I got it. I got it.
(Groaning)
Hurry up, will you?
Richard, you know what?
Maybe-- Maybe your dream
isn't a dream at all but a memory.
Yeah, what if your subconscious has been trying
to warn you about Dot this whole time?
You've said some dumbass things since I've know you, Larry,
but that was the dumbest-assiest.
Now get on with it!
Okay, yeah, no problem. Just--
But what does this remind you of?
That's that stupid swizzle stick from some hotel.
Unh-unh, no, I saw how you reacted
when you pulled this out of your pocket.
It frightened you.
Now, Richard, you tell me
what you see in that nightmare, everything.
FITZ: Well, there's me
on this wheel of death,
a shadowy figure with a knife,
a whole lot of talented babes
dying to take a ride on the SS Fitz,
the hotel and--
Wait a minute.
Fried chicken and a Bellini.
It's no wonder I can't remember anything.
Hm, what is a Bellini?
It's Fitzy kryptonite.
It's made from peach schnapps.
It's my blackout booze.
Game fucking over.
I'll never remember what happened.
Hm, okay.
Okay, yes, I got this, buddy.
Maybe you decided to run away
and join an all-female circus,
because you fell in love with a knife thrower.
Yeah, and then that night you stopped at a hotel
for some fried chicken and a Bellini!
I stand corrected, Larry.
That is the dumbest-assiest thing you've ever said.
(Switch clicking)
Really?
Sir, no this is not what it looks like.
Richard, please, tell the man it's not what it looks like.
Did Josh send you for that blood?
You want to make five large?
I'm going to go wait in the car.
(Saw clattering)
Gun!
Danke.
(Engine starting)
Another satisfied customer.
I still can't believe you paid that man
to amputate Dexter Laine's feet.
Oh, relax, Jack and the Gay-stalk.
They're not Uncle D's.
I couldn't do it, all right?
The guy was a fucking legend,
and you should be ashamed of yourself
for even suggesting the idea in the first place.
Me? But-- No, but Armin Scheuller--
Armin Scheuller with the gun expected--
Relax. Armin Scheuller will never know the difference.
But whose feet were they?
I don't know. Some hobo's.
Ah.
Oh-- Oh, Richard!
Richard, I know how we can get Dot
to confess she's your shadowy figure!
By cutting off her feet?
Maybe we can sell them to Armin and double our money!
No, no, no, not that.
Look, we convinced Armin Scheuller
that those hobo feet were actually Dexter Laine's--
We?
Yeah, so now we can trick Dot
into believing that you remember everything
about that tryst with her.
Look, we know that you can't remember anything
from that night, but she doesn't!
It's not a bad idea, Larry.
Yes!
(Scoffing)
(Chattering)
Is this some kind of joke?
Oh, no. No, it's--
It's an apology.
I've said and done some things lately
that I probably shouldn't have.
And nothing says, "Oh, fuck, sorry,"
like a bucket of Dirty Bird.
It will take more than fried chicken
for me to forgive you
for breaking into my apartment,
stealing my personal property
and sexually harassing me.
Uh-huh, which is why
we also bought you this.
Peach schnapps.
Thank you.
Give it up, Foxley! We know it was you.
You are behind all of it,
the graffiti, the sexual tape,
the desecration of Babs Devon's grave!
Hey, back off, Larry.
Just because she doesn't like you,
doesn't make her the dealership bike.
Ooh, Dirty Birdie.
Hey, it's not your business, Josh!
Hos before bros, bro.
You don't have a single piece of concrete evidence against me.
Well, perhaps you forgot about your night of passion
at the Madison Arms, hm?
What night?
Mm-hm.
Uh...
Uh, you know, that night.
That night that we watched a knife thrower
and ate fried chicken
and pounded Bellinis.
And then we went back to our room at the Madison arms.
And then--
Wait a minute.
I remember that night now.
We drank Bellinis,
we ate fried chicken,
and then we took 'Ludes!
Love 'Ludes.
Oh, oh, Miss Foxley, we--
We've made a terrible mistake.
Richard, I know the night you're talking about,
and I remember the woman you were with.
And she was-- Whoo.
She was no Dot Foxley.
(Knocking on door)
LARRY: It was the morning after you judged
the Miss Super-Sized Super-Save Beauty Pageant.
Oh, Richard.
Your night of debauchery
with the fourth runner-up
resulted in an overdose on 'Ludes and schnapps.
We had to get to Emergency!
Schnapps!
Yeah, send an ambulance
to the Madison Arms, room 201,
as fast as possible!
Please and thank you! Okay.
(Grunting)
You just thought of this now?
Do you have any idea
how many motel rooms I pulled you out of?
So many women, so many vibrating beds, so--
So sorry.
For what?
The libel?
The slander?
The sexual harassment?
The break-in?
Save your apologies.
This little performance
is the final nail in your coffin,
Richard Fitzpatrick.
Way to go, Larry.
I let you take a photo
of the train-track mark on my ass for nothing.
Train-track marks?
J'accuse!
A train-track hickey.
Clicketty-clack, courtesy of Dot Foxley.
And her hidden braces.
Just tighten them, dammit!
LARRY: Knives!
Whoa!
Where did those come from?
Put your pants on!
Miss Carbs.
So you finally remembered?
DOT: I had it all, the suffocating talent,
the big-boned beauty,
a custom-made size-24 swimsuit
and judge with a knife fetish.
When you volunteered to be my target,
I thought it was in the bag.
ANNOUNCER: And the Miss Super-Sized Super-Save crown
goes to Miss Big and Tall!
Ladies and gentlemen...
I fell for the oldest trick in the book.
After you fixed the results to make sure I lost,
you swept in to console me.
That is a classic. Shht!
DOT: You were everything I ever wanted in a man,
handsome, debonair, male.
No, no, I can't!
I always promised myself I'd save this for my husband!
Whatever you want, baby.
Oh, yes, darling.
I will marry you.
(Sighing)
WOMAN OVER SPEAKER: Dr. Parsons to Cardiology.
Dr. Parsons to Cardiology.
(EKG beeping)
(Respirator hissing)
Fitz? Fitzy?
Darling?
You partied me into unconsciousness,
then abandoned me.
Oh, wow.
Well, Richard, the whole point of this exercise
was to identify the person
you were wronged and make amends.
And that starts with apologizing
for this sad, strange series of events.
DOT, FITZ, JOSH: Fuck off, Larry. What?
DOT: I don't want an apology.
I just want you.
Not on my watch, lady.
Um, wait, what?
Hi, are you talking to me or Fitz?
Ahem!
I lost all that weight,
took night courses in business management.
I even learned how to harness mystical forces.
I changed everything about myself,
all for you.
Told you.
No, but what about all that awful stuff
that's been happening to Richard?
Well, I never imagined my voodoo would be so strong.
Wait, are you saying you didn't make my mommy tape
or dig up Babs Devon or any of the other bad shit?
All your bad luck,
that's the power of my love.
It's a fortune-teller's prophecy.
Call it what you want, voodoo, karma, fate.
I will make you love me again,
no matter what.
What did I ever do to you?
LARRY: "'Ludes and schnapps."
Oh, wow, that should have worn off by now.
I had it tattooed,
which I instantly regretted.
LARRY: Oh, dear.
But it will always remind me
of the night I fell in love.
I fell in love too, baby.
But we loved each other enough that one night
to last a lifetime.
Ew.
I really am quite sorry.
Richard Fitzpatrick!
If you walk out that door now,
know that I will spend the rest of my life making you suffer.
You want to go mano a mano with me, baby?
Bring it on, sweetheart.
I'll be laughing over your corpse
long before you're laughing over mine.
Who said anything about killing you, you big lug nut?
You destroyed me
psychologically, physically.
And because of it, I am a better person.
Definitely skinnier.
True change requires suffering.
For me to drag you through hell,
that is real love.
So hang on tight, Richard Fitzpatrick.
I am going to change your life.
That is my job!
She took the chicken.
(Dog barking)
LARRY: Well, that was quite an adventure.
Although it looks like we were wrong
about Dot being your shadowy nemesis.
I guess the whole death prophecy,
the Beaver Moon, it was all just a ruse.
Yeah. No more nightmares, I guess.
Yeah, and now you don't have to worry
about taking Josh's sloppy seconds.
All I'm worried about right now
is getting a good night's sleep.
Of course, Richard. Of course.
There's just one more thing you have to do.
What's that?
Die!
Oh, fuck.
(Panting)
Sync & corrected by honeybunny www.addic7ed.com