Totally Radical Sportz!

King Family Residence – Episode 1.09

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 06/13/2010

“King Family Residence is filmed before a live studio audience..”

Episode 9 – “The Jail”

(On a series of mounting technicalities, Martin King & Jafar al-Abin find themselves imprisoned in the Charleston Correctional Facility in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine..)

Martin:  Well, this sucks.

Jafar:  (nods)  Yes, prison is a terrible place.

Martin:  No, I mean being in Dover. There’s nothing to do here!

Jafar:  I’m afraid you have not yet fully begun to grasp the severity of our situation.

Martin:  I get it, Jafar. We’re in jail. Jeez, get over it man.

Jafar:  And it is all your fault.

Martin:  Oh, here we go. Flashback time!

~~~

(Jafar’s version..)

Jafar:  I was just minding my own business at the Bazaar one afternoon, doing my inventory, when in walked trouble.

(Martin bounds into the Bazaar on a pogostick, knocking over display cases and sunglass stands..)

Martin:  Check it out! I got a pogostick!

(Bennie peeks his head out of the freezer where he’s eating ice cream straight out of the tub..)

Bennie:  Awesome!

(Martin hops up & down repeatedly on a pair of shades..)

Martin:  Man, you sell a lot of sunglasses here.

Jafar:   Can you please refrain from pogosticking in my establishment?

Martin:  (tosses the pogostick into the chip aisle)  Whatever, dude. I’m all pogosticked out. I got a business proposition for ya.

Jafar:  (sighs deeply)  Can we please just skip it this week? Your plans for monetary gain always end in misery.

Martin:  Not this one! We’re gonna be gunrunners!

Jafar:  No. No. A thousand times no!

Martin:  Relax, we’re not selling them to bad guys. We’re selling them to collectors. They’re World War II guns.

Jafar:  And where did you get your hands on a number of WW2 guns?

Martin:  Haven’t yet. We gon’ steal ’em, nigga!

Jafar:  Nope. Count me out. I will not go with you on another illegal endeavor.

Martin:  Too late! We’re already there!

(Jafar looks up to find they’re standing outside the Rumford National Civil War Historical Society..)

Jafar:  How did you do that?

Martin:  Magic!

~~~

(Once inside, Martin starts picking the lock on a storage case full of old rifles..)

Jafar:  Shouldn’t we be wearing gloves?

Martin:  Who are you, Billy Ripken?

Jafar:  Aren’t you concerned with fingerprints?

Martin:  The only thing I’m concerned about is is my wallet gonna be big enough to hold all the cash I’m about to get. Man, these are some old-ass guns.

Jafar:  I believe these are Civil War-era guns.

Martin:  Aw, man! Where the WW2 guns at?

Jafar:  This is a Civil War historical society. There are no WW2-era guns housed here.

Martin:  Well, that sucks! Who would wanna buy Civil War guns. That was like the most boringest war ever!

(Just then the men notice a squad car pull up to the front door..)

Martin:  Aw shit, it’s on now. Here, load this.

Jafar:  (catches a Civil War rifle)  What? What are you planning to do, Martin?

Martin:  Follow my lead, sand crab.

(Martin charges out the front door yelling, firing his musket. Jafar sighs wearily and follows suit..)

~~~

(Martin is sitting arms crossed on the top bunk of their cell, rolling his eyes..)

Martin:  So that’s what happened, eh Jafar? Nice try, Rashomon.

Jafar:  What?

Martin:  I dunno. Anyway, this is what really happened. Anymore of that toilet wine left?

Jafar:  (dryheaves)  You said this was Hawaiian Punch!

~~~

(Martin’s version..)

Martin:  You were just minding your business at the Bazaar one afternoon, doing dumb work stuff, when in walked awesome. Wait, did I say “walked”? I meant “rocketed”! JETPACK!

(Martin rockets through a side wall of Jafar’s Bazaar and knocks over every shelf in the store..)

Martin:  Jetpack, motherfuckers!

(Jafar sprints out from behind the counter, desperately trying to corral Martin..)

Jafar:  What are you doing, you fool!

Martin:  I’m half-jet now!

(Bennie pokes his head out from the freezer, faceful of ice cream..)

Bennie:  Tubular!

(Martin finally shuts off the rocket boosters and drops to the ground, removing the jetpack..)

Martin:  Still workin’ on landings. ‘Sup, my niggas?

Jafar:  (looking around his destroyed store)  Are you going to help me clean all this up?

Martin:  (scoffs)  No time for cleaning, there’s money to be had! American money!

Jafar:  (nods, stroking his chin)  I’m intrigued. Your plans are always foolproof. Tell me more.

Martin:  (now inexplicably surrounded by bikini-clad babes)  We’re gonna borrow Civil War guns and make a fortune! Ain’t that right, girls?

Babes:  (giggle, bounce)

Jafar:  By “borrow”, I assume you mean steal.

Martin:  Sho nuff!

Martin:  (pops his jetpack back on, grabs Jafar and rockets through the roof)  To the historical society!

(They race across the sky as a T-Rex lunges at them with his mighty jaws.)

~~~

(Martin drops from the ceiling of the historical society on a cord, Mission: Impossible-style..)

Jafar:  (from inside the ceiling)  I’m pretty sure there aren’t any lasers on the floor, Martin.

(Just then a mustachioed gentleman bursts through the door with two hulking henchmen..)

Vanderbilt:  It is I! Cornelius Vanderbilt! The greatest cat burglar the world has ever seen! Those American Civil War relics are mine! Get ’em, boys!

(The henchmen pull Martin & Jafar out of the ceiling and throw them into the corner..)

Martin:  You’ll never get away with this, Vanderbilt!

Vanderbilt:  (hands on hips)  I laugh at you! Ha HA!

Jafar:  (hisses at Martin)  You know this gentleman?

Martin:  (nods)  He’s Cornelius Vanderbilt, the second-greatest cat burglar the world has ever seen. He’s my arch-nemesis and he smells like boogers.

(Martin leaps to his feet and strikes a kung-fu stance, literally saying..)

Martin:  Hiya!

Vanderbilt:  (spins around, twiddles his mustache)  So, it’s come to this.

~~~

(Back in the cell, Martin is “wrapping up” the story..)

Martin:  And then there was this awesome karate fight and I was like “Bia! Bia!” and he was all like “Blam! Blam! Blam!” And then these Civil War ghosts floated in, took their guns and started shooting each other. And you were like, “Save me, Martin! I pee-peed my pants-pants!” And I was like, “I’ll save you!” and I grabbed my jetpack and–

Jafar:  None of that happened, you ingrate.

Martin:  (shrugs sheepishly)  Some of it, sorta.

Jafar:  (sighs deeply, muttering to himself)  Six more weeks to go. Six more weeks to go.

Martin:  (lies back on the top bunk, hands folded behind his head)  What’s for dinner tonight?

Jafar:  Gruel.

Martin:  Mmm, I love gruel.

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