All language subtitles for The Middleman (2008) S01E04 The Manicoid Teleportation Conundrum

Do you have
a head injury?

I need a job.

It's not like the world is
just shelling out cash money

to see me do my confrontational
spoken-word performance art.

There were two people
at my last performance,

and one of them rushed to
the stage to give me a hug.

Mom thought
you needed one.

And I can't ask my mother
for any more money...

...or you.

If I had it,
I would give it to you.

I can't believe Sexy Boss Man
hasn't paid you yet.

Don't you gotta get
your crapmobile fixed?

I do have to get my crapmobile
fixed, but my boss...

Sexy Boss Man.

My boss says
the checks don't start

- until the training is done.
- You're not fully trained yet?

They have an expert coming in
from out of town to work with me.

He's supposed to, like,
vet me or something.

- Out of town?
- China.

For a temp agency?

Hey, how about we talk
about your new job?

This restaurant is supposed to
pay the best tips in town.

When we graduated art school,
we swore two things:

No more underwear-stealing
boyfriends...

What was it with those guys?
We were like magnets.

...and no more waitressing.

That's before
the student loan fairy

left a little some-some
under my pillow.

There are tons
of other day jobs.

You know all those times
I got arrested protesting?

Turns out there's such a thing
as a permanent record,

and they really
do look at it.

OK. So where do I have to go
for the free fries?

Lacey. The Booty Chest?

The pirate-themed sports bar

with scantily-clad waitresses?

Arrr!

Lacey, you're an independent,
politically active woman of today

working at a den for middle-aged
gropers and frat boys?

This independent woman of today is
paying off her crushing student loan debt

with tips from middle-aged
gropers and frat boys.

It's like turning
bad money into good.

Oh, my God, you hear that?

It's Simone De Beauvoir
turning in her grave!

How much are you getting paid
for your new job?

Nice car.

Have you been helped?

I'm not making fun of you.
That's a Hruck Bugbear,

manufactured in Eastern
Europe in the 80s

and imported to the States.

People mock it
as a poor man's Yugo.

I consider it the pinnacle
of Cold War Balkan engineering.

Yeah, my car
and Chernobyl.

Oh, don't be so hard
on the little guy.

You love it so much, you try
and see if you can make it go.

I got a guy coming in to train me at
work today, and I'm gonna be late.

Are you a mechanic?

Musician.

I just like lo-fi,
low-tech stuff.

You should see my
collection of Moogs.

I totally loved The Moog
Cookbook when I was 15!

Although the way my prospects
have been going lately,

Eastern European
automotive repair

would probably be better than
what I've got in the hopper.

Could be worse. My roommate just
got a job at The Booty Chest.

The pirate-themed sports bar with
the scantily dressed waitresses?

Arrr.

Maybe I should
get a job there.

You don't seem like
the Daisy Dukes type.

Well, I'm a man of multiple
shades and dimensions.

Plus, if it pays well and gives
me some time to work on my music...

I so know what you mean.
I'm a visual artist.

Oh, yeah? Let me guess.

Semi-abstract
expressionist?

- How'd you know?
- Hmm.

I know artists.

The bummer is I finally get
a job interview,

they called weeks ago, and my
flaky roommate lost the message.

That is the
Bummermaster General.

Yeah, it gets worse.
I found the message

under my roommate's pile of
12-inch singles from the 80s,

right between the Night version of
Girls on Film and an import of Ant Music.

Ooh, New Romantic,
very nice.

Yeah, you should see him
in his puffy shirt.

Anyway, I rushed over to the place,
but they had given the job away.

Sounded perfect, too. Flexible
hours, dynamic work environment,

and a totally messed up
name on the letterhead.

- What was it called?
- The Jolly Fats Wehawkin Temp Agency.

Oh, and, uh, what's weird is

my contact didn't even have
a name, just "The Middleman. "

You were gonna give my job away
to someone else, weren't you?

We're always on the lookout
for gifted recruits.

Just 'cause we had someone on the radar
doesn't mean this job isn't yours.

Seemed like me
getting this job

was a once in a lifetime thing.

No way of knowing if he
would've survived the tests

or made good
with Sensei Ping.

What if I don't
make good with Sensei Ping?

Does that mean
I never get paid

and some handsome, delightful
musician gets my job?

Cowboy the heck up and get
the place and yourself ready.

- I am ready.
- You don't know the meaning of ready.

I was Sensei Ping's
apprentice. Let me tell you...

Sensei Ping is the most
lethal man alive.

Since he has agreed to train me
into a killing machine,

to be a better sidekick,
there are three things

I must remember,
before meeting him:

A, never ask why he wears
the Mexican wrestler mask,

B, never ask his age, and C, never
bring up the Clan of the Pointed Stick.

Never bring up the Clan
of the Pointed Stick. Remember,

Sensei Ping
is the only man alive

who knows the Wu-Han
Thumb of Death.

You think he'd be proud
to be a member

of the world's most secretive and
elite martial arts organization.

- You just broke rule number three.
- Put a sock in it, 3-PO.

You've memorized the most hallowed
verse of greeting, right?

Never seen you
antsy like this.

It's kinda cute.

Yes, I memorized the most
hallowed verse of greeting.

O2STK just called.
It's a red ball.

What the monkey? We can't
have a red ball today.

Sensei Ping expects the
Middleman to pick him up.

- It's a question of honor.
- O2STK?

- The people we work for.
- We work for someone?

They got a bad one and
they wired your money,

so you gotta go
take care of business.

- How bad?
- Robbery at the Metro Museum.

Local authorities blundered
through and have nothing.

O2STK wants you there
post haste.

- What's O2STK stand for?
- What did they steal?

La Cage de Lumi�re.

I read about that
in the art section.

The world's most
complicated diamond.

Shine a light through it,
it makes a cage of light.

It's worth more bread than the
two of you meatsocks put together.

That's why I'm an artist, and you're
a soulless android from outer space

masquerading
as a cranky librarian.

- This one's a pickle.
- No, it isn't.

You're going to the museum.
O2STK was very clear.

Buckle up, Dubbie.
It's gonna be a crowded day.

Yeah, 'cause I'm just
made of time.

I understand the police and insurance
company investigators were here,

but I'm Special Agent
Hillel Goldfarb of the Mossad.

- This is my associate...
- Lieutenant Esther Finklestein.

The stolen diamond was mined
and cut in the homeland.

Our government has a
vested interest in the theft.

So you are in the Mossad?

I served in the Israeli army.

Wow.

I thought that when people
stole jewels from a museum

it was all cat burglar Tom Cruise
Mission: Impossible stuff.

This looks like a herd
of frat boys threw a kegger.

Frat boys had
nothing to do with it.

This was
a coordinated strike.

The power cables were
all yanked out by hand,

the lasers were torn down
by a freakishly tall person.

The guards were all overpowered
by brutish strength.

The thieves came in numbers
large enough to beat any force

and knew the response time well enough
to escape before the police arrived.

- So who did it?
- We'll find out soon enough.

Ida?

Begin a forensic scan, please.

I'm starting the scan.

Try looking around, will you?

If you don't see it,
I can't scan it.

Oh.

Those cops left their fingerprints
everywhere. Bunch of gorillas.

It's gonna take me a while
to eliminate their prints.

We don't have
the time, Ida.

Sensei Ping's first class flight from
Wu-Han will be here lickety-split.

Well, why didn't you
just say so?

I'll rewrite the source
code to the HEYDAR,

route the data conduits
to a broader band pipeline,

do an exhaustive search of higher
efficiency satellite uplinking frequencies,

and replace all the chipsets
in the operation

with stuff that works faster.

Holy jumping bananas,
we're in dutch.

Uh, yo, boss man...

Am I or am I not
wearing a dorky uniform?

Sensei Ping expects a Middleman
to pick him up. Send me.

- You're not a Middleman yet.
- Not a paid one anyway.

You're not ready.

To pick up a surly
Asian guy at the airport?

You just described three of
my last four relationships.

Just give me
the car keys, Cletus.

I'll take care of it.

I need the data relays
in the Middle Mobile

to continue the investigation.

You do have a car, don't you?

Did the Middleman send you?

Uh, Sensei Ping.

Like an unborn lotus festering
in the mud waiting to blossom,

I come to you
with humble greetings

to beseech your guidance
most awesome...

Did the Middleman
tell you to recite

the most hallowed verse
of greeting to Sensei Ping?

- Uh, yes.
- He is such a comedian.

You know, most of us
masters of the martial arts

- are actually very laid back.
- Really?

- No!
- Ow!

You will stand up straight
when you recite

the most hallowed verse of greeting
like it means something to you,

and then... you fetch
Sensei Ping's bags.

I see the Middlemen have
upheld their tradition

of driving large black
American sedans.

In Sensei Ping's homeland,
cars are but shoeboxes.

But here,
floating palaces.

Finally, slow learner,

you have scored a fraction
of a point with Sensei Ping.

That's not my car.
That's my car.

It's a Hruck Bugbear.

It's the pinnacle
of Balkan engineering.

Ow!

Do not speak unless
you are spoken to!

And never, ever let Sensei
Ping's bags touch pavement.

The print in the
lower right hand quadrant

at coordinates
045000 and 045673

belongs to Metro officer
Leslie McClaine.

Have you found any
relevant material, Ida?

Why, are you bored?

Because I'm having
a rip-snorting time

X'ing off cop digits
back here.

Mutual of Omaha.

Ida, are you seeing
what I'm seeing?

That unclassifiable piece
of biomass on the floor?

This could be the clue
we've been looking for.

Whatever this stuff is it's fresh,
hasn't been here longer than a few hours.

- Analysis?
- Stand by.

Ancho chiles.

Mulatto guajillo chiles.

Ibarra chocolate,
soft bark cinnamon.

Ida, those are the exact
ingredients of mole sauce.

The savory Mexican
chocolate condiment?

On the day Sensei Ping
is coming to town? This is bad.

Get on the Marconi
to Wendy. If we're right,

she and Sensei Ping
are in a pig trough of trouble.

Sensei Ping has never known
such indignity.

This mode of conveyance

is beneath anyone
who walks upright.

Auto smells like something
that was drained from a bowel...

OK, you know what?

I can't imagine why you would
possibly wear a Mexican wrestler mask.

I mean, you don't look
all that old to me,

but hey, I'd probably
cover my face, too,

if I were
in an organization

with a craptastic name like
Clan of the Pointed Stick.

Aah!

Sensei Ping shall make you
pay for this outrage.

Oh, really? What are you
gonna do, kill me?

What's the O2STK gonna say
when they find out?

Aw, yeah. How do you
like me now?

Silence,
my little pit viper.

Danger has come up
on our tracks.

Uh, Sensei Ping...

It is my name.
Do not wear it out.

Uh, why is my car
being surrounded

by a bunch of
lucha libre wrestlers?

That is a very long
story for another day,

- my impudent young weasel.
- Sensei Ping.

La Cage de Lumi�re!

- Wait a minute...
- We can,

and you will live
to tell the world

that someone has
finally forged a prison

that will hold the
legendary Sensei Ping.

Wendy?

Are you OK?

My head.

- Where's Sensei Ping?
- Uh...

Uh... I kinda lost him.

Me and Sensei Ping
were pulled over

and ambushed by a group
of masked wrestlers.

Sweet mother
of Preston Tucker,

- did you pick him up in that?
- Yes.

- You said you had a car.
- Can I finish my story?

So the wrestlers put him
in this laser cage,

and then a guy wearing
a blue and gold mask said

he had finally forged a prison that
could hold the legendary Sensei Ping.

El Maestro de Ceremonias.
I knew it.

One of his associates is the world's
most ruthless infiltration expert,

- El Comel�n.
- Doesn't that mean "The Glutton?"

Wherever he goes, the stain
of mole is sure to follow.

He weighs 329 pounds,

but has been known
to squeeze through spaces

the diameter
of a tennis racket.

That's how they got in the
museum to steal the diamond.

These wrestlers have a decades-old
blood feud with Sensei Ping.

They're using the rarest diamond
in the world to trap him.

- It's diabolical.
- A blood feud?

So how did they get you
to pull over the car?

What? Oh.

Uh, well...

...we were kinda
already pulled over.

Why would you do that?

Uh...

- He... Well, I mean...
- Out with it, Wendy.

I need all the intel I can get.

He kinda got mad because I...

...asked about the mask.

- You what?
- And about his age.

- You didn't.
- And I brought up the Clan of the Pointed Stick.

How could you?
Of all the things, why?

Well, he pushed me.
He had it coming.

- How did he have it coming?
- He bopped me on the head.

And then he made fun
of my car.

- Yes?
- Hitting people is wrong.

- Did you ask him to stop?
- No.

Did you try
to talk to him?

Did you make any effort
to deal with him

other than to bring up
the three things

I specifically
told you not to?

The single best way
you thought to handle

a cranky martial arts master
from a foreign culture,

a man who spent
two of your lifetimes

climbing
to the top of his art

and earning the respect of
every fighter in the world,

flew halfway around the world
to train you,

was to offend his honor
and open him up to an ambush?

How was I supposed to know
there was a troop of luchadores

gunning for the guy?
This is so unfair.

First order of business
is to get Sensei Ping

before the Clan of the Pointed
Stick figures out he's gone.

Take your weapon
and go home.

If I'm not back in four hours,
leave the country,

preferably for South America,
and change your name.

You'll want to spend the first
few years doing cash-only work

- like waitressing.
- Did I miss a memo?

In 17 hours, when
Sensei Ping fails to show up

for his traditional breakfast
of chicken feet

at the Golden Ocean
Teahouse in Chinatown,

the Clan of the
Pointed Stick

will send out three
highly-trained Shayu fighters.

- Reinforcements. Awesome.
- To kill us.

- What?! That sucks!
- La-di-da, Dubbie.

You must be mistaking
the Clan of the Pointed Stick

for one of the rational societies of
paranoid, celibate martial artists.

When they discover we let
Sensei Ping get kidnapped,

their retribution will be
like a divine cleansing flame.

- So you're benching me?
- Absolutely.

What about my job? I mean,
I could help you here.

There's a reason
why you hired me.

You've done enough
for one day.

- Yo, Wendy Watson.
- Hey, Noser.

- You know what tortures me?
- The ring of fire?

When the man
comes around?

That your daddy
named you Sue?

The fact that God's
gonna cut you down,

that you're in
the jailhouse now?

The Folsom Prison Blues?

That the road goes on forever?

- What was the sixth one of those?
- The Folsom Prison Blues.

Yeah, that is
what tortures me.

You and me both, Noser.

Hey, what are you
doing here?

I live here.

You look like a
hundred bucks. How bad?

- Dear Lord! That bad?
- Yeah.

I might have to change my name and
move to a South American country.

If you need a waitressing job for
cash, I know a guy in Buenos Aires.

- Shouldn't you be at The Booty Chest?
- No. I quit.

This was your first day.

Turned out to be a den
for frat boys and gropers.

- I told you.
- Yeah.

And who would've thunk
every single guy in the place

turned out to be a total
masher chumsucker?

I may not be above putting on a
tight T-shirt for student loan money,

but I'm not sitting
on a man's lap

without a deep, intimate connection
of love, trust, understanding.

- Did someone ask you to...
- Every guy in the frickin' frackin' place.

Just when I thought things
couldn't get any worse

this group of lucha libre
wrestlers showed up.

Lucha libre wrestlers?

It must be Cinco de Mayo
or something.

One guy was so fat, I don't
know how he fit through the door.

- El Comel�n.
- Holy coinkidink, Batman!

- Wendy. Wendy?
- How long ago was this?

I just got home,
and I'm going to write

a new confrontational
monologue

on how losers that go to
pirate-themed sports bars

with scantily-clad waitresses
objectify minimum wage-earning women.

Lacey, you still have
your Booty Chest T-shirt?

Can you tell me what it is
about your job

that requires you to dress up
like a Booty Chest girl

and talk to a bunch of
lucha libre wrestlers?

Look, the temp agency
had a big account

with the, uh, PALLF.

The Pan-American
Lucha Libre Federation?

Yeah, and I sorta
messed up today.

It was a human
resources thing,

and I wound up
losing the account.

Are things bad
with Sexy Boss Man?

Must you call him that?
Must you?

Yes, I must.

Yes, things are bad.
He wants the account back.

If I could just convince those
lucha libre guys to reconsider...

...maybe I won't
lose my job.

I have to do it stealthy.

I have to show Sexy Boss...

...to convince
my boss I can fix this.

All right, then.
Listen close.

A Booty Chest girl
has to be two things.

They made us repeat it like
a mantra at basic training.

Basic training? You were
there, what, two hours?

Basic training at The Booty
Chest consists of one concept.

Drop some wisdom on me.

Slutty but sweet.

- "Slutty but sweet?"
- Slutty but sweet.

OK, Wendy.
I taught you all I can.

What you do with this
knowledge is up to you.

Hot flaming pork buns,
I knew it!

"A high-powered energy beam emitter
was stolen by masked wrestlers

from the particle
physics department

of the University of Guadalajara
48 hours ago. "

Input these performance characteristics,
scan the city electrical grid.

Tracking the laser's
power consumption

signature ought to bring up
Sensei Ping's location.

Hey, my online mahjongg
is getting hot.

Don't look at me in that
tone of voice, young man.

I'm the one hooked up to this
unholy machine by my tripes.

All right.

Commencing scan.

Problem. Your high-powered
Mexican laser has the

same exact power-consumption
characteristics

as a Teledyne Water Pik with
custom high-output heating element

and an aftermarket turbo-powered
wash accelerator.

- Who'd own that?
- At least five people in this city.

Just print out
the addresses.

Gall-monging weirdoes.

Bingo.

Hey!

It's you,
from the street.

You work at The Booty Chest?

You told me they were hiring,

and I wasn't kidding when
I said I needed the work.

So what about you?

Uh, I'm doing research
for an art project.

- Really?
- Yeah.

It's about how losers who go
to pirate-themed sports bars

with scantily-clad waitresses
objectify minimum wage-earning women.

And I thought I'd start with those
lucha libre guys over there.

Um, that's a very relevant
theme for an art project,

but I wouldn't go near
those guys if I were you.

I can handle it.
If you'll excuse me...

Wait, wait. Do you know
anything about lucha libre?

There's good wrestlers
and bad wrestlers,

like how El Santo and Blue Demon are
the Superman and Batman of lucha libre,

but these are
definitely bad guys.

Stone Cold
and Hollywood Hogan

have nothing on them
for devious cunning.

I'll tell you
something else:

Those guys ain't here
for the waitresses.

They've been sitting there a while, they
haven't looked at any of the women twice.

They're up to something,
something bad.

Doing research for an
art project is one thing,

but, uh, this is triple
next-gen villainy here.

How do you know so much
about lucha libre?

- I'm a man of multiple shades and dimensions.
- Right.

Plus I watched a lot of
lucha libre when I was a kid.

I grew up in Panama.
My dad was a military man.

- Mine too.
- Really? Well, trust me,

one military brat to another,
don't mess with those guys.

Tell you what, one
military brat to another,

I'll go over there
and talk to them,

and if things get rough
you get my back.

Hey, nice brush off.

You really think
you know what you're doing?

Well, good thing is,
if this goes bad,

you may have a job
waiting for you.

His apprentice?

You want to kill
the Middleman too?

That's why you're eating
spicy chicken wings

in a pirate-themed
sports bar?

Oh, no.

- You said to have your back.
- Let's go.

I found the source
of the power signature.

They must have Sensei Ping
inside this van.

Don't open that!

Please wake up. Please.

Not now, Ida, I'm busy.

What did you do?

The Big Green Cheese
has gone completely offline.

Yeah, we got ambushed
by a group of luchadores,

and this cute boy who tried
to help got knocked out.

Wah-wah-wah. What's that got to do
with the price of eggs in China?

- You need to get back here post haste.
- I can't leave him.

How about you wake up and smell
the first responders, honey pie?

You're about to be targeted
for assassination

by a paranoid society of
celibate martial artists.

Now the cops are coming
to get you for starting a brawl

in a pirate-themed sports bar
with scantily-clad waitresses.

Your boy toy's gonna wake up
in the ER in minutes.

The question is,
do you want the G-Men

to toss your behind
in the pokey?

I'm sorry.
It'll be all right.

I promise.

El Comel�n said they were
taking Sensei Ping

to the Yucat�n
to be judged.

No doubt they're taking
the Middleman there too.

Oh, I know that.

Those wrestlers are taking him
to their secret headquarters

at the Dread Pyramid
of Itzilichlitlichlitzl.

You knew that?
Why are you hooked up?

I'm using a well-known
commercial website

to buy myself tickets
to Buenos Aires,

where I intend to lay low
for a while. Wanna come along?

I hear those tango jockeys
are real bobcats in the sack.

Are you drunk? We have to save
the Middleman and Sensei Ping.

You should wonder about
what you're gonna do

when the Clan of the Pointed
Stick comes to kill you

for letting Sensei Ping get
kidnapped by masked wrestlers.

They're not gonna kill me. I'll
be bringing Sensei Ping back.

Don't pee on my leg
and tell me it's raining.

Look, I know
it's a big job,

but I think it's
time you let me into

the Middleman circle of trust.

We can call O2STK,
tell them what's going on,

- and ask them for help.
- Oh, you poor thing.

- What?
- O2STK is a joke.

Neither me nor the Middleman
really knows who we work for,

so we gave him that name as a,
well, little inside joke.

It stands for "organization
too secret to know. "

- Now you tell me?
- Didn't expect you to run with it.

Oy. Well, then, fine.

Just tell me how to find this

Dread Pyramid of
Itzilichlitlichlitzl.

You want to fly into the
jungles of Mexico, be my guest.

The Middlejet's
parked on the roof.

- We have a Middlejet?
- What kind of an outfit do you think this is?

It's right above the Middleboat.

Not that a bolshie spliff
sniffer like you could fly it.

Before he vanished under as of
yet unexplained circumstances,

my father was the best pilot
on the face of the Earth.

- So?
- There's two things I know how to do better than anyone.

Painting abstract expressionist
renderings of paranormal phenomena,

flying any crate
with wings and an engine.

Ida, this is Wendy
reporting in.

Well, hello there,
Miss Fancy Pants.

I need the coordinates and I
need you to patch me into Lacey.

I'm in the middle
of something.

- Lacey, it's me.
- Dub-Dub?

Are you in the cockpit of a Harrier
vertical take off and landing fighter jet?

No! No, no, it's nothing
like that, really.

Ah, it's OK, it's just that
I'm in my yellow teddy suit.

Oh, God. Oh, I didn't
mean to interrupt you.

No, it's OK. I'm
almost done anyway.

Besides, it's you.
So what's up?

I need you
to do something for me.

There's this guy, a musician.

He was working as a busboy
at The Booty Chest.

Oh, a new guy,
started work today,

kinda tall and really,
really, really cute?

- Yeah.
- His name's Tyler.

- Yeah, I noticed him.
- Tyler.

Well, OK, I kinda got into a fight with
those luchadores I told you about,

and he kinda got knocked out,

and I don't know where
they took him or anything.

- Was he OK?
- I don't know.

Could you call your old bosses
and find out what ER he's in,

- make sure for me?
- Why aren't you with him right now?

What's going on?

Could you please
check up on him for me?

- Sure, Dub-Dub.
- And, Lacey,

I want you to know
it means the world to me

that you made me over into
a slutty but sweet waitress

- at a pirate-theme sports bar.
- I know, Wendy. I know.

But there's something
I have to know.

What is your new job?

You have put on an appallingly
poor display, my apprentice.

I can't disagree,
Sensei Ping.

But I will find a way
out of this.

Sensei Ping
is still in this cage.

That is all
Sensei Ping is saying.

Sensei Ping,
you have been brought

to the ancient rocks
of Itzilichlitlichlitzl

to face the consequences

for your cold-blooded
murder of the greatest

masked wrestler
to ever slap the canvas,

the legendary El Sapo Dorado!

Sensei Ping
demands to be heard.

Our tradition allows you to speak
your last words, Sensei Ping.

It is true.

Your master, El Sapo Dorado,
did indeed die before me.

But I did not kill him.

Your master came to me after
years of wandering the earth

trying to find a warrior
who could best him.

With the utmost respect,

he challenged me
to a series of duels.

We fought for 25 days
without dishonor.

On the dawn of the 26th day,

when El Sapo Dorado suffered
a fatal heart attack...

...I buried him with honors
and took his mask,

not as a trophy,
but as a tribute

to the one man
I could never best.

Silencio!

Silencio!

You truly believe this lie
of yours will stand?

Doesn't matter,

because you have resorted
to thievery, deception

and murder
to settle this feud.

And in the name
of El Sapo Dorado,

Sensei Ping demands his right
for a trial by combat!

- Very clever, Sensei Ping.
- Sensei Ping can be quite

the wheeler-dealer when
the opportunity arises.

If it's trial by combat
you desire, then so be it.

We will be out of here
in a second.

Now,
choose your champion.

- Did he just...?
- Yes.

And that means
you aren't...?

- Uh-uh.
- So I'm gonna have to...?

Yep.

El Maestro can be quite the
wheeler-dealer when he chooses to, huh?

Hmm.

I have the Pyramid
of Itzilichlitlichlitzl

in my sights, but I don't see
a landing strip anywhere.

No problem. Bail
in the upper atmosphere,

parachute under
the top of the pyramid

- and find your own way in.
- Bail?

Parachute?
How will I get back?

You'll either be dead or rescue
the Middleman and Sensei Ping,

kill all the wrestlers
in your way,

and jack whatever plane
they used to get here.

What, you never
watched a Bond flick?

I'm just about to fly over.

Well, then, you better
bail now, shouldn't you?

I, uh, I...

Oh, yeah, I can see how this
would all be very overwhelming.

How about I engage the remote
and do it for you?

Wait!

- You look good.
- Why, thank you, sir.

Sensei Ping, you have
selected your champion.

Now meet your opponent.

The one, the only,

the dreaded...
Cien M�scaras!

What's the matter?
I can take him.

Cien M�scaras means
"a hundred masks. "

It's just one guy with
a hundred masks, right?

He was, until he was cursed
by an Aztec mummy.

Now he is 100 identical men
who must all wear the same mask!

Oh, phooey.

Yes!

He still has 25 to beat.

He will not survive.

Behind you!

No!

His end is near.

Let him go!

Nicely done, young one.

Sensei Ping may have to
revise his opinion of you.

Sensei Ping
will take it from here.

He's free.

He's free!

There's something
you should know.

Sensei Ping didn't
face down 100 men

until he was twice your age.

What you did will be the stuff
of legends, my apprentice.

Why, thank you, sir.

- Are you OK?
- I've been better.

You may want to
unhook your parachute.

- It cramps your style.
- Oh, shut up.

This blood feud ends today.

There's only one way
to salvage this situation.

The Wu-Han
Thumb of Death!

This blood feud is finished.

Excuse me. Are you a member
of the patient's family?

Uh, yes. I'm his sister.

OK, then. Uh, well,
Tyler's resting now.

We shouldn't wake him, but there's
something I need you to know.

He has a concussion
and, well, amnesia.

- Amnesia?
- I'm afraid so.

I thought people
only got that in movies

and soap operas
and comic books.

Well, it's extremely rare,
but it's unlikely that

young Tyler here'll
ever remember

any of the events
of the past two days.

He doesn't remember anything
from the past two days?

Mm-mmm.

He has two-day amnesia?

Shouldn't have any trouble
remembering his sister.

Oh, what a lousy,
stinkin' world.

He's waking up.
Do you want to say hello?

Would you mind
holding these for me?

I'm having a hard time
seeing my brother like this,

and I just need
to pull myself together.

- Yo, Wendy's boss.
- Hello, Mr. Noser.

- May I ask you a question?
- Sure thing.

What does become of
the broken-hearted?

I think, eventually, they
gotta find peace of mind.

Maybe.

Thanks. You've been helpful.

It's open.

Hello, Lacey.

Nice yellow teddy head.

Please don't make fun
of the yellow teddy head.

Oh, I couldn't
if I wanted to.

When I was a boy,

my parents bought me a set
of 3,000 Lincoln Logs.

But the only way I could truly
create to the best of my ability

was to wear a large
badger costume.

You understand.

It's what I do.

Is Wendy upstairs?

That's a sad painting.

I'm a sad person.

- No, you're not.
- Really? Because, I don't know,

that whole thing where
I almost lost my job,

and then turned
a totally adorable guy

I should be dating
into a two-day amnesiac,

and then had to watch
100 masked wrestlers

get killed like coeds
in a slasher film.

I could really see how
that would bum a person out.

Had to be done.
They would have killed us all.

I know
it had to be done.

You impressed the living croutons
and fondue off Sensei Ping.

I just went to his suite
at the Four Seasons.

He says you show
a lot of promise.

He's looking forward to
training you and he's promised

to put a good word in with
the Clan of the Pointed Stick.

I guess
it all worked out.

We certainly ducked a bullet,
thanks to you.

You know,

Sensei Ping's not the
only one who's impressed.

I'd be taking
the big dirt nap

if you hadn't
come to the rescue.

I owe you, and I'm not
just talking wooden nickels.

What you did wasn't
a sad person's doing.

It was brave,
resourceful, and cunning.

It was a Middleman at work.

It's, uh...
your first paycheck.

And a little something extra for
going above and beyond the call.

That is awesome!

Sexy Boss Man gave you
a sweet Smart Car?

I guess I kinda helped him get
back that lucha libre account.

This is fantastic!

Yeah, but I'll miss
the Hruck Bugbear.

Kind of a babe magnet,
that car.

Yeah. Right.

So what's this
license plate mean?

Sort of an inside joke, Lace.