Archer (2009–…): Season 3, Episode 8 - Lo Scandalo - full transcript

WD-40, Mother.

Oh. ARCHER:
Costs, like, a nickel.

Or maybe, Mother, you
could swallow your pride

and just apologize
to your super.

Oh, and to me, for
ruining my Friday night,

which is now being spent here.

So, what, why the
frantic phone call?

Hello? Malory?
Why did you call us?

Because if it was... Oh.

I'm gonna go out on a limb

and assume it had
something to do with that.



- It's not what it looks like.
- Well, that's a relief.

Because, uh, it looks like

you're sitting here
with a gun, right?

And over there, strapped
to a chair and shot to death

is a guy in a
full-body latex catsuit.

Or am I misreading
the situation?

Well, technically,
it's a zentai.

What?

A zentai covers
the face and head.

I think a catsuit
just stops here.

Give me that.

I didn't shoot him.

You're saying the fact

your gun has
recently been fired is...



Is unrelated to the
dead guy over there

who's chock-full of bullets.

Well, obviously they're related.

Yeah, do that, take that tone.

But I swear, I didn't shoot him.

Oh, okay. So I guess he
walks in here already shot,

obviously panicking,

so you restrain him
with these leather cuffs,

then to keep pressure
on the wounds,

you greased him up,
squeezed him into this...

Zentai. And of
course not, you ass.

Someone broke in
here and shot him.

Okay, Malory?

Well, unless it was the...

creepy-old-people-bondage-sex
police

why would anyone break
in here and shoot him?

No answer? Okay, let's ask him.

Holy shit.

Because he's Savio Mascalzone.

Um... Oh, for...

The prime minister
of Italy. The what?

Wait, doesn't Italy use a king?

Wha...? No, they
don't use a king.

What year do you think this is?

I, uh... Yeah, exactly.
Good question.

And, uh, speaking
of questions...

No, no, no, don't. Don't
go back there, Sterling.

I have a question, Mother.

Why does this
chair have no seat?

And what...

is in his ass?

Mother, what is
in this man's ass?

Oh, please.

Don't act like you've never
seen a marital aid before.

Not in a dead
prime minister's ass.

And you don't have
to keep repeating it.

We've established where it is.

Yeah, so you wanna
move on to why?

Wait, not why
that. Why he's here.

Savio and I met after the war
when I was in Italy with Gladio.

Who's that, his brother?

No, it... Ew!

Are you finished?

Hang on.

Ew. Now I'm done.

Operation Gladio. It was a
NATO stay-behind mission

set up to counter a possible

Soviet invasion
of Western Europe.

But then it sort of
turned into this whole

weird cryptofascist
CIA shit show

starring Allen Dulles and
a bunch of former Nazis.

Thanks, Holly Hindsight.

Anyway, Savio was
in Italian intelligence...

Rimshot. Shut up.

And we were working
all these late nights.

There was a mutual attraction,
one thing led to another...

Mm, please skip ahead.

Then he got married
and went into politics.

But ever since then,
once a year, he'd slip away

and we'd spend a
romantic weekend together.

Well, you definitely nailed it.

I mean, if this doesn't
just scream "romance."

Archer. What, Lana?

What's more romantic than
a dildo-party-slash-murder?

A murder I'm trying
to get a handle on,

so could you shut up a second?

And he wasn't always into that.

You mean vice versa? Shut up.

As he grew older, Savio's tastes
became more and more exotic.

And so he started introducing

all these accoutrements
very gradually.

He'd have to. Thing's huge.

Ow! Ow!

Okay. Okay. I... Okay.

God, your hands
are like cricket bats.

Shut up. What happened? Can
you walk us through the crime?

Just the crime of murder,

not the crime of
sodomy-by-rubber-eggplant. Oh!

Savio was in town to
give a speech at the U.N.

We'd made plans to meet here

so he gave his handlers the
slip and arrived here at about 7.

We caught up over a
glass or two of champagne.

Then I freshened up while
Savio got changed and situated.

So he put the,
uh...? In his own...?

Yes. Hush. I came
out of the bedroom...

I crossed over to the chair
and tightened his last restraint.

Aah!

Then I went to refill
my champagne.

Savio loved to be kept waiting.

Mm. Ah.

And then, bang,
in burst three men.

Savio!

Wait, whoa, whoa, back
up. Why did you have a gun?

Hm? Oh, well, Savio liked it

to seem a little
dangerous. You know?

No, Mother, I don't. Jesus,
what else was on tonight's menu?

Sex under a hive
of Africanized bees?

Archer.

So you fired three times...

And missed.

Can you believe it? ARCHER: No.

Oh, sorry, was that rhetorical?

Lawyer up, call the cops. What?

Hit the throttle on the bourbon,

because I'm gonna
have to, uh, heh,

bust you in the
face a couple times.

What are you talking about?

Self-defense.
It's your only shot.

We gotta uncuff him and
de-dildo him, obviously.

We'll smash the furniture

like he was chasing
you around all rape-y.

Fortunately, he's Italian,

so that shouldn't
be hard to sell.

I didn't shoot him.

On purpose. Exactly.
The gun just went off.

You probably wanna play
that a lot softer with a jury.

A jury? When you
don't believe me?

Mother, come on. I mean,
I want to believe you, but...

But those bullet holes don't
prove anyone else was here.

Well, maybe those don't.

Unh! What?

Malory, you got shot.

Yes, I know dear, I was there.

Let me see. Take off your coat.

No. I'm fine, it's just a
through-and-through.

Mother. What? I
put Bactine on it.

Mother. Sterling.

The Italian prime minister

was just assassinated
in my apartment.

And so I think an
apology is in order.

Thank you. I mean, I
know it's hard for you.

You two owe me an apology.

For what? Not believing me.

How about for you dragging us

into your S&M
dildo-sex-murder freak show?

Look. You look.

I bet I'll never be
able to have sex again

without thinking about this.

I bet I won't even be able to
eat spaghetti and meatballs.

Oh, God. BOTH: What?

I could eat.

I mean, not necessarily
spaghetti and meatballs,

but, you know, not necessarily
not spaghetti and meatballs.

I mean, I really like
spaghetti and meatballs.

Man, if I don't get some
spaghetti and meatballs,

I may literally die.

Oh, and thanks so much.
- You're welcome.

Wait till you try it,

because I'm kind
of winging it here.

I meant for
dragging me into this.

Still, you're welcome.

So we've got a dead
Italian prime minister

in the living room, which...

Sucks. Bet he knew
how to make sauce.

Which will be hard to explain.

Given the circumstances

leading up to his
death, which were...

Dildo-y. Unseemly.

Eh. Potato, po-dildo.

So plausible deniability isn't
a super-realistic goal here.

We need to sneak the body out.

Sure, we'll just
walk a dead body

right out the front door. Idiot.

What then? Burn
the apartment down?

We're not burning
down my apartment.

You sure? Shut up.

I hit broil instead of bake.

Well, blood loss
can make you stupid.

Can I please look at your wound?

No. Nor can you burn
down my apartment,

so think of something else.

I shall fetch a rug.

Something "else" else.

You're not rolling him
up in one of my rugs.

Why not? Because then what?

We get some coveralls
and a carpet-cleaning van

and just walk him
right out the front door.

You just called
me an idiot for that.

Your version didn't
have coveralls.

Could we go out
through the basement?

No. We'd have to go
past the super's apartment,

and his door is always open.

I assume to let the
stink of cabbage

waft through the halls, but...

So you think he'd be
a problem? God, yes.

We're not on the best of terms.

Well, ma'am, it's
just, at Christmas,

the tenants usually give
me a small consideration

for the work I do all year
keeping up the building.

We surely count on it, ma'am.

Especially this year,

as we had more than
the usual medical bills.

Your point being?

Well, it's just that, for
the third year running

you give me a potato.

Oh, dear. So once again

you're faced with the
classic Irishman's dilemma:

Do I eat the potato now

or let it ferment so
I can drink it later?

Will I get the
operation now, Da?

No, son.

You're gonna die.

What is your
problem with the Irish?

You mean besides not being
on our side in World War II?

Yeah, besides
that. Wait, seriously?

They were Nazis? No.

They're not Japanese. Neutral.

Now, since I don't wanna
be an accessory after the fact,

how's about we figure out a way

to get that body out
of the apartment?

Where did we land
on the coveralls thing?

I don't know where
we'd get coveralls

this time of night, so...

So if we can't get the body
out of here in one piece...

Nope. What?

Lana, it's the
only way. What is?

No. Malory, I've done some
messed-up shit working for you

but I am not, repeat not,
chopping up a dead body.

Oh. Ew, Mother.

What? My God, do you want
me to get the electric chair?

For a murder you both
know I didn't commit?

Malory, I just
can't. Me neither.

Can't or won't? I...

Whatever. Call it
her can't, me won't.

No, hey, Mother, come
on. Stop that. Stop it.

Here, here, look.
I'm gonna get help.

From who?

I need access to a 2-inch drain,
hot water, three GFCI outlets,

this bathroom should do nicely,

and a pot of coffee
like I like my women:

Black, bitter,
preferably fair trade.

Oh, and your sauce
needs less salt.

How can you...?

Put a potato in with the sauce,

it'll absorb the salt.

Oh, and I assume
that's our patient?

Not ours, Krieger, yours.

Thank you.

Ugh, too salty. Yeah, I
know. You got a potato?

What is this, Christmas?

And is Krieger hard at work?

He literally might be, yes. Ew.

Well, say what
you will about him...

I did. He's discreet.

So no one else will ever
know about this whole...

Aah! What in the...?

Hell is that? Oh, God!

Hopefully, my greatest work yet.

No. No, no, no.

Whatever this is, I am
not getting mixed up in it.

Too late. Malory.

Hey, whoa, whoa,
everybody calm down.

- It's not what it looks like.
- Then what is it, exactly?

Because it sure as shit
ain't a surprise party, Krieger.

You big fat liar.

Someone's framing Malory

for murdering the
prime minister of Italy.

Ooh, I bet it's
that wicked king.

So? Why'd Krieger
drag us into it?

Yes, Krieger. Why?

I needed help disseminating him.

Ew!

Not what it means.
Still pretty gross, though.

And brilliant. When I'm done,

each of us will walk out
carrying a small parcel.

How small?

Eh. On our way home,

we simply drop the parcels

into seven different trash cans

in three different boroughs.

That's actually pretty smart.

Hopefully, when you look
at the drop points on a map

it'll look like a smiley face.
- Ha-ha-ha!

- That's gross.
- You're a mess.

- That's kind of clever.
- Super-creepy.

Every time, every single
time we come over here

we have to help you
get rid of a dead body.

You've only been here twice.

Speaking of, why was
the prime minister here?

Don't ask. And follow up,

did those dastardly
dagos kill him

and then dress him up
like a big giant penis, or...?

Oh, God, that
reminds me. Krieger?

Yeah, I found it.

Found what? BOTH: Don't ask.

Can I keep it? Keep what?

Don't ask. Just
get it out of here.

Yeah, take that tone.

I'd like to know how this
could possibly get any worse.

For one thing, there's not
enough sauce for everybody.

N.Y.P.D. Open up, please.

Cheese it, it's the cops.

Oh, shit. Busted.

And/or the police could show up.

Oh, for the... Now
what do we do?

Cover your arm up, answer
the door and stall them.

And then somebody get me
a number 10 can of tomatoes.

What? There's already
not enough sauce.

N.Y.P.D. Come on,
lady, open the door.

Coming. Sorry, I
was in the kitchen.

I'm making spaghetti
and meatballs.

Hi, I'm... Italian, huh?

Well, that's a coincidence.

Oh, are you Italian, officer?

No, and it's detective. Murphy.

Irish. That's right.

We got an anonymous tip that
Savio Mascalzone was up here.

Ooh! Who's that, some mobster?

Prime minister? Of Italy?

Doesn't Italy use a
king? I wouldn't know.

Somebody dead? What?

Oh, my bird. Little Tweetsie.

Uh-huh. Well, that's
another coincidence

because this anonymous tip
said Mascalzone was dead up here.

What? Oh, for heaven's sake.

Yeah. Right here
in the living room.

Well, as you can see,

there hasn't been a
murder in here. My gosh.

Although I guess someone
must have spilled a drink.

I have a few dear friends
over for a dinner party.

Uh-huh. Mind if I talk to them?

Heavens, no, of
course not, but...

What's in here? Bathroom?

Uh-huh.

My guests are in
here, detective, but...

What are you doing?

From the left, dear.
One serves from the left.

Whatever's gotten
into you, Calpurnia?

My mistake, ma'am.

Well, I should
say it is, Calpurnia.

Mother, your
maid is... Oh, hello.

Evening. Sorry to
disturb your, uh...

Elegant dinner party,

for the most elegant
people in all of New York.

Uh-huh. But we got a tip
there'd been a murder up here.

Good heavens, a murder?

Well, apart from
this sullen wench

murdering good etiquette... Ow!

I find the very suggestion
laughable. Heh-heh.

Ha-ha-ha.

Which is what I'm
doing. I'm laughing.

So you don't mind
if I look around?

Uh, no, of course not.

Calpurnia? May I speak
with you in the kitchen?

Certainly. Ow. Heh-heh.

All right, I'll let you
get back to your, uh...

Ooh-ooh, elegant dinner party.

Uh-huh.

I hate you all so much.

No one cares, Figgis.

You were only invited
to round out the numbers.

What? How is this my fault?

Gee, where to start?
Oh, the murder?

I thought you meant that
silly French maid costume.

Which makes you look
ridiculous. And which...

Why do you even...? Never
mind, I don't even wanna know.

Good, it's none of your beeswax.

Here. I hope you
won't need it, but...

Why would I need...?

Whoa! Uh-uh. Nope. Lana.

Malory, I am not killing a...

A perfectly nice
dinner, Calpurnia.

By God, if you were my servant,

I'd have you over
my knee in a trice.

And, Mother, the
constable wishes a word.

He does? I mean, yes? - Yeah.

Sorry for the intrusion. That
tip must have been a hoax.

I checked out the
apartment. It's clean.

No thanks to this one. Mm...

Sullen wench.

I mean, indubitably, lieutenant.

So then, I'll, uh...
I'll just be on my way.

It's just, who would

call in with a fake
tip like that though?

I wouldn't be surprised

if it was our super,
Mr. Herlihy. He drinks.

Ah. Thanks, I'll check...

Oh, hey, I never checked
this bathroom. You mind?

I... No, of course
not. Be my guest.

Whoo! Oh.

Sorry, didn't know
anyone was waiting.

I'd recommend
the other bathroom.

I mean, I did what I could,

but you can only ask so much
of a vanilla candle. Dinner ready?

My God. Ugh! Yeah. Whoa.

He really did a number.

Make sure he didn't
leave an upper decker.

Sorry again for the
intrusion, ma'am.

Uh, Herlihy, you
said his name was?

Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, that's right.

Ow! Lana come on, I was...
Ow! I'll show you a sullen wench.

Whistling bitch.

Right then. That
snoopy detective is gone,

thanks to Dr. Krieger, so...

Krieger? What
about the rest of us?

The rest of you can
get out of my clothes

and then out of my house.

But thank you all
so much for coming.

- Shut up, ma'am.
- Loved it.

Never again. Thanks
for dead guy in a box.

Not very elegant.

No, thanks for
having us. Amazing.

And remember, smiley face.

And thank you. Krieger, wait.

The bathroom, the
body, how did you...?

You don't wanna know.

But you do probably want
to go wash your lips now.

Ew! Ugh. Ugh.

Screw you, Archer. Sullen wench?

Lana, come on, I
was just kidding.

I had to make it look good.

You had to make it look
good? Well, and also annoy you.

Walther PP,
chambered for .32 ACP.

What's the magazine
capacity? Uh, eight?

Eight rounds, plus one in
the chamber, for a total of nine.

Hey, thanks, Rain
Man. Your point being?

Malory's clip was empty.

But she said she
only fired three shots.

Oh, my God. So you're saying
Mother lured Mascalzone up there

greased him into a
6-foot man rubber,

strapped him to a chair...

I know, dear. But
you have to wait.

Calls us...

What? Mother,
calm... I'm on my way.

Don't move. I'll, uh...
I'll probably be back.

Then she pulls a gun on him?

What is this? A crock of shit.

Because that would mean
she called the cops on herself.

Knowing they'd never come back

after they searched
her apartment.

Which was full of
people and spotless.

Oh, my God, do
the math, Rain Man.

The wall was shot three times.

Mascalzone was shot five times.

For a total, wait
for it, of eight.

Yep. Plus the one
in her arm. Heh-heh.

So, what, Mother shot
herself? Oh, my God, Lana.

Why? I'll tell you exactly
why. Before I kill you.

Operation Gladio. Gladio?

Which would mean
Mother's been banging him

once a year for like 35 years,

and the whole time she's
been holding a grudge, right?

Just waiting to...

Holy shit. She killed him.

And got us to
dispose of the body.

Ew. But why?
After all this time?

Well, to be honest,
until recently,

the sex has been
pretty phenomenal.

And I figured, eh,
what's the hurry?

But then you
started getting weird.

But why you make la vendetta?

Because one night, all
those years ago in Rome,

you and your fascist thugs

gunned down a
young man in the street.

A beautiful man. Blue eyes,
full lips, black, thick, wavy hair.

What was this man's crime?
I wouldn't call speaking out

against the rebirth
of fascism a crime.

More of a mistake.

By a beautiful,
idealistic young man.

Who may have
been my son's father.

May have been? You don't know?

Who knows? It's Malory.

You really wanna know
why she killed a guy?

I... do not. No.

Although, I am curious

why she wouldn't take
off that trench coat.

Mm. Honey, you still got it.

Uh-huh-huh.

So much of this I never
wanna know the answer to.

Okay, how about a slice?

God, what is with
me and Italian lately?