Faulk ‘N Schette: Buddy Cops – Episode 203
They’re cops. They’re buddies. They’re buddy cops. This is their story.
Episode 203 – Crash Into Me
Schette: Oh my God, this shawarma is horrible.
Faulk: Well this place was your idea, Harry. Besides, it’s important to try new things.
Schette: I think I’m gonna barf.
Schette: Who opens a Syrian restaurant, anyway?
(Det.’s Faulk and Schette’s lunch is interrupted by a loud crash from outside…)
Schette: Great. An excuse to leave. Thanks for the meal, Bholvar!
Bholvar: (angrily) You pay! You pay!
Schette: (whispering to Ricky) I don’t understand his accent.
(Harry and Ricky run outside to see an ambulance lying on its roof in the middle of the street…)
Schette: (grinning) Quick! Somebody call an ambulance! (elbows Ricky) Get it?
(The detectives are kneeling at the front cab of the ambulance, where a paramedic is hanging upside-down by his seat belt…)
Schette: (chortles) Hey, do you need an ambulance?
Paramedic: That’s very funny.
Schette: Thank you.
Faulk: What’s your name?
Faulk: Just hang in there, Mike.
Faulk: We’re gonna get you some help.
Mike: There’s no time! You gotta get me out of here. I can smell oil leaking.
Schette: Can’t you just, like, crawl out?
Mike: I can’t. The seat belt’s jammed. I’m stuck!
(Bholvar, the Syrian restaurant proprietor, is angrily tapping his foot on the asphalt behind Harry…)
Bholvar: You pay now!
Schette: This isn’t the time, Bholvar. We’re hangin’ out with our friend Mike. Ha! Ya hear that, Mike?
Mike: I heard. Very good.
Schette: Thank you.
(Bholvar bends over and peers into the ambulance cab…)
Bholvar: You want shawarma or kibbeh?
Schette: You better order. (cups a hand around his mouth, whispers) He’s Syrian.
Mike: Uh. Shawarma, I guess.
Schette: Ooh. Bad choice, Mike. The shawarma tastes like barf.
Mike: Kibbeh, then.
Bholvar: (hollers back into restaurant) Kibbeh! (glances at ambulance) To go!
Schette: You’ve been a great help, Bholvar.
(Harry crawls back out from the ambulance cab and dusts himself off…)
Schette: He’s in there good. I can’t budge him.
Faulk: What’d you do?
Schette: (shrugs) I dunno. Pulled on him for a while.
(An older man taps his cane against the ambulance, feeling around with his hands…)
Old Man: My goodness, is everyone alright?
Schette: Well, this paramedic’s stuck upside-down in an ambulance leaking oil. So what do you think?
Old Man: Oh dear. I didn’t hear him coming. I didn’t have time to react.
Faulk: You were driving the other vehicle?
Old Man: Yes, I’m afraid so.
Schette: What’s the matter with you? You didn’t see an ambulance barreling right at you?
Old Man: No, I’m afraid not. You see, I’m blind.
Old Man: I’m blind. Can’t see?
Faulk: And you’re driving a car.
Old Man: Yes, sir. (fishes around in his pockets) I’ve got my license here somewhere. My name’s Roscoe. But everyone just calls me ‘Blindy’.
Schette: That is awesome. But how in the heck can a blind person drive a car? (turning to Ricky) Is that legal?
Blindy: I’ve passed all my tests. My car gives a series of beeps in different situations. Haven’t gotten a scratch on her yet.
Mike: (blood rushing to his head) How great for you.
Faulk: So you didn’t hear it beep when the ambulance was approaching?
Blindy: I’m afraid I may have had the radio a bit loud.
Schette: You listen to the radio while you’re driving around in your beeping car with no eyeballs?
Bholvar: (to Blindy) You order?
Blindy: I have eyeballs. They just don’t work.
Bholvar: (hollering into restaurant) Eyeball soup!
Schette: No eyeball soup, Bholvar.
Faulk: There shouldn’t even be a radio in that car.
Blindy: (grins, leans in and whispers) I had an Armenian mechanic install it on the hush-hush. Great surround sound.
Faulk: You know you’re speaking to police detectives, right?
Blindy: Oh my goodness. Am I in trouble?
Faulk: A bit.
Mike: Can I get out now?
Schette: Just try to wiggle a little, Mike.
Mike: The gas fumes are making me dizzy.
Schette: That’s nice, Mike. So how do you parallel park without bumping into anything?
Blindy: A series of beeps.
Schette: And how do you merge onto the freeway?
Blindy: A series of different beeps.
Bholvar: You gonna buy or not?
Blindy: Is he talking to me?
Schette: Yeah, he’s a very aggressive and rude (glares at Bholvar) Syrian restauranteur.
Blindy: Oh, wonderful! I’ll take some baklava, if you have it.
Bholvar: (hollering back into the restaurant) Baklava!
Salaa: (walking out onto the street, barefoot) You want good baklava? You come next door, I give you good baklava. Syrian baklava crap.
Bholvar: Syrian baklava not crap! Yemeni baklava crap!
Salaa: You take that back, Syrian dog!
Faulk: What’s going on here?
Schette: Ooh, that’s Salaa. He owns the Yemeni restaurant next door. The Yemeni and the Syrians have a long storied rivalry. I think. I mean it’s the Middle East, so you just gotta assume.
Faulk: I don’t even think Syria and Yemen are close to each other.
Schette: Well, their restaurants are.
(The two restauranteurs wrestle in the street, while Blindy lights a cigarette and tosses the match…)
Blindy: Am I going to get that baklava?
Faulk: What you’re going to get is a ticket for reckless driving, Mr. …Blindy.
Schette: Awesome nickname, by the way. Way to own your handicap.
Blindy: Very well.
Bholvar: (holding Salaa in a headlock) Your mother was whore to Great Syrian Army!
Salaa: My mother died in childbirth and was eaten by goats, you Syrian pig!
Schette: He’s a dog. He’s a pig. I can’t keep track here.
Faulk: We should probably give it one more shot at getting Mike out of that ambulance.
(The two detectives turn around to see the ambulance entirely engulfed in flames…)
Blindy: What’s that? What’s happening?
Faulk: Nothing. Nothing’s happening.
Blindy: (sniffs the aroma of the paramedic’s roasting flesh) Ugh. Syrian food smells horrible.
Schette: (throwing an arm around the old man’s shoulder, chortling) It sure does, Blindy. It sure does.