01x07 - A Civil w*r

[bunniefuu]

[whistles]

[quacks]

[screaming]

Bite me.
You stink!

Eat masonry, duffy!

[angry shouting]

[piano clanging]

Bunch of thin-skinned,
no-humor pansies.

You tell them an ice-breaker
or two about women's libbers,

gays, environmentalists,
several minorities,

the homeless,
couple of religions, anorexics,

obese people, the handicapped,
old farts, baldness

and people who walk real goofy
'cause they just had a vasectomy

and suddenly,
they get all sensitive

like I'd offended one of them
or something!

Makes you wonder why they even
asked me to talk

in the first place.

Wasn't it community service for
that incident with the ladder

at the second-story window
of the girls' dormitory?

I told the judge
it was sort of case-related...

in a way.

All I know is it's a good
thing Cornfed was here

to rescue you today.

Yeah. That was truly amazing
how you ran up on stage

told a few
amusing anecdotes

then reasoned the mob

into taking the noose
off his neck.

MAMBO:
Not to mention how you
got everyone

to hold hands,
sway back and forth

and sing
"Everything is beautiful"

in polyphonic harmony.

Hey, any ex-wandering
troubadour/hostage negotiator

could have done it.

Look, I didn't need bacon
breath here to save me, okay?

I could've handled
those pantywaists.

I was just waiting
for the right moment

to wind up the old haymaker
and start dropping the bombs.

Yeah, right.

All we saw you dropping
up there was your load.

[laughing]

Kids, if I may.

You should always
respect a parent

over a close and seemingly more
courageous friend of the family,

no matter how moronic,
obnoxious, craven and cowardly

the parent seems to be.

And don't
you forget it.

Yo! Yo! Yo!
Hey, over here, man!
Throw the ball!

Now, here's something

I have a-- shall we say--
small amount of expertise at.

I bet you didn't know
your old man played

a little hoops
in high school.

That's right.
I once almost covered a guy

whose dad sold a car
to the sister

of the all-city high school
basketball champ.

Guess I ought to show
these asphalt amateurs

the meaning of showtime.

[yelling]

Go for it, Corn.

Let's see
what you can do.

Move that casaba.

Well, I'll give it a whirl.

Shucks. Caught some rim.

Whoa, dude.

Doctor C!

Did you play
in high school too?

No. I was once kidnapped

by a cabal of kick-boxing ninja
who forced me nightly

to play a deadly game
of steel cage basketball

where the losers
were beheaded.

Yeah, well... I'll bet
there wasn't a sh*t clock.

And finally,
remember, kids:

Floss daily
to avoid tartar buildup,

carpool whenever
possible, and over-tip

food and beverage
servers.

It's 80% of their income.

[playing fanfare]

ALL:
Surprise!

Why... well,
thank you, everyone.

I, I got to admit,
since my birthday was last week

and no one said anything,
I, I thought you forgot.

We did, you flyspeck.

This is for Cornfed.

Cornfed? His birthday's
not for another six months!

We know, but
we just couldn't wait.

Happy birthday, Cornster!

[cheering]

Oh, by the way.

In all the excitement,
we forgot to tell you.

You got a case!

[growls]

All right,
let's book, birthday boy.

Everyone thinks you're
so much better than me.

Let them watch
while I cr*ck this case open

like a three-egg omelet.

Let them see for themselves,

you don't have half the
observational skills that I do.

Where the hell
are my keys?

In your right hand.

[grunts]

"In your right hand."

Little bovine
pain in the... [door slams]

DUCKMAN:
It's a new game out here,
clove-foot.

No soapboxes to stand on,
no naive kids eating up

your every stealing-
from-their-father move.

This is my turf.

I'm in charge here,

and I'm only gonna
tell you once.

No popping off!

Aah! Well, now look
what you made me do!

I got to go in there with a
picture of me and Vanna White

frolicking naked with a tribe
of pygmies on my chest.

Hmm. Looks like synchronized
swimmers, crocheting mittens,

in a pool filled
with truffles to me.

You're sick.

All right, let's go,
and remember:

I have a perfectly honed
instinct for this work.

You want to learn something,
do exactly as I do.

Imitate my every move.

[yelling and grunting]

Do I have to do
the yell too?

Whoa! Howdy, partner.

Took a sh*t
to the keister, huh?

It's the fried food.

The grease makes things
a little slick around here.

Yeah, thanks for the news flash,
hopalong.

Here's an idea
that's sweeping the nation:

Warning signs!

Oh. Keep them up there
on the walls, huh?

[yelling]

My name's Bob,
as in for apples.

Bob Heiny,
I'm general manager here.

Any particular reason you got
a picture of a drag queen

on a shetland pony
licking a flaming banjo
on your chest?

Never mind that!

I'm Duckman,
private eye.

I'm here to investigate
the, uh...

you know, the, uh...
thing that needs investigating.

Sorry, partner,
I'm not sure I know
[moos]

what y'all are talking about.

Look, Wyatt, I don't know
how they do things

on the Planet Redneck,
but around here,

we cooperate
with law enforcement officials.

You're only
a private investigator.

Don't sass me, fry boy!

You won't talk, I can always
apply a little persuasion.

Ew... You don't have to get
ugly, son.

Maybe Mrs. De Ree sent for you.
[screams]

Her husband just d*ed.

Come with me.

This is it, gentlemen,
the the De Ree Waffles

and Roast Beef
on a Stick Factory.

Interesting name for a business.

What exactly do you make here?

Waffles and roast beef
on a stick, Duckman.

I know that,
Mr. Second-in-Command,

who wasn't asked
the question.

I was just seeing
if he was cooperating yet.

Mmm. Not bad.

Tastes like
a little something extra

is mixed in with the beef.

Of course there is.
You think a rat problem

like this side of town had
just suddenly goes away?

We like to say at De Rees,
"Roast beef is more

than just a dead cow
with its head chopped off."

Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa!
[crashing]

Here we are.

You might want to go
easy on her.

She's been pretty torn up
since he passed on.

So the midget says, "Enjoy it?

Hell, I was eating lunch
in there."

[laughing]

[gasping]

[expl*si*n]

MAN:
Grease fire!
Grease fire!

Yes? [sniffles] May I help you?

I'm, uh... Duckman,
private detective,

and renaissance duck...

[chuckling]

...at your
beck and call.

And I'm...
Insignificant
at the moment.

We understand there's a case
you need us to investigate.

Yes, there is.

Thank goodness you're here.

Excuse me. Why do you have
a picture of me, a rabbi

and six drunken longshoremen
rolling around

on a rubber bed
on your chest?

[clears throat]
About the case?

[sobbing]

Of course.

Yes, it concerns
my poor Stanley.

Actually, he was very wealthy.

By poor, I meant dead.

[sobbing and sniffing]

There seems to be
a suspicion

that Stanley's death
involved foul play.

Clearly, there's nothing
to support that theory,

but the insurance company is
insisting on an investigation.

They won't even let me
move the body

until it's proven
that he d*ed of natural causes.

Do you think
you can help me?

Uh... sorry,
I didn't hear you.

I was staring
at your breasts.

I understand.

They're very supple, I'm told.

[clears throat] Excuse me,
Mrs. De Ree, I'm...

Beginning to annoy me.

Go on, Mrs. De Ree.

Val. It's clear to even
the most casual observer

what k*lled Stanley.

Cholesterol.

Obviously, there are those
who might think

I k*lled my husband
for the insurance money,

then hired an idiot P.I.

to say I didn't, so I could
get a big fat check

and make immediate
plane reservations

to a sunny tropical resort,
and live happily ever after.

Oh, well, the fools.

D'oh! Here, let me get
those plane tickets

to Rio for you.

Well, it's clear,

you need to get your mind
off your troubles.

In fact,
I know just the place--

beer nuts, scantily clad women
dancing in cages--

they know me there.

I could get us a table
in front.

Duckman, judging by some
of the things in this room,

I think we should ask
Mrs. De Ree a few questions.

I told you
to stay out of this.

What's to be gained
from asking

this poor, sad,
full-figured woman

a bunch
of meaningless questions?

As far as I'm concerned,
that's all this is--

just an open-and-shut case
of improper diet.

Ooh, pretty parrot.

Say, "Hello, Duckman."

[squawking]:
Stop it, Val!

You're k*lling me!

Well, fine,
if you can't do it.

As I was saying,
my years of experience tell me

this very rich and refreshingly
flirtatious young lady

is being needlessly harassed.

This was not a m*rder.

MAN:
Val, put down that g*n!

You're my wife.
Don't sh**t!

I can't hear myself think!

The point being as this busty,

and suddenly available,
one-nighter possibility

is clearly innocent
of any wrongdoing,

it's our duty
to do what we can to prove it.

Never fear, Val,
I'll be tireless in my efforts,

for Duckman doesn't know
the meaning of the word "quit."

Apparently, the word "clue"
slipped through

the cracks as well.

Where do you get off,
pork rinds?

Making a cr*ck about
my investigative abilities?!

Who the hell
do you think you are?

I'm your partner, Duckman.

Maybe I'm out of line,
and nail me to the barn

and call me Hector if I am,

but the truth is,
you're blinded by lust.

You're missing things
no detective-- even you--

should ever miss.

Duckman, I think the way
you're acting is,

well... I'll say it...
unprofessional.

Unprofessional?! After
everything else today,

you have the gall
to criticize me?!

Well, that's it, bacon fat!

You can sit on a spit
and rotate!

From now on,
you're one stuck pig!

You hear me?!
Shove an apple in it, buster!

You're done-- and I mean,
well-done, finished!

Bring out the ketchup, folks!

We got ourselves
some pork chops,

and they're going down hard!

Are you trying
to tell me something?

Get out!

You're not
my partner anymore!

You're fired!

[door shuts]

Hi. I'm not an actor,

but I play one on TV,

and that's why I bikini wax
with the new and improved

"Gee, Your Groin Looks
Well-Groomed."

Yeah, well, that's enough
groovin' on the tube.

Very nice, very nice.

No more Cornfed around,
yammering all the time

about this, that,
that, this.

Well, nothing like a stimulating
game of darts...

[yelps]...
to get the juices going.

Yessiree, this is the life.

Doing things... * my way. *

I'd say my life is pretty much
right on target.

[air hissing]

Who needs a parnter?

It's about time I got things
heading in the right direction.

The reason people come
to the Duckman Detective Agency

is Duckman, not Cornfed.

[buzzer]
Phone call for Mr. Cornfed.

Fax for Mr. Cornfed.

Carrier pigeon
for Mr. Cornfed.

Semaphore for Mr. Cornfed.

Smoke signals for Mr. Cornfed.

Cornfed doesn't work here
anymore!

Hmm. Let's try him
at home.

Why are you bothering me
with all that stuff for?

I told you--
he's gone, fired!

He was nothing but a big pink
weight on my shoulders,

and we're better off
without him.

If you say so.

How's the case going
without him?

Case? What case?

Oh, right! The case.

I was just about to put it
to bed-- along with the client.

The kind of joke
he probably enjoyed telling

when Cornfed was around.

Hey, maybe it's time
for you two hairballs

to do something around here

besides irritating
the hell out of me.

You want our help?

On a case?

Let's start with
a couple of questions--

not that I don't already know
the answers. I do.

I just want to, you know,
see how you're thinking.

Suppose you're the chairman
of a large...

Ah-ah-ah-ah.
Chairperson.

Suppose you're the chairperson
of a large corporation

that makes meat on a stick...

Oh, Mr. Duckman!

We couldn't support
the k*lling

of animals for food.

Nor the senseless slaughter
of trees for sticks.

Okay. You're the chairpeople
of a large

environmentally friendly
corporation

that produces wholesome apples.

Now, you're supposed to prove

that someone d*ed
of natural causes.

What would you do?

Are the apples
free-range

or are they grown
in captivity?

[screaming]

So, Mr. Cornfed, I understand

you recently joined
the unemployed.

What makes you think
we'd have an opening here?

[screaming]

[crashing]

Wild guess.

Do you have a resume?

I just threw it together
this morning.

Hmm. I see you were a member
of the Irish Parliament.

Sure and begorra.

And under your interests,

you list origami.

What exactly is that?

Got a matchbook?

Impressive, but do you know
anything about mail?

Hmm. Postal worker
in rural China,

avid stamp collector,

author, So You Want to Be
a Mailman.

Well, Mr. Cornfed,
when can you start?

No time like the present.

Could I use the rest room first?

Sure, you can't miss it.

Make a right
at the cow bones grinding

and marrow extraction room,
a quick left

at the chicken-squeezing,
ovum-cracking pit,

and then a sharp circle
'round the gobstopper

and gizzard suction chamber.

I'll hold it in.

Sure, you're starting
at the bottom,

but like in every big
corporation,

some of our most promising
executives-to-be

are working right here
in the mail room.

Your job is just to sort
the mail,

if you can hold onto it.

Got any napkins?

Napkins?!

That's brilliant!

Napkins.

Great idea.
Yeah, napkins.

Mr. Cornfed,
you're going places here.

In fact, next opening we get,
you're moving out

of this mail room.

Surprise!

[cheering and applause]

[applause]

Hell of a first day, Corny.

Glad to be aboard, Bob.

What?

I start all
my investigations here.

[sighs]

Hey, someone here
might know something.

Hey, the case
is almost solved.

So I'm nine months behind.

Didn't you ever
hear of a grace period?

[grunting painfully]

Stop! Hey!

Gee, Mr.Duckman,

I don't think you're
ever going to prove

that woman innocent.

I'll bet it would help

if Cornfed
were here.

We now return
to the USA premiere movie...

We heard about Cornfed.

I'll bet you laughed
when they sh*t Old Yeller,

clapped when
Bambi's mother d*ed,

cheered when Danny Bonaduce
got busted.

All I can say is
what you did really stinks.

[breaks wind]

[grunts]

I am sensing
you're in a... predicament.

Get me out of these.

[yells]

I am sensing
you're in pain.

Look, I'm desperate.
I got nowhere else to turn.

I can't cr*ck this case.

I've crawled through the bowels
of this vermin-infested city

searching for the answer.

I've hit rock bottom.

I can't think about anything
else except this!

These things free?

They're a dime, but it
goes to the rain forest.

[spits]
I owe them a nickel.

So you need a clue.

Have a seat.

This will cost you $20.

Here, anything for some help.

In that case,
I meant 25.

I know what
the real problem is,

but we'll have to go
back into your past

to find the solution.

[grunting]

No, that's not it.

Psst! Boys, boys.

If you want
the prophet Cornfed,

he'll be over
at the garden--

you know, Gethsemane.

Hey, everybody,

look at this water
I turned into wine.

CROWD:
Ooh, wow.

No, that's not it.

[grunting]

[panting]

Hey, everyone,

look what I pulled
out of the stone.

[crowd cheering]

That's not it either.

I think we're searching
for something

in your present life.

Hey, I don't care if you are
just working here

till you graduate
from astronaut school
and orbit that planet.

Everyone knows
a baker's dozen is 13.

Duck.
Moron!

No, I mean "duck."

You, you took
a b*llet for me?

It's all right.
I've got another kidney.

Who are you?

The name's Cornfed.

Well, I'm Duckman.

Want to be my partner?

Sure. If I don't die.

Ooh, that smarts.

You're not going to die!
You're not going to die!

I'll get you to the hospital
if it's the last thing I do.

I won't think
about anything else

till I know you're all right.

These things free?

[groans]

[choking]

Oh, well,
there's always dialysis.

Three times!
He didn't even know you

and he saved your life
three times!

Yeah, I...
vaguely remember that.

He's a good person,
isn't he?

The way he never thinks
of himself--

always puts others first.

He is better
than me.

That's why I did what I did--
I'm jealous.

I shouldn't feel that way
about my best friend.

I should be thankful
he is my friend.

I should get down on my knees
and thank my lucky stars

that a person like Cornfed is
even in my life,

which, at the moment, he isn't.

I got to go find him
and do anything I can
to get him back.

Oh, what a magical,
mysterious find you are.

There's truly nothing else
like you in the entire universe.

Oops.

Just wondered if the
ball knew where he was.

Excuse me, Mrs. Ree,
Bob's left on his vacation.

I need you to sign
these productivity reports.

Come in.

You're here awfully late.

Insomnia.

Ought to stop by my place--
try it with me sometime.

Odd. Take a look at the
signature you just gave me.

Now, take a look
at the signature

on your trout fishing license.

Clearly, not the same.

However, note the resemblance

between this signature
and Bob Heiny's.

Those signatures look
nothing alike.

Maybe not to the untrained eye,

but I graduated
first in my class

from the John Hancock
Institute of Graphology.

My, my, seems your Heiny's
in a sling, Bob.

You deep-sixed
the old man

and set up his dame as a patsy,

knowing the minute he was tucked
in with a shovel,

she'd take a powder to Rio
and you could disguise yourself

as her and take over
the business.

I just have to know, Bob--
was it the bloodlust,

was it the power,
was it the money?

Actually,
I just wanted to be her--

wear her clothes,
put on her makeup,

set free the girlish passion
that was dying for a voice.

That was my next guess.

Didn't count on
an undercover pig

being on me
like pee on a bum's shoes.

What gave it away?

The lavender handbag.

Val has better
fashion sense than that.

You win, Heiny.

One last smoke?

You know, smoking can be deadly.

So can origami.

[speaking gibberish Japanese]

What's that mean?

Let's get physical.

Sayonara, Cornfed.

Corny!

Thank God, I fou..!

[machinery starts]

Duckman, you saved my life.

Yeah, well...

about time I paid you back.

Listen, Corny, old boy,
you and I have

sort of a history
together, and, well...

what I'm trying
to say is...

You want me back.

But not at the salary
I was paying you.

After all, you did
run out on me.

I had to cr*ck
this case by myself.

Whatever you say,
Duckman.

By the way, someone who knew
you were feeling bad

about things
told me to remind you

that there are a lot of ways

one person can be
better than another,

like in providing a home away
from home for a partner,

and in being
the best father you know how.

Who told you that?

Your kids.