01x04 - The Flute-itive

[bunniefuu]

Party's over, Skiñata k*ller.

No blood or
candy will be spilled today.

Drop the spoon, Mary Choppins.

You're supercalifragilistic-
expialidoc-under arrest.

Cos-Slayer, put your paw...

Wow, sorry. Long week.

You know what?
Book yourself.

Wait, is this the same place?

Maybe we should arrest
this warehouse.

Aw, come on. Are you serious?
Kobe.

Barkley.

Stan the man, what is the plan?

Harassin' ducks at the pond?

Huh?
Internet p*rn at the library?

- Cap the night with some light arson?
- If it isn't Stan,

who wears a cape
in an obvious attempt

to fly away
from his broken home.

Hey, why don't you lay off him?

It's Zephyr.
The most beautifully damaged

- kid in the eighth grade.
- Yo, Tyge, your lips are pretty chapped.

Is that from your dad's
mouth-kisses

or your mom's breastfeeding?

I haven't touched
mother's milk in a year

and you know it!
Come on, boys.

Whoa.
Is that you riding a demonic snake

- that's eating Grimsburg?
- Oh, yeah, it's just a drawing

and not a prophetic vision
I keep having.

- You're pretty different, aren't you?
- Me? Heh. Nah.

- Just the normal amount of different.
- That's too bad.

Wow, that is one hot, brooding



Ugh.
I hate this flavor.

You okay?
Lookin' a little tired.

Oof. I just need to get
to the weekend.

And look,
it's already hump day.

If by hump day you mean
the second hump on the camel,

then yeah,
because it's Thursday.

Marcia Gay Harden!

The Grimsburg
Miniature Competition.

There's not much time
to make not much of a room.

Mr. Flute.
After your award-winning

Cottagecore mudroom last year,

- I'm eager to see what's next.
- Well, Jebediah,

I thought I'd go
in a different direction...

a real back-to-basics
Scandinavian kitchenette.

Well, the stools are a bit rickety.

The fridge door won't fully close.
And this Kn*fe...

huh.
Is this...

- a toy?
- I was out of time,

and I may have borrowed it from my

son's Barbie Dream Investment Property.

Judas!

Come on, Jebi D.
It was one little mistake.

In our tiny community,
little mistakes are huge.

You are...
disqualified.

How dare you?
Ahh!

After all I've given to the
Mature Amateur Miniaturists,

this is like a to-scale Kn*fe
in my full-sized back.

Wish I could return the favor.

Weird.
I was just here yesterday.

- This was found on his body.
- Sharp enough for what?

Like cashmere in the dryer,

it's time for my crime mind
to get shrunk.

...shrunk.

But who could have done this?

Brown hair.
Too coarse for the head.

Too straight for a pube.
More like a mustache.

This is like a to-scale Kn*fe
in my full-sized back.

Wish I could return the favor.

This means the k*ller is...

- Me?
- I'm sorry, Flute.

Run!

- Hey!
- Oh!

Gotta find a disguise.

Ugh.

We got ourselves a fugitive.

I want you checking
every warehouse, farmhouse,

henhouse, outhouse, whorehouse,

"Full House," "Fuller House,"

House of Pancakes,
"The Haunting of Hill House."

That covers
single-family dwellings.

Now let's move to apartments:
"The Apartment,"

apartment 23, where the B
should not be trusted.

- I think we're good, sir.
- Summers, you're with me.

- Let's go prove Flute's innocence, sir.
- No. Flute's a m*rder suspect.

We gotta do our jobs
and track him down.

But Flute would never k*ll.
And I'd know.

He's my best friend.

That's what this
friendship bracelet means.

- What does that one mean?
- Oh, that's the one I made Flute.

But he said it meant nothing

and he'd k*ll me if I tried
to give it to him again.

The only person
who believes in you is I, me.

What is us gonna do?

Wide-ruled lines.

Residue from a scented eraser.
Written with...

a jelly-grip JellyJoy gel pen
you'd find in a middle school?

- Pentos.
- Do you mind? I'm kind of pee shy.

Oh, I'm the opposite.
Very peesuadable.

If I even think about... move!

I'm also easily impooenced,
so please move! Ah...

"Have lunch with us?

Class pet cemetery. Zephyr."

- Uh, euphori-yeah!
- I don't know.

I'm dealing
with my dad being a k*ller.

Forget about your dad.
He's gone.

Who knows the next time
you'll see him?

- Why are you framing me?
- I... I am ashamed to admit

I frame so many I cannot
put a name to your face.

It's me. Flute.
And I found this at the crime scene.

I couldn't have done it, Marvin.
I was at show choir last night.

Did I get the solo?
No. Thank you for asking.

I am no longer doing
show choir.

But you have been set up.

And whoever did it forgot
to check their work.

This isn't just a hilarious
"69" joke I don't understand.

It's a secret code.

And it may be the key
to keeping me out of prison.

But it's still funny.



And I shan't let someone else
ruin the life

of my nemesis-cum-protégé.

After all, what is a cat
with no mouse?

Would you watch a show
called "Tom"?

No. I need my Jerry.

You may bunk with me
while you clear your name.

Then it looks like
I'm going undercover

in the most cutthroat and
lawless world known to man...

- middle school.
- Hey look, it's Ron Obese-sley.

cr*ck the code,
solve the case, clear my name.



Uh-oh.

Immediately no.

Does this mean anything to you?

Well, I don't know
how to void this,

so blame it on inflation, kid.

Has to be someone who blends in.

Someone creepy-looking.
Someone like...

That creep.

Um, you sure we should pursue
Flute on an empty stomach?

We could stop
at Cheesecake Factory.

Hey, just because
Flute's your friend

doesn't mean you gotta believe
he's innocent.

Yeah. That's a good point.

Let me turn on the radio.

♪ Believe in people sometimes ♪

♪ When they're your friends ♪

♪ Believe in your friends
until the end ♪

♪ Sometimes ♪

Damn.
Music's really good these days.

But we can't listen
to the radio right now.

We have to find Flute.

Remember, they like weird,
but don't be too weird,

- 'cause that's just weird.
- Oh, hey, Stan. You made it.

Welcome to the Trauma Club,

a group of everyday American
teens but with incredibly dramatic

and horrific backstories.
That's Kyler.

He's only 12
but already has face tattoos

and severe anger problems.

Stitney's an ex-pageant star
who was pushed to her limit

and now she can't stop
scream-crying.

- I'm happy!
- And that's Renee. She's just really tall.

So tall we could never, like,
actually hear her backstory,

but she sounds
really traumatized.

- So what's your damage, cape boy?
- Um, uh, well...

my dad abandoned me today.
For a second time.

Because he m*rder*d someone.

- Whoa. Trauma-rama.
- Epic sadness!

- Let's get this kid some eyeliner.
- It's a low bar,

but I've never been
more proud of him.

No, stay! Bad!
Back to hell.

Ahh!

No, I'll never go back
to my job on Wall Street!

Oh, yes, you will.
You... wait, what?

- Aren't you from the IRS?
- Me? No, I'm Marvin Flute,

undercover detective
trying to clear his name.

- And you didn't frame me?
- No. My name's Cal.

I've been hidin' out here
ever since I walked away

from making millions
on Wall Street.

You walked away
from the heady thrill

of gambling with people's
life savings for... this?

Here's the thing
about cleaning up vomit,

once the sawdust dries
and the dust pan's full...

- you're done. No more vomit.
- You're not haunted by it,

replaying it in your mind
night after sleepless night,

agonizing over some clue
you might have missed

until you can't take it anymore

and you rush out of bed
to the crime scene

in your T-shirt and boxers.

But you find nothing
except a cold breeze.

And that's when you realize you
popped out of your boxers a little.

It's probably not indecent exposure,
since it was clearly an accident,

and the uniform on duty
didn't see anything...

or maybe just pretended
not to see anything.

There's none of that.

No agonizing, no insomnia,
no haunting.

Uh, except for the ghost
upstairs.

Let me show you
what my nights are like.

Whoa.

- Pretty nice man-roof you've got.
- Not just me.

All of us janitors have run away
from our high-stress jobs...

brain surgeons,
corporate execs...

- even Prince Philip.
- But look at me now.

I flat-mopped a diarrhea, I did.
Pip, pip!

See? None of us have
a care in the world.

And we get a solid ten hours
of sleep every night.

Ten? They make that
many hours of sleep?

You could have it too, Flute.

You know,
this gas station has beer

- that can be stolen.
- Oh. Uh, okay.

Then allow me.

Now we're cookin'
with felonies, baby.

Wait, I didn't
have to convince you.

- I mean, isn't that my whole...
- job?

Goin' somewhere, kid?

Yeah, I'm gonna walk
right out that door,

- and you're gonna let me.
- Oh, yeah?

- And why would I do that?
- Because you're safe.

And I'm chaos, baby.
I've been abandoned, kidnapped.

I'm screwed up beyond belief.

Now get out of my way
before I prove it to ya.

Take me with you.

- Party at my house!
- Let's get wasted.

"Reba McEntire Red."

Flute always said she has
the best hair in country.

Ah, there's a print.

Go ahead and scan it,
see if we can get an ID.

Oh, I'd love to, but
my scanner hasn't worked

- since the last update.
- Listen, I know this is hard for you.

But you don't always know
people as well as you think.

I used to have a partner too.

We were close.
Really close.

Didn't just work together.
We lived together.

Even slept in the same bed.
Showered together too.

Turns out
he was gay the whole time.

- You think you know someone.
- Um, yeah.

But it kind of seems
like you did know.

Ask yourself, how well
do you really know Flute?

Match found. Marvin Flute.

- Let's bust a Flute.
- Seriously?

You're almost one of us.

Meet me at school tomorrow
and let's finish it.

Is it a medical condition
to spin that much?

Stan, this party's getting
a little out of hand.

Somebody's gonna end up sleeping

with their best friend's ex-boyfriend

and then get blackmailed
into writing a play about it.

But you're always telling me
to do stuff like this.

- "Embrace the chaos"?
- Yeah, the fun chaos.

This is dark chaos.

Look around... no kids' lives
should be this dramatic.

You're just jealous
that I have real friends

and don't need you anymore.

Come to think of it,
if I imagined you,

- I could easily un-imagine you.
- Wait, Stanny, let's talk about this.

Marvin! Hate to interrupt
your dreamy bag reverie,

but it's only a matter of time

before the manhunt
turns into manfound.

You must get back
to clearing your name.

Or I could just change it
to a name that's already clear

and will totally blend in.
Goodbye, Marvin Flute.

Hello, middle school janitor
Rodney p*rn.

Um, Marvin?

Any closer to solving
this twisty, turny casey?

Pentos, I told you.
I'm a janitor now.

K*llers aren't my problem anymore.

Now, if someone murders a
toilet, sure, give me a ring.

Unless it's on the freakend.

I was just wondering
what you're working on there.

Using my new free time to
get back into making miniatures.

But I'm finding myself
a bit uninspired.

Maybe take a break.

Have I ever told you what I
indulge in on my freakends?

The school's Lost and Found.

A collection of cold cases
with no one to solve them.

Nope. No solving for me.

Although if I did,
I'd take note

of the sweat stains
along the brim here

and scan yearbook photos
for oily-skinned boys.

And based on the wear
of these wheels,

I'd deduce this belonged to
someone who walked to school,

eliminating the carpoolers
and bus jockeys.

- And this one?
- Hand-sewn burrito pocket.

The initials M.F.

A patch that reads
"J.V. Forensics Club

- Wait, it's mine.
- You can run from the law,

but you cannot run
from yourself.

cr*ck the code,
solve the case, clear my name.

Call my tailor.

The Superlative Gala?

I think I heard the Stable Boys
talking about this.

Oh, it'll be something
to talk about, all right.

Incriminating pictures
of the Stable Boys

that I photoshopped.

When these photos
get projected on the screen,

it will destroy their perfect world

and set them on a life path
of irreparable trauma.

Do we ever just get, like, pizza?

What do I do?
I wish Mr. Flesh was here.

Flesh, you still in there?
Is anyone in there?

- Who are you?
- My name's Oil.

Eee-ahh!

Here. Whoever framed me

must have snuck in
through this tiny window,

which means the k*ller is skinny...
middle school skinny.

And if it's definitely a student,

what would a kid do
with these numbers?

It's not a locker combination
or a student ID.

Wait... no.
It doesn't say "BOOBLESS."

Life can be real easy
if you know how to read it.

You should check it out.

Sweet Dewey Decimal.
It's for a library book.

But who took it out last?

Gotcha.

Most Nearsighted
goes to Nedward Weems.

Next, Most Affectionate
Friend Group.

I... I can't do it.
Look at their parents.

I want my dad to be
that proud of me someday.

Ugh, your dad's not coming back.
Trust me, I made sure.

I knew you needed a push
to join my Trauma Club,

so I cut the cord...
in this case, with a tiny Kn*fe.

- Why would you do that to me?
- So that all of us lonely,

excessively hot freaks
could finally have friends.

Trust me, Stan.
We'll be there for you.

- But your dad is never gonna show up.
- I know who framed me.

And I've got proof.

At the crime scene,
you accidentally left this,

uh, library thingy.

You know, like, the tiny paper
inside the book cover?

Does anyone know
what that's called?

You know, it's got the dates
and names of who took it out.

I... there really should be

a name for something like that.
Stan!

Fleeze, Frute!
Wait, let me try that again.

Summers, get out of the way.

I have to catch
that gorgeous bad boy

before he hurts
my nondescript sad boy.

No! Today I learned
that no matter how well

you think you know somebody,
you never know

- what they're capable of.
- Let him go, Summers.

That song we heard
in the car today,

I can't get it out of my head.

And I think
there's a reason for that.

Because you have to...

♪ Believe in people sometimes ♪

♪ When they're your friends ♪

♪ Believe in your friends ♪

♪ Until the end sometimes ♪

Stan, come with me.

I'm the only one
who understands you.

You're wrong.
Someone does understand me.

The real me.

Ooh, do not send me back, Stanny.

You do not wanna see
what's buried

in the recesses of your mind.

It's over,
Timothy Shallow-grave.

How'd you put all
the pieces together?

Because I'm a detective.
Cal?

This trauma will only
make me hotter!

Goodbye, Cal.

And farewell, Rodney p*rn.

Rodney p*rn?
He sounds cool.

He was, Summers.
He really was.

Wow, I can't believe
I send my kid here.

This place is a dump.

Wow, Nedward,
it looks like your glasses

are as broken as your home.

I just wish I had one friend
who understood me.

My name's Oil.

Aw. No one likes Oil.

What are these kids doing
to each other?

♪ Believe in your friends ♪

♪ Until the end ♪

♪ Sometimes ♪