Call Me Fitz (2010–2013): Season 2, Episode 1 - A** Hickey - full transcript

The difference
between dreams and nightmares...

Dreams involve my dick.

All seven... eight...

No... nine inches of it.

Nightmares also involve my dick...

and a knife.

The nightmares aren't real.

It's just some weird shit,
floating around in your head,

because you had too many peppers
on your meatball sub.

Or too much tequila.

Or not enough tequila.



Or too much Larry.

Wake up, and everything's fine.

Everything's coming up, Fitz.

Fuck sleep is what I say.

Heroes never rest.

Why waste time on my back
when I can waste time on yours, baby?

I'm not gonna let some subconscious shit
get in my way.

Fitzy weaves his own dreams.

I just gotta stay focused.

Alert.

Eye on the prize.

I'm gonna be immortal.

Shut the fuck up, Larry.

I'll get the broom.



I have to be honest.

The brakes may need replacing.

I know what you're trying to do.

Tell you about the brakes?

Sell me with your reverse psychology
honesty crap.

Tell me: What else is broken,
Mr. Fucking Honest?

Actually, the name's Larry.

Hold that thought.

Richard,
I could really use your help over here.

I'm not allowed to sell cars.
No dealer's licence. Or did you forget?

You reel in the customer,
I do the paperwork, like we discussed.

- Hello? Concussion.
- They revoked your insurance.

Good thing because you didn't have
the money to pay the bill. Why?

Because you haven't helped me
close a deal in weeks.

That reminds me: You got any scratch?

I am your conscience,
not your automated teller machine.

I got a tip on a rigged horse.

Okay, you wanna know
what's really going on here?

The insomnia, the anxiety,
lack of focus and dry mouth?

It's because you're not doing
the thing you love most.

I'm not gonna let you blow me.

No! Selling cars to fellow citizens
who just need a little pre-owned hope!

Hope has left the building, jerk-off.

Even you can't sell a car
with your honesty shtick.

Welcome to our carnival...

This place is running bad, man.

- You're not even listening.
- Nope.

Really?

What about the crash?

What am I supposed to say
to your father when he gets here?

This is textbook regression!

Anxiety is the silent killer, mister.

}I usually get moo shu pork
and a skin flick before I drop my pants.

Well, you're long overdue
for your annual colonoscopy.

And I make it a policy
not to date my patients,

anymore.

Your testicles are huge.

Thanks.

Not in a good way.

Okay.

I'm going in.

I'd better get a reach-around
is all I'm saying.

This reminds me of the time when
my sister showed her ankles in public.

Modern females are to be serviced,
not sentenced.

You know that Fitzpatrick, she-devil?
She's brainwashing you.

We're not living
in the old country anymore.

But the old country
is living within us, cousin.

We do what we must to fit in.

That is all.

This car salesman haircut.
This off-the-rack suit.

It sickens me.

Bring me my goats.

- Bring me my mountain bike.
- Again with the mountain bike.

And don't forget, you are betrothed
to a second cousin twice removed.

You don't understand my Meghan.

This is a relationship built on love,

frequent sexual relations

and trust, cousin.

Trust.

Betrothed?

What the fuck does that mean?

How much?

Well, it's a sliding scale.

I'm a little low on scratch.

Maybe we could...

work something out in trade.

What's wrong?

Signs... signs.

Train tracks...

broken glass...

fire...

I understand the business, baby.

The leading questions,
the vague responses.

I'm thinking of a long lost loved one.

You're thinking of a shadowy figure,

with a dagger, pointed...

at your dick.

That's just a dream.

The rubes get the act, honey.

The tarot cards, the crystal ball...

But there's no magic more powerful
than an orgasm.

That is when I truly see the future,
and...

- you don't wanna know what the rest is.
- The fuck I don't!

You're a dead man.

Someone's gonna kill you.

My sister Meghan.

That little bitch
was always jealous of me.

I couldn't see a face.

Then I guess we're gonna go again.

Baby, get back here.

No way, I got enough problems.

You're serious?

Only way to break the curse
is by making amends

to the person you've wronged.

I haven't wronged anyone.

Well, whoever you didn't wrong
is gonna kill you on the beaver moon.

The beaver what?

I'll be back in town in six months.

If you're still alive, look me up.

Curse.

Fuck.

It's crazy, right?

Psychic fucking bullshit.

Nightmares coming true.
Crazy chick telling me I'm gonna die.

It's all in your head, bro.

Here have some of that.
That'll get rid of the paranoia.

'Cause this shit isn't real.
Nothing gets to Fitzy.

All I gotta do is win some scratch,
get the plan back on track, right?

Easy as that, man.

Though,

I knew this guy.

We were installing
a puppet regime in Haiti,

and we fucked
with the wrong witch doctor.

I was making cookie
with his daughter.

Before you could say, "Cut up
a chicken and read its entrails".

I've seen a lot of dead guys.

Like, heads blowed off.

Arms in those heads.

Feet.

I don't know whose feet they were,
but man, that guy was... dead!

Who's marked for death again?

Me, Josh.

Gotta go.

- Thanks for the pep talk, asshole.
- Anytime, bro.

Ball cancer.

Great.

To your health.

My health can suck my dick.

Some mood on a nice day like this.

What's so nice about it?

The sun's shining, margin's up.

I don't know.

Makes me want to fill my rifle
with potential and shoot a duck.

I'm Dot Foxley.

Vodka soda.

Martini for Mr. Grumpy.

Ken Fitzpatrick.

Of Fitzpatrick Motors?

What's a big successful boy like you
doing in a dive like this?

Thanks.

You know, I have had my eye
on your fine establishment for a while.

You with the feds?

No, business school.

Our assignment was to start
a mock company and hide all our profits.

Nothing beats used car dealership
to conceal revenue.

That place is my fucking albatross.
I can't find a salesman to save my life.

You don't need another salesman.

You need someone
who knows the car racket inside and out.

Let me guess... a broad.

You're big picture.

Upper management.

You should have someone
working under you.

Another round.

I haven't met a woman
who cared about cars since my ex-wife.

I do not believe you're single.

That cooze ruined my life.

Her and the demon spawn
she left behind.

Did you know they're using maggots
in hospitals again to clean wounds?

- What the fuck are you talking about?
- They only eat the dead flesh,

but they take a long time.

Amputation is much more efficient,
don't you think?

Cut that useless limb right off.

Amputation.

Dreams are bullshit, right?

Dreams are wishes your heart makes
when you're sleeping.

That never come true, right?

Well, any dream can come true,

if you work hard enough.

What if you don't want the fucking dream
to come true, turd pickler?

What did that carnie psychic
say to you?

She told me
my life was going to shit.

Sounds like
you got your money's worth.

Hold my calls.

She'll hold shit.

Why not?

- You're fired.
- Fuck you. You can't fire me.

- I can do any fucking thing I want.
- I am a shareholder, and I object.

Object to this!

You're fired too!

I figured out
what's wrong with this place: You.

Everything you touch turns to shit.

You're like a cooler,
a diseased limb...

and I'm amputating.

Mr. Fitzpatrick, quick word.

The fuck are you doing here?
I fired you.

Sir, I know
this is a very stressful time for you,

but please
don't fire Richard... or me.

This is a very trying time for him...

and me.

I'm worried that the stress
is too much for his psyche,

especially considering everything
that's happened to him, and... me.

Welcome to "Planet Who Gives A Fuck?"

Population: Me.

You think I don't have any problems?

Problems?
Sir, is there anything I can do?

What,
are you gonna get me a new pair of...

dice.

Dice?

No, I didn't think so, asshole.

Useless sacks of skin.

- Just tell him that you're sorry.
- That fucking curse.

That's why Ken fired me.
And who said you can stay?

Richard, I am not leaving
until we solve this, okay?

Because you and I both know
there's no such thing as a curse.

Says the shmuck
who claims to be my conscience.

People use superstition
as an excuse for poor life choices.

They believe bad things will happen,
and as a result, bad things happen.

Look, it's like losing your job
is all in your head.

What? This is how I sleep.

And apparently
that's how you sleep: Pink PJs.

Nice.

What's that?
Right there. Backdoor.

- Backdoor.
- What? What the fuck is it?

It's... It's like scarring.

It's an odd...
train-track-like configuration.

Train tracks?

That psychic
said I was marked for death.

Death?
What are you talking about?

Come on. Get with the program.

My nightmares,
the prophecy, the shadowy figure.

How fucking dense are you?

- Come in.
- "Come in?"

Are you out of your fucking mind?
That could be anybody!

You answer it. If they're here
to get me, they'll kill you first.

- No, but...
- Yeah.

How nice of your to stop by
and not want to kill Richard.

Just tell him there's no such thing
as a stupid prophecy, okay?

I just wanted you to know
that no matter what happens:

Unemployment,

poverty

eventual depression
and breakdown of one's self-esteem.

Or a prophecy.

We are all in this together.

Now...

what can I do to help you relax?

Well, I can think of a lot of things,
but first, I'd like to start...

Crud.

- Broken glass!
- You okay?

Get away from me.

Get away from me!

You don't want me to stay?

- Are you okay?
- Train tracks.

Broken glass.

Fire!

Not my fucking vodka, you idiot!

Good god, the prophecy.

Justin?

Justin!

Where's my son?

What the fuck are you talking about?
You lost custody six months ago.

Quiet. The insurance people are here.

Really?

You're gonna fake your own son's death
to collect the insurance money?

I'm homeless now, thanks to you,
so what are you gonna do about it?

I don't give a shit.

Why don't you live
with your magic carpet salesman?

Richard?

Richard, I owe you an apology.

By some freakish twist
of doomsday fate, there's a possibility

that you are marked for death,
and that means...

Wait! As your conscience, so am I!

Man up, Larry.

Fitzy?

I know what happened in there.

So do I.

No more porn archives.

You didn't jump at the chance
to have sex with me.

- I did so.
- I tried to use sex to sooth you,

but what you wanted...

was a hug.

Some tender loving Sonja.

Stop acting so gay.

I want the world to know it, Fitzy.

You've changed.

This is the new Richard Fitzpatrick,

everyone!

He is a sensitive man,
and I love him for it.

What the fuck are you all staring at?

I'm still the same asshole
I've always been.

I'm not gonna let some...

fucking...
bullshit nightmare prophecy change that.

As god as my witness,

I wanted to pour the pork
to Sonja last night,

and do you know why?

'Cause I'm Richard fucking Fitzpatrick.

And I'm getting my life back.

Fuck.

Okay, it's got its own kitchen,

a queen-sized bed,
and a hide-a-bed in the couch.

Now, air conditioner
doesn't work and cable TV.

So long as I got porn.

Now, we cannot hide
from fate in this motel room.

Yes, I can.

Maybe this prophecy is the wake-up call
we've been waiting for.

A little nudge
to get your life back on track.

Only way to get my life back on track
is for me to get to the track.

Richard, how could you think
about horses at a time like this?

I need money, dumb-ass.
Plus I got a tip on a rigged horse.

Fuck the dealership.
Fuck my old man.

And if you tell anyone
you checked out my ass, fuck you too.

Richard, I will make you a deal.

I've...

I've put aside
some funds for an emergency.

Wait... I've been choking down blended
and you've been holding out on me?

I will put that money down
on your horse,

if you promise me two things.

One:
You must apologize to your father.

Why would I apologize
to that petrified sack of ass?

You remember
what the fortune teller said?

You must make amends
to the person you've wronged.

Our lives may depend on it.

- So, start with Ken.
- And what else?

Well, now that I've been banned
from the dealership,

- I need a place to stay.
- For fuck's sake.

Those are my terms.

Fine, but you gotta get
to the bookie now.

Cherry Bombed in the 5th.
And if you fuck this up,

we won't need a prophecy or a nightmare.
I'll fucking kill you myself.

Get your hands off me.

Get out of here!

Everyone is welcome
at Ruptal's Prestige Autos.

Come on in.
Get into the old country...

My plum! What are you doing here?

My stupid brother burned down
my stupid house and everything I own.

I need a place to stay.

And, you've come to give me
your change of address?

Rupey!

- You want to stay with me.
- What do you want me to do?

Live on the street
like I'm some hobo?

I will drive you
to the street myself.

Hello. Private conversation.

It's so very private
when you screech like the unfed vulture!

Easy.

You know the rules.
No Fitzpatricks allowed.

It'll be fun, like...

like a sleepover with benefits.

She has nowhere to go.

And we Pashtuns are renowned
the world over for our hospitality.

Now you are proud of our heritage,

when it promises you plenty of access
to her walls of sugar!

Cousin, please,
we have plenty of room in our tent!

You live inside a tent
in your garage?

You know you're not refugees?

You aren't refugees, right?

It is comfortable, cost-effective,
and it reduces our carbon footprint.

I'm a Fitzpatrick!

I deserve to be treated with dignity,
respect,

and fresh towels!

My plum, come.

I will furnish every linen you desire.

For a few days.

A tent...

Fuck.

You look like shit.

I look like a younger
sexier version of your tired old ass.

Drink it all in,
'cause this is how you end up.

Same genetic code,
same miserable fate.

Read the sign. It says,
"Reserved for Fitz." Fuck off.

I've been drinking here since you were
doing the backstroke in my ball.

I sit where I want.

You got something on this?

A sure thing.

You're the unluckiest guy in town.

I bet your horse loses.

There's a sure thing.

Put your money where your mouth is.

When my horse wins,
I get my old job back.

And when your horse loses,
you get the fuck out of my life,

- I never have to see you again.
- I'd say that's a win-win.

See if you are stronger than a bunny!

Try Punch-a-Bunny... if you dare!

- You are not welcome here.
- Need to speak to your fortune teller,

figure out a way to save Richard's life,
and essentially my own.

That's all very interesting, Mr. Larry,
but there is no fortune teller here.

Of course there is. She told Richard
all about his unfortunate fate.

We have Punch-a-Bunny,
a Dynamite Dunking Fool

and a condemned child's ride
for which we are not liable.

But no fortune teller.

Okay, this...

this is bad. This is bad.

Richard is far too emotionally immature
to show remorse,

and he's never going to apologize
to his father, and without his help...

Fuzzy dice.

- How much for the dice?
- Last pair? Are you kidding me?

They're not for sale.
They're bestowed only on those

who can conquer
the almighty Punch-a-Bunny.

Ken desperately wants new fuzzy dice.

Okay? Please! There is no time.

What's the matter?

Are you afraid to take on the bunny,
you unnaturally tall Caucasian man?

What?

That is racist.

How come you want you job back
if you don't have a licence to sell?

I need a place of operations.
Phone. Free coffee.

Sonja.

That homo-hideaway
you keep going on about?

We'll see how you feel about it
when you're waiting outside in line.

I'll burn the place down
before you get my business.

You haven't got the balls.

They're off!

Rope Back Up
pulling for the early lead.

Simple Season's up
close in the early going.

Long Shot and Cherry Bombed
is right there as well.

Cherry Bombed has made a decisive move,
and is on a mission here,

at outrageous odds.

He's overtaken Simple Season.

Will Simple Season be able to respond
to the challenge of Cherry Bombed

as they head over
to the top of the stretch?

It's Cherry Bombed, fully extended

and Long Shot is trying to hold on.

Simple Season,
as they head towards the wire...

This is going to be close!

And Cherry Bombed has done it!

He won it by half-a-length!

A massive upset at incredible odds!

50 to 1!

We're saved!

My sure thing came in.

I'm rich!

Yes, we are rich...

with possibility!

What the fuck are you talking about?

You went to the bookie?

You got my money, right?

But, I got these!

I did bad,

to achieve good,

to save our lives.

As per the prophecy,

we make amends.

Consider this a symbolic
and heartfelt

gift of apology.

Richard, he may not show it,
but your son loves you.

And all he's asking for
is your forgiveness,

and his job back.

And my fucking money, Larry.

Even when you win, you lose.

Hello.

I'm Dot Foxley,
your new office manager,

and I can't tell you how excited I am

to be part
of the Fitzpatrick Motors family.

Hold on tight, Richard Fitzpatrick.

Sync & corrections by Monkeymann