Phil and Rosco are in the car. They are drunk, but somehow driving safely.
PHIL: Is there any bar in this town that we’re not banned from? This is a bustling city; there should be new ones popping up all over the place.
ROSCO: I know. We have to wait until the school year ends.
ROSCO: Think about it – a bunch of college kids, just graduated, think they’re all the shit and looking to start their own bar because they know how to run it better.
PHIL: (chuckles) Because they’re tired of paying high prices for watered drinks on club night. Idiots.
ROSCO: Exactly. Fools don’t know that Tuesday is the day to go drinking.
PHIL: Why do I feel like we’re in a Quentin Tarantino film?
ROSCO: (pointing) Ooooo! Let’s get Little Ceasar’s!
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Phil and Rosco are now eating a pizza and breadsticks. Rosco is dipping breadsticks in a tiny plastic cup of marinara sauce and having difficulty because the car is bumping around.
ROSCO: I still don’t get it.
PHIL: Two guys in a car talking about food. Straight out of Pulp Fiction.
Rosco spills marinara on his shirt.
ROSCO: Dammit, they need to get rid of these little plastic cups. They need to give us some professional shit.
ROSCO: You know, those little ceramic dishes that you always see on the Food Network filled with onion soup or something.
PHIL: You mean bowls?
ROSCO: No, not bowls. They have a more –
PHIL: Not bowls?
ROSCO: No! Not bowls. They have a more exact name, a more specific name.
PHIL: A scientific name for a bowl?
ROSCO: Why are you dumber than me when you’re drunk?
PHIL: Shhhhh! Don’t say that while I’m driving, you’ll jinx us.
ROSCO: Oh please, like a cop is going to pull us over in this part of town.
A police car flashes its lights and whoops its siren. Phil pulls the car over, and looks at Rosco.
PHIL: You son of a bitch.
One hour later. Phil and Rosco are in jail, being kept in separate cells. Each of their arms are hanging out of the bars. Pause.
Rosco’s clenches one of his hands in a triumphant fist.