All language subtitles for Pushing.Daisies.S02E08.720p.HDTV.x264-CTU-eng

Pushing Daisies - Season 02 Episode 08
"Comfort food"

Subtitle (720p CTU v.1.00): A�S Team
--==All-about-Subs.fr==--

At this moment,
young Ned is 9 years, 9 months,

15 days, 10 hours,
and 2 minutes old.

Awakened by
loneliness-induced insomnia,

he found himself
in desperate need of comfort.

And comfort for Ned meant pie.

The risks were great,

but young Ned rationalized
his rogue impulse-baking

as sheep-counting.

What harm could come of a single pie,
in the dark of night,

with all the evidence ingested?

He was caught in flagrante delicto

by one Eugene Mulchandani,

who immediately
joined him in the act.

Ned and Eugene were unprepared
for what happened next.

The aroma of freshly baked pie
wafting through boarding-school halls

awakened an entire class
who had but one thing in common...

They were all far from home
and needed comfort.

The longing and homesickness
which filled the school like a plague

was magically lifted
with every bite.

And the party began.

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Until the party stopped,

and young Ned learned that even
a forkful of immediate gratification

can lead to a world
of grave consequences.

A lesson to be learned again
years later

at the grave of currently dead father
of Chuck, the woman he loved.

Ready?

I'm ready, I think.

- Wait.
- What?

If we both have half a minute,
you go first.

No, you go first. If you spill over
the first 30 seconds, then no biggie.

As opposed to spilling over the second
30 seconds, which is yes biggie.

I budgeted every second.
I won't spill.

That's not enough.
You should have all 60.

We don't need to find about Dwight.
I don't know what I was thinking.

You were trying to protect us from
a mysterious, potentially dangerous man.

You go first.

No, you go. This is awkward.

Go first, or I'm gonna hit you
with the shovel.

Okay.

- Hello.
- Hi, Mr. Charles.

Or should I call you Charles?
No matter. It's me Ned.

I lived across the street
when I was a boy.

Hi. It's me... Charlotte.

You've been dead for 20 years.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions.
Can you put them on hold and tell us...

Is Dwight Dixon a dangerous man?

- Oh, yeah.
- Oh. Oh, no. He stole Chuck's...

I still call your daughter "Chuck"
still, like when I was 9.

15.

- No, I was 9.
- Seconds.

Dwight stole your pocket watch
and left a veiled threat about exposing

a very big secret which he knows
that we probably don't want exposed.

Oh, if he's got the watch,
you got nothing to worry about.

The threat's his insurance policy.

Now, you don't say nothing,

he'll return the favor.

Good to know. You're up.

The pie maker's gift of life lasted
for one precious minute only,

a minute he eagerly shared
with the Chuck of his life,

to give her but half a minute

to catch up on a lifetime
with a father long lost.

30 seconds were all he could give,

and not a second more.

Are you awake?

As Chuck soundlessly broke the bonds
of her plastic-wrap embrace

and snuck away to see
to business unattended,

Vivian waited for Dwight Dixon,
gentleman caller,

unaware her sister Lily chased him off
their front porch hours earlier.

At the Come and Sleep hotel,

sister Lily would make certain
Dwight Dixon, gentleman caller,

would never call again.

Way I see this,
we both got something you want.

What would that be,
my spicy cocktail?

I got my daughter's watch

and you got your insides
where you want 'em.

You're gonna dig up
Charlotte's grave

and you're gonna put this watch back
where you found it,

after you tell me your real story.

Well.

It all began

when I was conceived in the sweat
and sawdust of a traveling carnival.

My mother was an acrobat named...

And Chuck seemed to be waiting
for something else altogether.

I'm declaring it
an emotional snow day.

But you love that cook-off,

and you and Olive
didn't get to go last year.

I chose not to go last year.
I was busy.

- Yeah, because of me.
- I love being busy because of you,

and I'm looking forward to being busy
because of you for the rest of the day.

You can't do what you did last night
and not be a little overwhelmed.

Well, believe me,
I feel plenty whelmed, but not overly.

Overly is on its way,

probably looking
in the window right now.

You had to say "hello again"
and "goodbye again"

to your dad in 30 seconds.

I guess I just chose to look at it
like it was 30 more seconds

than I was supposed to have.

How did that go?

It was still hard,

no matter how much
I budgeted my seconds.

The hello-againing
was wonderful, and...

the goodbye-againing wasn't.

Oh, Ned, look...

- You should just go to the cook-off.
- You're trying to get rid of me.

No, I'm not trying
to get rid of you. I just...

Maybe I need
an emotional snow day too.

You need a snow day from me?

This is weird now? Are we weird now
because I did "it" with your dad?

No, we're not weird.
I've never been so in love with you.

But I'm also feeling
a lot of other things...

So many things I want to tell you
and I can't tell you,

I'm afraid to tell you,
don't know how to tell you.

You don't have to tell me
if you don't want to. I mean...

- You do eventually.
- And I will tonight. I promise.

For the meantime,
Olive is depending on you.

She said two years ago, she could taste
that first-prize blue ribbon,

and then that taste was replaced
with the bitter tang of defeat.

Bitter tang, bitter Olive.
It's a story.

And today it's gonna be
a happy ending.

Come on. Go to the cook-off.

Olive will love you for it.

Isn't it good to be back again?

Just you and me,
shoulder-to-shoulder, eye-to-eye.

Decorative hats fixed squarely
on sweaty brows,

bonding in the fiery kiln of competition
that forges men's souls.

We're baking pie, Olive.

Not just pie...

Damn great pie.

This is our year.

We're in such a better place
than we were two years ago.

I, for one, am no longer encumbered

of the tension
of a sexual nature toward you.

I'm focused.

We should have won last time.
Would have won...

had we not gotten screwed by...

The Buffalo.

Sweet Lord in heaven,
how I hate the Buffalo.

When you say "Buffalo", do you mean

the noble breed of bison
lost forever to settlers' greed

or the upstate New York hamlet
still thirsting for Super Bowl glory?

I mean that big phony whipping up
those crap muffins over there.

Marianne Marie Beetle.

They call her the pastry slayer.

Leo Burns, the new Comfort Food
Cook-off coordinator,

lover of all things foody.

And I love that all foods are welcome
at this year's Comfort Food Cook-off.

It's like best in show,
only "Best in Belly".

Which means Buffalo Muffin will be
locking those horns with Colonel Likkin.

He and the Buffalo
are the teams to beat.

The Colonel's been "Best in Belly"
blue-ribbon winner 15 years running.

But there's an empty winner's plate
waiting to be loaded.

With damn great pie.

Oh! Well, you're the Pie Holers!

I'm a very, very, very big fan.

Stop.

As event coordinator, I'm not allowed
to say this, but I'm rooting for you.

Oh, thank you.

He's a dreamboat.

Well, tugboat, but still.
Let's set up, partner.

Ted!

It's so nice to see
that you came back

after taking a year off
to lick your wounds

and hide in the dank shadows
of humiliating defeat.

And you were so close.

Yeah, mysterious.

It's as if someone deliberately
sabotaged our oven, cheater McGee.

It's a poor workman
who blames his tools.

Just keep your oven mitts
to yourself.

I intend to, as I present more
award-winning muffins to the judges.

And you remember, now...

losing doesn't make you a loser.

Oh, wait... it does.

Better get stuffing your pie-holes.

But despite the freshly stoked heat
of the competition...

That Buffalo is going down!

The pie maker's thoughts strayed away
from pastries to be made,

and toward Chuck...

wondering what she could possibly
be afraid to tell him.

Hi, dad.

The secret Chuck was keeping
from the pie maker

was born the night before.

Hello, again.

I know I don't look like the Charlotte
that you remember, but...

Oh, you're the Charlotte I remember,
all right.

Button-Button.

Cute as a button.

I miss you, daddy.

- Isn't this nice?
- Yes.

Son of a bitch. Now I'm eating into
my "I love you" time.

Look, I...

I love you, and...

- happy birthday.
- Oh, it's... it's my birthday?

Not today, but it was gonna be.

Then I died.

Yeah.

I never got a chance to give it to you,
but now I can.

So I guess it kind of is
your birthday.

At that very moment,
a change of plan occurred to her.

Torn between the pie maker
she loved and the father she lost,

Chuck acted on impulse.

You're gonna put on my glove.

When Ned touches you, you play dead.

The pie maker
gave every second he could give...

I'm gonna be back
to dig you up in an hour.

And not a second more.

You okay?

It didn't feel like 20 years.

What did it feel like
if it didn't feel like 20 years?

Gliding.

Holding your breath and...

being able to breathe and just...

gliding.

I didn't glide.

What business
would you have gliding?

I died.

And then Ned...

Ned touched me.

But there was no gliding, just Ned.

He never touched you again?

- No, he can't. Not without...
- Good.

How is this even possible?

You, me, here again in the here-and-now
when we belong in the hereafter?

Since when did death get a loophole?

Since Ned.

Your dreams,
they're gonna be so vivid now.

- It's so neat. And my bees...
- You have bees?

Since you died.
And then they died, and then...

Ned touched them, too.

Oh, god, and their honey...

You have never tasted honey
like this before.

I hate to look
in the gift horse's mouth,

but I'm not gonna start
craving human flesh, am I?

Although everything
does taste better.

What's the catch, Button?

Hiding me away
like every stray cat, dog and goose

that met your acquaintance.

You don't want Nedly-deadly to know
that my bucket's still kicking.

Why?

- Is there a catch?
- Not that you're aware of.

What?

Not that I'm aware of.

There's a catch.

And I'm gonna catch it
before I get caught.

You gonna tell me
what that catch is, Button?

I will tonight. I promise.

As Chuck's plan was percolating,

private investigator Emerson Cod

gently extracted
the delicate flavors

of Bolivia Wara coffee grounds

for a smooth,
clean coffee experience

on a morning
that would soon prove to be anything

but smooth or clean.

Emerson, I...

- I need your help.
- Friend help or pay help?

See that? That's the kind of body
language you never hear with pay help.

Ned brought my dad back to life,
only for a minute,

when the minute was up,
we retouched him as always.

No biggie, but yes biggie,
because in the heat of the moment,

my thinking wasn't so much
as "thinking" but "feeling"

and I tricked Ned with my glove,

and now my dad's still alive,
and Ned doesn't know, and...

Please help me.

What's the part about your gloves?

I've used Ned.

Now my dad's alive because of
my impulse-control issues, and...

now somebody else is dead.

First of all, blow.

Second...

just relax.

You're not mad at me?

Hell yeah, I'm mad!
I'm steamed, furious, red-hot!

And don't think
I ain't gonna yell at you later!

But for now, we should just put
our heads together and...

try to figure out what to do.

Oh, you're slowing the roll, chief.
I'm in the zone.

Working awful hard
for disappointment over there.

I'm going to win that blue ribbon,
wrap it around her neck,

and strangle her with it.

Olive, you're baking with hate.

Rich, buttery
high-in-carbohydrate hate.

You know what no one tells you
about cooking with the dark side?

The food is really good.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

We're baking pie...
Warm, delicious, happy-making pie.

Okay, help cook or get out
of the kitchen, short-pants.

Fine.

Ah, the sweet smell of victory!

- Not this year, turd-muffin.
- I'll shut your piehole good.

Bring it, stale-cakes!
We're gonna win!

Who's "we", sucka? I'm gonna win.

My husband, the Colonel...
He's dead!

He's not just dead.

He's extra-crispy.

My husband, the Colonel...

gone forever.

I'm afraid it looks like he collapsed
and fell into his own boiling oil.

I always knew one of his many massive
heart attacks would do him in.

- At least he left this world fryin'.
- Should be some comfort.

There's no comfort in knowing that the
secret recipe will die along with him.

It was his greatest and only legacy.

- Surely he wrote it down.
- Surely he didn't.

My husband was a fat-frying savant.
He kept that recipe stored in his head.

If only I could have him back
for one minute

to preserve his lasting,
loving memory.

I need your help.
Help me to help the widow.

How? Her husband's dead.
What are you gonna do?

Haul him back to life and say,
"Colonel, what's your recipe"?

Maybe he left something behind.

Distract the paramedics
long enough for me to...

... examine the workstation.

My eyes are... they're bleeding!

Help! I can't see!

I finally know
what my birds felt like.

Guess I'm dead, eh?

Heart attack. Not a lot of time.

And the widow Likkin
wants to preserve your secret recipe.

Good woman, my bride.

Let's do it.

I got all 500 herbs
and spices right up here.

Better pull up a chair
and grab yourself a pen.

That sounds like a long trip down
a lazy river we don't have time for.

Now, you can't rush goodness.

- Did you say "heart attack"?
- I did.

- We start with the herbs or the spices?
- Bushwah!

Some carpetbagging coward
snuck up behind,

battered me in my own batter,
and shoved me into boiling oil.

That was murder, son.

Really?
And you didn't see who did it?

Attacked from behind.

They were stealthy, like a snake...
Or a Yankee.

Okay.

Let's hit the recipe, and with the time
left over, we circle back to the murder.

This is silly.
Are you sure you didn't write it down?

I got one handwritten copy.

I keep it right here in my...

here in my...

tarnation.

This fat-frying process seems
to have robbed me of mobility.

- There's nothing in there.
- Impossible.

I've kept my recipe right there.
Same spot for 30 years.

What scoundrel
stole my secret recipe?

I'll find out,
and I'll find out who killed you, too.

But now I'm afraid time is up.

I hate to go,
but at least I'm going delicious.

And as the Colonel
went back to being dead,

Chuck faced the consequences
of her impulsive decision.

The "bring back dad" part,
I don't regret.

I mean, how can anyone regret being
reunited with someone that they love

and they thought
they'd never see again?

Point taken.

But the big problem,
maybe the biggest problem

in an objective sense,
is the dishonesty with Ned.

That and the
"making someone else less alive" part.

"Less alive."

Nice euphemism... killer.

We were at the cemetery
in the dead of night.

Maybe there was no one else there.
Maybe no one else died.

You think
this is a "sometimes" rule?

Ned lets somebody
live longer than a minute

and somebody else
has to die "sometimes"? No!

It's an "every time" rule!

There's some sucker out there dead
in the leaves.

Oh, my god. Then maybe
some sweet old lady with insomnia

who was bringing flowers
to her husband's grave...

It could have been anyone.
I could have just killed any innocent...

All right, either way,
we got another dead body to find...

A body that was deaded by Ned,
only he don't know about it

on account of you never told him,
which is the wrong I'm correcting.

I know what I did was wrong.

I was spurred to action
in the spur of the moment,

which leaves me living in the deep,
dark world of consequence.

But if you help me clean this up,

then Ned won't have to live anywhere
but the bright, happy world of pie,

and all
we'll have to deal with is each other.

And your daddy.

You can't keep that from him.

Okay.

We'll find the body first.

But I'm telling you, right after that,
you go straight to pie boy.

Don't be pecking me, woman!
That's the peck of cahoots,

which we are definitely not in.

Well, thank you anyway.

The cook-off will continue.

The Colonel would have wanted it
that way.

His tragic heart attack
must be honored by us,

his sacred community
of fellow chefs.

Who now all stand
a much better chance of winning.

Proceed.

I know it's a tragedy, obviously,
but you know what they say...

When God closes a door,
he opens an oven.

They don't say that, and if they do,
they have no compassion for the Colonel.

I am not gonna let you bait me
to get all soft and compassiony

when we're this close
to nailing this competition.

What would you say if I told you
I think the Colonel was murdered?

More room at the top.

Oh, my god, you're not kidding.

I think the Colonel had a copy
of his secret recipe

and someone killed him for it.

How could you possibly know that
by just looking at his dead body?

I'm an investigator. Working
with Emerson Cod has taught me things,

deductive and inductive reasoning,
evidence-gathering.

A dead body can say a lot
to the trained professional.

Anyway, my educated hunch tells me
that there's a murder to solve.

You've never solved
a murder mystery alone before.

I'm not alone.

Me?

I just got all tingly.

And not just in the nether regions.

Okay, how do we go
about this whole PI thing?

Do we just jam the gun
in the suspect's mouth and say:

"sing, canary, or I'm gonna decorate
this wallpaper with your guts"?

Neither.

Technically, I don't believe you can
blow someone's guts out their mouth.

Wuss.

Holy smokes.

Our oven's smoking.

Sabotaged!

I bet it was the beetle.

I bet it was the Colonel's killer.

I know this doesn't take
the sting out of the responsibility,

but I brought some cash.
I thought...

when we find the body, we'll take it
to the nearest funeral home,

with the cash and a note that says:

"Every human body deserves dignity.
Please bury this one."

It'll be just like leaving a baby
on a doorstep, only...

the tail end of things.

And the point of this would be...
say... what?

Closure.

Well, I got a feeling the body we find
is gonna give you anything but closure.

- And where do you get that idea?
- Oh, I didn't just get it.

It was given to me.

By Dwight Dixon.

What was Dwight Dixon doing here?

Let me show you something.

A rifle?

Yep.

Looks like sweet old Dwight already
had himself a shot lined up.

Your weighty conscience might not feel
so weighty after you look through here.

Why would he have a gun?

That's my father's grave.
He was trying to kill us?

Not if you killed him first.

Why would he want us dead?

As is traditional, the "why"

in this case was met
with an equal and opposite "because".

Upon discovering

that the pocket watch he had stolen
from Chuck had been stolen back,

Dwight set out to reclaim
the mysterious timepiece one last time.

Following Chuck to the graveyard,

Dwight assumed her intent
was to return the watch

to the grave from which
it had been stolen.

Ready to pull the trigger
and reclaim his prize,

Dwight paused, unbelieving
the unbelievable sight he saw.

Dwight's mind reeled at the sight
of the pie maker and Chuck

desecrating Charles Charles' grave.

And, as is traditional,

he decided to put an end
to the thing he did not understand.

But,
as all his reeling and unbelieving

had taken exactly 61 seconds...

No shot was ever fired.

If I hadn't have kept my dad alive,
I'd have been murdered twice.

Yeah, once was enough.

And Ned... he'd be gone, too.

My accidentally killing Dwight

lights up three points on our side
of the cosmic scoreboard.

Plus, you save that bundle you would
have blown on burying Mr. Boom-Boom.

Better we bury him right here.

I got a couple shovels in the car.
We'll get him under the dirt

before the "pay your respects at lunch"
crowd shows up.

By the time the grass grows
back over this plot,

it'll be like
none of this ever happened.

And I can't wait till
it's like none of this ever happened.

But it did happen.

Someone sabotaged our oven.

The flame won't shut off.

Let it burn... Maybe it'll destroy
this building and all its memories

of almost winning
with the cleansing power of flame.

Olive, we're staying in the contest.

- We are?
- We need to keep

competing as cover
so we can investigate Likkin's murder.

Winning would make
an excellent cover.

Whoever killed the Colonel
is a risk-taker, desperate...

- same as our saboteur.
- So find the saboteur, find the killer.

Maybe we find ingredients.
They took everything to bake pies.

I'm on it.

Vivian, what are you doing here?

Honey, have you been crying?

I stopped by the Pie Hole,
but it was closed. And...

yes, I was crying.

Why is the Pie Hole closed?

It's man trouble. I can tell.

I knew that Dwight Dixon
was heartbreak waiting to pop.

This is Lily's fault.

She aimed a shotgun at his privates
and told him to stay away from us.

But half of us is me,
and I don't want him away.

I want him close.

- Give us a minute.
- Vivian, it's good to see you.

Come on.

Forgive me.

I'm so wrapped up in my man, I'm
thoughtlessly keeping you from yours.

Who? Ned?

No. No,
we're partners in a contest...

Unromantic partners,
like a brother and a sister,

like an asexual, androgynous
brother and a sister.

My man?

No, that's a laugh.

When Dwight didn't show up for our date,
I tried to laugh, too,

tried to tell myself my feelings
for him were silly.

But lying to yourself about love

never works.

Damn.

I know.

But still, I keep lying
and looking all the same.

If you see Dwight at the Pie Hole,

will you tell him about
the "looking" part?

I'd like to see him.

I understand.

Boy, do I understand.

I found something.

The saboteur who sabotaged our oven
left behind one sticky mistake.

What is it?
Toxic soot with a dash of DNA?

It's sweet, woodsy, like a Berkshire
forest on a crisp autumn morning.

Caramelized sugar.

Maple syrup.

Only one chef here
uses pure maple syrup.

- The Waffle Nazi.
- The Waffle Nazi.

- Good, ja?
- Ja.

Chuck had seen
dead bodies talk before,

but this was different.

This was just her guilty mind
giving rise to her guilty feelings.

You're just my guilty mind
giving rise to my guilty feelings.

Doesn't change the fact
that you have royally screwed up.

Fine. You talk, I'll shovel.

Was it worth it?

Sure, fine, I'm a bad man.

You saved three good people
by putting me down...

A three-for-one sale
on the grandest scale.

Anytime with those shovels!

What would you have done?

Same thing, probably.

I'd have killed you, too.
But here's the difference.

Emerson!

I would have told Ned by now.

Shut up!

Who you talking to?

Shut up!

Nothing. No one.

I don't need to talk to anyone about
anything, 'cause my conscience is clear.

Good. Then grab a shovel.

Ned will never forgive you.

This is an incredible violation
of the PCCFCO rule

that says no chef is allowed
in another chef's kitchen.

- It's immediate disqualification.
- Concentrate on the killer.

That Waffle Nazi
is likely our saboteur.

Find the saboteur, find the killer.

Go, go, go, go.

- Me?
- Go.

Attention, contestants.

This is your 20-minute warning.

Any evidence linking Waffle Nazi to
Colonel Likkin would wrap this case up

brown paper and tie it up
with a strong, sturdy twine.

You know what I love about Vivian?

Her imagination.

She thought
you and I were a couple now.

It's crazy.

It's like imaging us as hobbits...

or on jet packs...

or hobbits on jet packs.

Isn't the idea of us
romantically entwined

a panic, a scream,

a four-hour heart attack
of complete impossibility?

It all makes sense.

- It does?
- This batter's better than batter.

It's the evidence
we need to wrap up this case.

Hurray.

What is it?

Delicious!

Savory, not sweet.

Bursting
with what's got to be like...

500 herbs and spices.

It's the Colonel's secret recipe.

And the killer on a plate.

- Sir, I accuse you of...
- Sabotage!

You have sabotaged mein irons!

We didn't do that.

Don't cry, mein Herr.

Look... It's justice o'clock.

I'm telling.

It looks as if you are soon
to be eliminated from ze competition.

We're kicking you out
before you baked yourself out.

When Leo Burns
tootles up on his scooter

and sees how many rules
you have broken,

your dreams of Comfort Food glory
are kaputt.

You saw our oven.
We were sabotaged, too.

Liars roast in hell.

- Just sayin'.
- We're not the saboteurs.

Oh, ya, ya...

mein waffle cord
leaped into your arms

like a puppy wanting love
and then cut itself in two.

When we present the evidence we got,

you can kiss the cook-off
auf wiedersehen.

It's "goodbye" in German.

I do not speak a vord of German.

I speak English
mit a German accent.

Pageantry.

We found this batch of the
Colonel's secret recipe in your kitchen.

That's a big bowl of motive, Fritz.

Are you suggesting murder?

Ridiculous.

Herr Likkin and I were soon
to become business partners.

Chicken and waffles?

Would have caught Popeyes
with their pants down.

What in the name of Julia Child
are you people doing?

I can't count the number
of rules violations going on.

I'm so disappointed.

There may be the appearance of rules
being bent or broken completely,

but there's a bigger picture
you need to see.

I just
haven't finished painting it yet.

We're not the saboteurs.

Poppycock.

The Pie Hole is disqualified.

All right, that ought to do it.

Let's get out of here.

No, wait. We need a priest
or a rabbi or

- somebody to say something.
- What?

Dwight might not have been
the nicest man,

but everybody deserves
a burial with dignity.

Fine. I got butt loads of dignity
to sprinkle on the ground.

- Come on. Get holy.
- Thank you.

Here lies Dwight.
Here lies his gun.

He was bad. Now he's done.
Let's go.

All this and I still have
to deal with my mother?

Don't you mean "father"?

Lily.

Delighted.

Can the crap
and sell it to the tourists.

- What are you doing here, Cod?
- What in the hell are you doing here?

Waiting for Dwight Dixon.

Well, he may disappoint.

Men do that.

What's with the shotgun?

Military salute.

For Dwight Dixon?

For Charles.

But if I happen to miss and

blow Dwight's head off,
purely by accident,

well, that's something my lawyers
can pretty much sort out later.

So lovely catching up.

Well, that's everything.

But there's no trunk big enough
to carry home my busted dreams

- of blue-ribbon victory.
- Back to the Pie Hole.

Which is empty, which is strange,
because Chuck should be there.

The Colonel's chicken booth.

An empty nest...

chock-full of clues.

A really bold detective team would
sneak over for one last bit of recon

before packing up
their pots and pans for good.

Remember, bakers' hats
and hairnets must be worn

at all times.

Memorize the scene...
Every detail...

The prints in the batter,
the footprints, the gurney tracks.

What's that?

Oh, sprinkles.

I love sprinkles.

You love clues.

Two great tastes
that taste great together.

Painted plastic... cheap jewelry.

Left here before
the Colonel was killed.

Which means
they belong to the killer.

Attention, contestants,
this is your 10-minutes warning.

The most important thing is to keep
our wits about us and our nerves steady.

There's no good in freaking out, so
don't go crazy and start, I don't know,

kissing me
or something ridiculous like that.

Just because we're locked in a trunk,
we could die at any minute...

What are you...

Clean thoughts, chum.

Don't make me whip up
another batch of beat-down.

Look... cheap plastic earrings.

You're the killer!

You're the killer.
You deep-fat-fried the Colonel.

Suppose you were gonna bake me
in my own oven.

Nobody's baking anybody.

If you didn't kill him,

what were you doing here
before he got killed?

I thought the Colonel
died of a heart attack.

I only snuck in here to try to...

You're the saboteur.

- But not the killer.
- Sabotage is a disqualifying offense.

In the good Lord's good name,
have mercy.

I need that blue-ribbon prize
if Muffin Buffalo is to roam again.

You see before you
a desperate woman,

not a killer.

Marianne Marie Beetle!

You can't be in here.

Disqualified.

Pie Holers, you can't be
in here at all. Banned for life.

Which reminds me... I forgot to report
your disqualification to the judges,

- which I'm going to do right now.
- You're the killer.

Me? Look at me?

I ride a scooter. What kind of killer
could I possibly be?

The kind that leaves tracks.

Those are gurney tracks from where the
paramedics wheeled away Colonel Likkin.

Those flattened treads
that go from the batter back

to the deep fryer
are killer tracks...

Yours.

Those are hot-oil burns
on your hands.

Did the Colonel spatter
when you deep-fat-fried him,

you sick son of a bitch?

Pixie dust and lemonade!

You have no proof.

That story
will never hold up in court.

This will.

The Colonel's secret recipe.

You're busted, Tubby.

... this out.

The facts were these...

one year ago,
Leo Burns was a slender and happy

but slightly lonely man.

One day, he chose to drown
his sorrows in a bucket

of Colonel
Likkin's southern-fried chicken...

Which led to another... and another.

And soon, the Colonel's unique blend
of 500 herbs

and spices were all Leo could eat.

Diabetes, obesity
and night blindness

were all quick to follow
the coated volumes of wings,

breasts and thighs Leo ate.

Having lost himself to Likkin,

Leo vowed to destroy the Colonel
and his precious recipe.

Leo volunteered
as this year's Comfort Food coordinator,

waiting for the Colonel
to make his annual appearance,

which would become
his final appearance.

But Leo could not bring himself

to destroy the secret recipe
that robbed him of his life.

And that was his undoing.

Attention, cook-off contestants.

All entries must be
on the judges' table in 30 seconds...

30 seconds.

Leo never reported
our disqualification.

What can we do in 30 seconds?
We have nothing, and our oven is broken.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Which is why I brought
one of your killer icebox lemon pies,

stored it in our fridge,
and called it "plan B".

Don't mean squat
if it isn't on the judges' table in...

20 seconds...
20 seconds.

The Colonel would be so proud.

Now that I have the recipe,

that nice doughnut man and
I are gonna go into business together.

Finger Likkin Doughnut Holes.

Sounds delicious...

and filthy.

America's favorite...
You'll make a fortune.

The blue-ribbon first prize

in this year's annual
Comfort Food Cook-off

goes to...

the Pie Hole!

Close your eyes,

give me your hand, darling,

do you feel my heart beating?

Do you understand?

Do you feel the same?

Or am I only dreaming?

Or is this burning...

an eternal flame?

Say my name.

It's Chuck.

It's... Olive.

No, it's Chuck.
I don't know where she is.

She said she'd be
at the Pie Hole all day, and

if she was there,
she'd have answered her phone.

Maybe she's stepping out...
stepped out.

I don't know where she is.
Vivian doesn't know where Dwight is.

What if Dwight leaving Chuck's obituary
was more than an insurance policy?

Do you mind if I go look for her?

No, I don't mind.

Sorry to leave you with the mess.

I'm used to the mess.

Sun shines through the rain
a whole life

so lonely and then you come
and ease the pain.

I don't want to lose this feeling.

Say my name.

Olive?

Congratulations, partner.

Congratulations to you, too,
partner.

Do you feel my heart beating?

Do you understand?

Do you feel the same?

Or am I only dreaming?

Or is this burning

an eternal...

flame?

Ned.

Hello, Vivian.

Lily.

I was in the neighborhood,
passing by, really,

when I wondered if you might like
some pie, which I forgot to bring.

But while I'm here, I was also

wondering if you knew where
I might find Dwight Dixon.

Ninth circle of hell,
if there's any justice.

Lily, stop.

We don't know where Dwight is.

How could you forget
a thing like pie?

I find that curious.
It comes in a box, you know.

Say, you got a squatter
in your old digs over there?

I'll find out.

The pie maker braced himself
to find Chuck

held hostage by the deadly,
desperate Dwight Dixon.

- I was worried. I thought...
- Charlotte.

It's okay, dad.

"Dad"?

I was gonna tell you.

Synchro:
Salomon & Gaillots

Rereading:
Bruno & Toupack

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