Hank the Bartender: [hands them their drinks] The doctor's in. Help is on its way.
K.C.: Thanks, Hank. [sighs] Something wrong, Joe?
Joe: What do ya mean, "Something wrong?"
K.C.: You seem down.
Joe: Down? Me?
K.C.: Lately. Yeah.
Joe: We've been partners for what, four months, and now you wanna be my shrink?
K.C.: Sometimes it helps to talk. That's all I'm saying. [drinks his beer]
Joe: All right. Let me paint you a picture. Portrait of Joe Gavilan. Seven, eight years ago, I sold off the results of my entrepreneurial efforts up to that point: Three tanning salons and two original silk-tip nail parlors in the Antelope Valley, and I started attending weekend Real Estate seminars at the Airport Hyatt. You know, "How to Make $1 Million in Real Estate with Very Little Money Down."
K.C.: Sounds good.
Joe: Started out with a condo in Sherman Oaks. Slapped some paint on the walls. Refaced the kitchen cabinets. Traded up to a smoke-damaged ranch in Tarzana, then a Spanish on Outpost, and a fake Mediterranean in Los Feliz. Pretty soon, I had everything I've got tied up in this... this monstrosity... on Mt. Olympus, at the corner of Hercules and, I shit you not, Achilles.
K.C.: So what's the problem?
Joe: The problem is if I don't score a big commission or get rid of this... piece of shit on Mt. Olympus... well, the word *Titanic* comes to mind.
K.C.: Joe, I know a girl who works for some rich producer. Says he might sell his place. Maybe you can get the listing.
Joe: Got a name?
K.C.: Well, her name's like Minnie or Moma. Or something like that, I don't remember.
Joe: Not the girl, hot rocks, the producer.
K.C.: Oh, I don't know the producer. Way before my time, I...
[Joe drinks his beer and K.C. puts his bottle down] K.C.: Hey, Joe, you ready for something?
Joe: Shoot.
K.C.: I don't think I want to be a cop anymore.
Joe: Come on, you need some fresh air. [to Hank] Put this on my tab, Hank.
Hank: What tab?
K.C.: Thanks, Hank. [sighs] Something wrong, Joe?
Joe: What do ya mean, "Something wrong?"
K.C.: You seem down.
Joe: Down? Me?
K.C.: Lately. Yeah.
Joe: We've been partners for what, four months, and now you wanna be my shrink?
K.C.: Sometimes it helps to talk. That's all I'm saying. [drinks his beer]
Joe: All right. Let me paint you a picture. Portrait of Joe Gavilan. Seven, eight years ago, I sold off the results of my entrepreneurial efforts up to that point: Three tanning salons and two original silk-tip nail parlors in the Antelope Valley, and I started attending weekend Real Estate seminars at the Airport Hyatt. You know, "How to Make $1 Million in Real Estate with Very Little Money Down."
K.C.: Sounds good.
Joe: Started out with a condo in Sherman Oaks. Slapped some paint on the walls. Refaced the kitchen cabinets. Traded up to a smoke-damaged ranch in Tarzana, then a Spanish on Outpost, and a fake Mediterranean in Los Feliz. Pretty soon, I had everything I've got tied up in this... this monstrosity... on Mt. Olympus, at the corner of Hercules and, I shit you not, Achilles.
K.C.: So what's the problem?
Joe: The problem is if I don't score a big commission or get rid of this... piece of shit on Mt. Olympus... well, the word *Titanic* comes to mind.
K.C.: Joe, I know a girl who works for some rich producer. Says he might sell his place. Maybe you can get the listing.
Joe: Got a name?
K.C.: Well, her name's like Minnie or Moma. Or something like that, I don't remember.
Joe: Not the girl, hot rocks, the producer.
K.C.: Oh, I don't know the producer. Way before my time, I...
[Joe drinks his beer and K.C. puts his bottle down] K.C.: Hey, Joe, you ready for something?
Joe: Shoot.
K.C.: I don't think I want to be a cop anymore.
Joe: Come on, you need some fresh air. [to Hank] Put this on my tab, Hank.
Hank: What tab?
Hank the Bartender : [hands them their drinks] The doctor's in. Help is on its way.
K.C. : Thanks, Hank. [sighs] Something wrong, Joe?
Joe : What do ya mean, "Something wrong?"
K.C. : You seem down.
Joe : Down? Me?
K.C. : Lately. Yeah.
Joe : We've been partners for what, four months, and now you wanna be my shrink?
K.C. : Sometimes it helps to talk. That's all I'm saying. [drinks his beer]
Joe : All right. Let me paint you a picture. Portrait of Joe Gavilan. Seven, eight years ago, I sold off the results of my entrepreneurial efforts up to that point: Three tanning salons and two original silk-tip nail parlors in the Antelope Valley, and I started attending weekend Real Estate seminars at the Airport Hyatt. You know, "How to Make $1 Million in Real Estate with Very Little Money Down."
K.C. : Sounds good.
Joe : Started out with a condo in Sherman Oaks. Slapped some paint on the walls. Refaced the kitchen cabinets. Traded up to a smoke-damaged ranch in Tarzana, then a Spanish on Outpost, and a fake Mediterranean in Los Feliz. Pretty soon, I had everything I've got tied up in this... this monstrosity... on Mt. Olympus, at the corner of Hercules and, I shit you not, Achilles.
K.C. : So what's the problem?
Joe : The problem is if I don't score a big commission or get rid of this... piece of shit on Mt. Olympus... well, the word *Titanic* comes to mind.
K.C. : Joe, I know a girl who works for some rich producer. Says he might sell his place. Maybe you can get the listing.
Joe : Got a name?
K.C. : Well, her name's like Minnie or Moma. Or something like that, I don't remember.
Joe : Not the girl, hot rocks, the producer.
K.C. : Oh, I don't know the producer. Way before my time, I...
[Joe drinks his beer and K.C. puts his bottle down]
K.C. : Hey, Joe, you ready for something?
Joe : Shoot.
K.C. : I don't think I want to be a cop anymore.
Joe : Come on, you need some fresh air. [to Hank] Put this on my tab, Hank.
Hank : What tab?
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