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Faulk ‘N Schette: Buddy Cops – Episode 203

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 10/27/2011

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.

Faulk:  Relax

Schette:  Who opens a Syrian restaurant, anyway?

Faulk:  Syrians?

Schette:  Ridiculous.

(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?

Faulk:  (sighs)

~~~

(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?

Paramedic:  Mike.

Faulk:  Just hang in there, Mike.

Schette:  Ha!

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?

Mike:  What?

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.

Schette:  …what?

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.

Schette:  Interesting.

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…)

Schette:  Ooh.

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.

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