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Faulk ‘N Schette: Buddy Cops – Episode 110

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 09/19/2011

They’re cops. They’re buddies. They’re buddy cops. This is their story.

Episode 110 – Bad Choices

Schette:  So borrrred!

(Det. Harry Schette is resting his face on his fist, sitting on the balcony of a twenty-eighth floor apartment overlooking Manhattan at night..)

Schette:  How long do we have to babysit this douche?

Faulk:  Until Chief tells us to stop.

Schette:  Boy, I tell ya. If that Chief wasn’t an Indian, I’d really say some stuff about him. Bad stuff.

Faulk:  What does him being an Indian have to do with it?

Schette:  Well you can’t make fun of the Native Americans, Ricky. Think of the plight. Trail of Tears and such.

Faulk:  You make fun of me all the time.

Schette:  Yeah, well you’re not an Indian. You haven’t suffered hardships like the Chief. You know he’s an actual Indian chief?

Faulk:  I know that. And black people haven’t suffered as much as the Indians? Really?

Schette:  Not sure which tribe, though. Arapaho or Navajo or something. Not one of the Oregon Trail ones, I know that.

Faulk:  You’re an idiot.

Schette:  (snapping his fingers)  Winnebago! That’s what he is; a Winnebago indian.

(A man in an expensive silk bathrobe pokes his head out onto the balcony..)

Stockton:  Hey, guys. Feelin’ kinda down here. Can you come keep me company?

Faulk:  Coming, Mr. Stockton.

Schette:  (rolling his eyes as the detectives head back inside)  You know how the Winnebago indians would take care of this situation?

Faulk:  I do not.

Schette:  A dream catcher right in the eye. Pow!

~~~

Stockton:  I just don’t know what to do.

(Gabe Stockton, a failed Wall Street banker, is resting his head in his hands on a sprawling leather couch in the center of his lavish Lower East Side penthouse..)

Schette:  Well whatever you do, don’t kill yourself. ‘Cause we’ll get in huge trouble.

Faulk:  Think of your family, Gabe. They wouldn’t want you doing something foolish.

Stockton:  Aw, they ran out weeks ago. Once Valerie found out we were going to lose everything, she took the girls and left.

Schette:  Jeez, that’s rough. If my wife left me, I don’t know what I’d do. Probably kill my–

Faulk:  (throws Harry a glance)

Schette:  Will myself. I’d will myself to keep moving on and…persevering and stuff.

Stockton:  (shakes his head, gets up and moves toward the balcony)  I can’t. I can’t do this.

Faulk:  (gets in between Gabe and the balcony door)  Can’t let you go out there, Mr. Stockton.

Stockton:  Why not?

Schette:  Because one leap off that railing and all your problems will be gone.

Faulk:  (grabbing Harry by the arm)  Gabe, will you excuse us for a moment? I have to speak to my partner.

Stockton:  (slumps back down on the couch)  Fine.

Schette:  (pointing at the banker)  No suicide while we’re gone. We’ll be really upset with you.

~~~

(Ricky pushes Harry into the guest bedroom and shuts the door behind them..)

Faulk:  What’s the matter with you, man? Why are you so bad at this?

Schette:  This is bullshit, Ricky. We’re good detectives. We should be out looking for those heroin drug smugglers.

Faulk:  Who don’t exist because we made them up to cover up a murder because we hit somebody’s car which was probably like forty dollars in damages.

Schette:  Yeah, but still.

Faulk:  The Chief wants us here, we’re here. He’s the boss.

Schette:  This is some dopey street cop crap. We’re well-honed and highly-refined police detectives. We shouldn’t be on suicide watch duty with some loser millionaire. “Oh, woe is me! I have to buy store-brand soap now. Boo hoo!”

Faulk:  To be fair, he’s not a millionaire anymore. He single-handedly lost his investment firm $2.4 billion dollars, lost everything and is facing prison time. He’s broke now, just like us.

Schette:  Store-brand soap works just fine, dammit!

Faulk:  We’re getting off-topic here.

~~~

(Harry and Ricky make their way back to the living room..)

Faulk:  Just show a little compassion, will ya?

Schette:  Yeah, whatever.

(Gabe Stockton is on the couch, chugging a plastic bottle of blue liquid..)

Schette:  Whatcha drinkin’ there, buddy?

Stockton:  Clorox.

Schette:  Oh, what flavor?

~~~

(The detectives and the banker are in an ambulance, rushing toward East Anglican Memorial..)

Faulk:  Can this go any faster?

Schette:  I’m sorry, Ricky. I thought it was one of them energy drinks the kids like so much.

Faulk:  How do you not know what Clorox is?

Schette:  Mary does the cleaning. I’m a man, dammit!

Stockton:  I don’t feel so good.

Faulk:  We’re almost there, Mr. Stockton.

Schette:  So what does Clorox taste like, anyway?

Faulk:  Harry!

Schette:  What? How many chances am I ever gonna have to actually get an answer to that question?

~~~

(Gabe Stockton is resting and doped up in his hospital bed after having his stomach pumped. The detectives are speaking with Keith, the attending male nurse..)

Keith:  It’s a good thing you got him to us when you did.

Faulk:  Is he gonna be alright?

Keith:  He should be fine. Just keep him away from under the sink for awhile.

Schette:  Are there any pills you can give him that would make him not wanna commit suicide? Some sort of anti-suicide pill?

Keith:  …no.

Schette:  Okay, is there an actual doctor somewhere around here who might know about the anti-suicide pills? ‘Cause, you know, you’re just a male nurse.

Faulk:  Thank you, Keith. We’ll be on our way now.

(The male nurse storms out and Ricky smacks Harry..)

Faulk:  Why you always gotta be an asshole like that?

Schette:  (shrugs)  It’s fun.

Stockton:  (groggily)  Can you officers take me home now? I promise I won’t commit suicide again.

Schette:  A, We’re detectives; and B, we’ll take you home when we’re good and ready; and C, we’re ready.

(The detectives are escorting Gabe outside when they see an ambulance pull up, carrying a wounded man screaming in another language. Harry glances at the man and pulls Ricky and Gabe behind a pillar..)

Faulk:  What’s going on?

Schette:  That guy! That’s the guy!

Stockton:  (mumbling)  I love that guy.

Faulk:  You’re gonna have to be more specific.

Schette:  The Herzegovinian from Long Island. We built his house when we were investigating that Oliver Butler guy. Well, we watched other people build his house. I think I nailed a tile into the roof.

Faulk:  Oh yeah, Brgochev. He doesn’t look so hot.

(Harry pulls one of the paramedics aside as Brgochev is wheeled inside..)

Schette:  ‘Scuse me, what was that man brought in for?

Paramedic:  Gunshot wound. Hunting accident.

Schette:  (turns back to Ricky)  I’m gettin’ a fishy feeling about this.

Stockton:  (eyelids drooping)  I don’t want fish. I already had Clorox for dinner.

~~~

(Gabe is nodding off in a chair in the corner of Brgochev’s hospital room, while Faulk and Schette wait for the Herzegovinian to wake up..)

Brgochev:  (wakes up, glances at the detectives flanking his bed)  What are you two doing here?

Schette:  Heard ya got shot, buddy. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

Faulk:  You know you have to fill out a police report when you’re involved in a shooting.

Brgochev:  It was a hunting accident.

Schette:  What were you hunting? Bosnians?

Brgochev:  (chuckles)

Schette:  (chortles)

Faulk:  Should we call your new house? Contact your family?

Brgochev:  No. That will not be necessary. Really, all of this is unnecessary. In Herzegovina, you get in accident like this, you are told to walk it off.

Schette:  Well you’re one tough hombre, Yuri. I’ll give you that.

Faulk:  You found any work yet?

Brgochev:  Yes. Mr. Butler get me good job down at docks, driving forklift.

Schette:  Ooh, I’ve always wanted to drive one of those. Closest I’ve ever gotten is Shenmue.

Brgochev:  You come by docks sometime. I give you ride.

Schette:  Neato!

Faulk:  Well, we’ll get out of your hair. Maybe take the rest of hunting season off.

Brgochev:  Yes. Is good tip.

(The detectives hustle out of the room and Yuri quickly jumps on the phone..)

Brgochev:  Yes, Mr. Butler. I’m fine. We had a little struggle at the docks, but the next shipment of smuggled heroin drug should be arriving on time. Those detectives drop by while I’m here. We may have to keep an eye on them. … Yes. Goodbye.

(Harry pokes his head back in the room, glancing around..)

Schette:  Say, you didn’t happen to see a dude in a bathrobe all doped up in here, did you?

Brgochev:  (shakes his head)

(Both men glance out the third-story window as a body falls past, followed by a WHUMP!..)

Schette:  (sighs)  Never mind.

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