Host in heaven, did he lose his gun *and* his mind?

You're not going to believe this, but... (The man pauses for dramatic effect.) ... police officers! Yes sir, solving crimes, locking up bad guys and... *AND* get this... and *not* getting their drink on at two o'clock.

(‟Weren't you depressed or something?”) Seven years and going strong! (He nods enthusiastically.) The head doctors are now calling it a medical marvel... no, wait, anomaly was the word they used.

(INLAND EMPIRE - Who knows why we do the things we do. Somehow bouncing those ideas off the man with sunglasses felt calming. Like you've done it before.)

Yeah -- not like *us*. Two clinically depressed old men. Where's the contrast here? We're garbage.

I wanted to give you a chance to stop *fucking* me.

(He's doing a weird dance imitation with his elbows.)

They're going to fuck us to death.

Yes. (He nods.) A superstar cop. Of course. *This* again.

I *know* who Jacob Irw is. I wanted to give you a chance to stop *fucking* me. How naive of me. You drove a 45,000 reál police vehicle into the ocean -- what did I expect?

I don't *want* to. But you discovered a new species. And solved the murder... (He shrugs.) So I *have* to. Jude?

Funny apery. (Vicquemare struggles with his umbrella, the ribs are protruding from its canopy.) Male-centric workplace humour. Have you seen him?

You know what he told me? 'I don't want to get better -- I want to get worse.' Those were his words.

I'm your goddamn *partner* Jean Vicquemare, and this is *your* special task force, (he says, gesturing toward his companions.) Or what's left of it.

You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you.

Is he fucking kidding?!

You know what he told me? 'I don't want to get better -- I want to get worse.' Those were his words.

He meant *join* us. At Precinct 41. Transfer.

(‟I'm going to ask you straight: are you or have you ever been a firefighter?”) Well that depends, (the man with sunglasses says tilting his head.) Define *fire*.

Stupid is a gross understatement.

Okay, why not. Let's do the whole thing over again. We're not wasting time. There *is* no time!

Don't make this about Lieutenant Kitsuragi. He's a *great* cop -- and you almost got him killed.

What?! He lost his memory because of *capitalism*?

Shitkid, (he says, shaking his index finger,) he didn't *betray* you. He just told us the direction you went in. Who's Sylvie?

Oh you know me... always the joker -- just can't but see the bright side.

No one is married anymore. This is Revachol.

You didn't *recognize* me -- your own partner. Walked right past me...

This sounds hysterical, Harry. What did you *do* on that island? What happened to you? (EMPATHY - He's genuinely concerned now.)

Funny apery. (Vicquemare struggles with his umbrella, the ribs are protruding from its canopy.) Male-centric workplace humour. Have you seen him?

Stupid is a gross understatement. (You feel his eyes behind the shades mapping you out.) How about 41? How does 41st sound? (He shakes his head.) Never mind, I'm not going along with this...

Well, I *am* interacting with the most dangerous animal of them all -- you -- I'd say yes. I'm animal control.

Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He's a lost man!

I was fine being an equestrian cop. I hope you're fine driving a *bicycle*.

The tie's talking again -- that's it. No more phasmid-talk. There's no PR-value in delirium tremens.

Yes. From another life. A different life. Maybe the life of a police officer belonging to the ranks of the... (He pauses.)

*If* you make it -- if you've been sober for 10 months -- tell us. I'll work with you again. But not like this. Never like this again. This is over.

Where have *we* been? We've been fucking off, as far as I remember. (He crosses his arms.)

Yeah... Or seven? You're not doing too good there. It's an old-man thing. Two *old-years* equals one normal year. That -- and Dora Ingerlund really tore you a new one. A big one.

Thank you for the input, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. I didn't mean to suggest you didn't handle the situation... (He brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eye and coughs.) (AUTHORITY - He thinks of apologizing but decides against it.)

Yes. (He nods.) A superstar cop. Of course. *This* again.

Thank you for the input, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. I didn't mean to suggest you didn't handle the situation... (He brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eye and coughs.) (AUTHORITY - He thinks of apologizing but decides against it.)

*If* you make it -- if you've been sober for 10 months -- tell us. I'll work with you again.

There's one less person for me -- and everyone else -- to rely on.

You look like a fucking clown, Harry. *Not* like a funny police officer, but like a real-life, full-time, pie-in-the-face, unicycle-riding circus employee.

God fucking shit... (He pinches the root of his nose.)

Stupid is a gross understatement. (You feel his eyes behind the shades mapping you out.) How about 41? How does 41st sound? (He shakes his head.) Never mind, I'm not going along with this...

I don't doubt you, lieutenant. If you say it was the Insulindian phasmid then it was the Insulindian Phasmid.

It's a scope. From a gun. Nothing about this even *remotely* proves the existence of a giant insect. Here's my theory, Harry. You experienced a *delirium hallucination*. It's typical of cognitive damage. From chronic alcoholism. Which is what you have. So you started *seeing shit* in the reeds.

(‟Wait, your voice... I recognize it.”) Oh really?! I wonder where?!

(‟A special forces gym teacher?”) No, (he remarks dryly,) a regular one.