Call Me Fitz (2010–2013): Season 2, Episode 6 - Bring Me the Feet of Dexter Laine - full transcript

You know what
a secret is?

It's a commodity.

It's leverage, control.

The old man's secret?

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 ♪

♪ Without you ♪

♪ I'm half a man ♪

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

See where legendary crooner
Dexter Laine died.

- 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.

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.

Right this way.

Got a gun.

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.

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.

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.

Fine, make it fast.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Gun!

Danke.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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!

Knives!

Whoa!

Where did those come from?

Put your pants on!

Miss Carbs.

So you finally remembered?

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.

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!

- 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.

Dr. Parsons to Cardiology.

Dr. Parsons
to Cardiology.

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.

- Fuck off, Larry.
- What?

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?

"'Ludes and schnapps."

Oh, wow, that should
have worn off by now.

I had it tattooed,

which I instantly regretted.

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.

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.

Sync & corrections by Monkeymann