Call Me Fitz

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.

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