Previously on "Hot Streets"...
I still can't believe Mom's gone.
You're my last living relative.
Fun fact ... activating the badge swords gives you cancer.
I'm calling him "Fronch."
I'm kind of busy.
Remember, you're the only girl for m...
Man, my stinger is raw.
Oh, Hot Streets, your candy castle is about to crumble.
And now the season finale of "Hot Streets."
1x10 - The Final Stand
- Wolf brothers! - Yeah, boss?
Round up the rest of the Creep-Along Gang
and load up the goofy gas.
It is time to take down Hot Streets.
No one on the seventh floor is treating the threat
of Count Dracula and the Creep-Along Gang seriously.
I fear even the committee may be compromised.
You may be the only agent I can trust, Mark.
- And me, Donald! - If I know Count Dracula,
we need to evacuate Hot Streets headquarters ASAP.
You're right. There's no time to waste.
Damn it!
Count Dracula?
Looks like you have some problems,
but even more than you think.
This deed says Count Dracula owns the land
our headquarters was built on.
- It looks legit. - Careful, Count.
I know a lot of crooked lawyers that will twist and turn
and tie this up in court for decades.
French, that's not how we do things.
Listen. I am a sportsman, and I like you guys.
I really do! So I am offering you a chance
to win back the land in a fair way.
I'm on the edge of my seat, Count Dracula.
- Spit it out. - How about a game of baseball?
Your Hot Streets agents versus me
and the rest of the Creep-Along Gang.
- Winner takes all. - You're on.
Great! Although, good luck finding agents to play,
seeing as how somebody, not me, of course ...
bombed your office with goofy gas.
Goofy gas is serious business.
Goofy gas makes you paralyzed.
Don't want to fetch, Chubbie?
I guess you're too preoccupied with your nerdy book club.
Quick, Jen, get in the car. We got to go Hot Streets.
Wait! Maybe I have plans.
You mean with your boyfriend, the guy who never returns
your texts or calls or appreciates you at all?
Maybe you're the one who doesn't appreciate me.
Since Mom died, all I've done is help you with these cases,
and nobody at Hot Streets seems to know I exist.
Actually, Soo Park asked for you specifically.
- Soo Park? - Chubbie, we need you, too.
Let's go.
Fine, go to your snobby book club, you good-for-nothing mutt.
_
Jen Sanders, your contributions
have been numerous and exceptional.
That's why I'm making you an honorary Hot Streets agent.
Wow. Thank you.
- Peenie Squeezie. - Hey!
Your contributions have been numerous and exceptional.
- Hmm. - That's why I'm making you...
Welcome to the team, Jen. We're equals now.
Want to be my date to the Porn Awards tonight?
I have front-row seats.
The Porn Awards? Of course I'm interested, Matt!
- But I'm supposed to play baseball. - She can't make it.
Oh. Okay. I probably shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.
We're both so busy.
Actually, count me in. I'm coming over.
- Sure, fine. Go. - What?
That's right. I don't care.
We already found your replacement,
and he's superior to you in every regard.
- His name is Louie Jabar Jr. - Well, good.
I'll see you around, then.
We're live at Cube Sphere Field
for the most anticipated sporting event of the century,
Hot Streets versus Count Dracula and the Creep-Along Gang.
Yes. Looks like the Creep-Alongs are taking the field right now.
First up, we have the Wolf Brothers,
Rock 'n' Roll Frankenstein,
the She-Creature from the Dirty Canal,
and also Witch!
Ree-gah-gah-gah-gah-gah!
Romantic Phantom. Those floating boxing gloves
can only mean See-Through Person is probably here, and ...
Who's that?
- Ohh! - As you all know,
Count Dracula has been a thorn in our side
since the founding of Hot Streets.
Today, his reign of terror ends once and for all.
This baseball game will be our final stand.
Not to be a negative Nancy,
but we don't have supernatural powers like they do.
Maybe we should level the playing field a bit.
By cheating? That's not what Hot Streets
or America or baseball, America's greatest pastime,
is about. We play by the rules.
All right.
Now, let's get out there and kick Count Dracula's hiney.
Huzzah.
Either the Creep-Along Gang all have itchy noses,
or they're planning to cheat.
This announcer thinks it's the latter.
Play ball!
Aah!
- Hey! - What a dirty trick,
but this is the minor leagues, so anything goes.
- Pizza delivery. - I ordered a pizza
in the middle of the big ball game?
Strike three, you're out!
Cheese pizza? Just cheese?
Louie Jabar Jr. is out of here.
It's a shame so many of us turn to the bottle for help.
Good luck getting your life back together, Louie Jabar Jr.
Sorry, Soo.
- Ugh! Damn it! - We're down but not out.
Now, I have an idea that'll really ...
I had an idea.
Mr. Webbers, you've made some progress,
but we'll still need more tests for conclusive results.
I still don't understand how your blood cancer
escalated to stage III.
Fun fact ... activating the badge swords gives you cancer.
Is this real life?
I can't remember the last time I was this happy.
- I'm glad you're finally here with me. - Me, too.
And now, the nominees
for best amateur interracial anal.
"Fronch and the Veck woman."
Fronch ran that Veck woman raggedy snaggedy.
It's the seventh-inning stretch,
and things couldn't be worse for Branski
and all my other favorite Hot Streets.
Simply put, they're losing.
All right, everybody. It looks bad,
but we can still win fair and square.
That's not true. The truth is,
we're losing because of me. It was ridiculous
to think we could have an honest-to-God fair baseball game
against Count Dracula and the Creep-Along Gang.
And only one person was bold enough
to stand up to me over and over again ... French.
- Aah! - I'm sorry.
What's your idea?
This substance is, for lack of a better description,
baseball cheating juice.
I-I admit, I took it without permission
while we were investigating the brain monsters ...
- Everybody drink the sperm. - It's not sperm!
- It just tastes like my sperm. - It also tastes like my sperm.
Hey! Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh,
wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh.
You're out.
Pizza delivery.
Gentlemen, I ordered no such pizza.
Count Dracula's not going to like this.
Pizza.
The cheat juice is working!
Louie Jabar Jr. has really turned his life around
with his new hobby, boogie boarding,
an inspiring alternative to the bottle.
I hope Count Dracula gets a taste of his own medicine.
I can't stand that guy.
Up yours, Count Dracula!
It's the bottom of the ninth, and Hot Streets is up 54 to 53.
All they need is one out.
Everything comes down to this next play.
Hold on, now. It looks like Count Dracula
is trying to bribe Tummy Rumbles
with a big suitcase of money!
Don't do it, Tummy!
Unh-unh. Unh-unh!
Yes! Tummy is rejecting his offer.
Looks like he's all about family.
Tummy, no! You saw it here first, folks.
Count Dracula has turned Tummy Rumbles into a vampire.
He's now asking for some time off
to cope with what just happened,
and can you blame him?
If we don't find a ninth player, we'll have to forfeit.
What about Chubbie?
That good-for-nothing's at his snobby book club.
I can help. I'll find Jen with my super speed.
It's important that you deliver this message.
- Can you remember all that? - Of course.
- I have a photographic memory. - Go, Fronch!
And the nominees for best interracial [bleep] pie,
"Fronch and the Veck woman."
Fronch again? He's nominated for everything tonight.
He's a [bleep] artist.
We're living in a post-Fronch world now.
Psst! Jen. Hey, Jen.
And the winner is... Fronch.
You know, I ran that Veck woman raggedy snaggedy.
- Yeah! - Yes. Yes.
Thank you, but that's not why I'm here.
Jen Sanders, I have an important message from your uncle.
You know Fronch?
I remember this message perfectly.
"Jen, something-something, Branski needs you.
Something-something baseball and your mom.
Something about not appreciating you enough.
Something-something, something."
Matt, I have to go.
- If you go, it's over between us. - I'm sorry.
Hot Streets is still without a full team.
It looks like this game is over.
Wait. Here comes a replacement, and just in time, too.
[Bleep] Damn!
Jen, we couldn't do this without you.
It looks like
the crowd agrees with Branski. I know I do.
Gah-gah.
Aah!
They won! Hot Streets is here to stay.
- Louie! - Hey, you did it again.
- We're Hot Streets, and we won. - Yay, Louie!
- All thanks to Louie Jabar Jr. - Louie Jabar Jr., you dick.
Nice work, Donald.
Hey! Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh,
wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh.
Go ahead, Peenie Squeezie. I deserve this.
Hey, uh... wuh. Wuh.
Where are you going, Peenie Squeezie?
All talk and no follow-through.
- Aah! Aah! - Man, after all that,
he didn't even squeeze him.
We won, Chubbie! No thanks to you.
Nope. He doesn't get to celebrate with us.
Lazy mutt was too busy
reading his pseudo-intellectual bullshit.
"How to Hide Cancer From Your Family."
It says here that Chubbie beat cancer.
Why didn't you tell us?
Blood cancer? That was the cancer that took Mom.
You were afraid to upset me, weren't you?
I don't know what to say.
I'm just so glad you're still with us.
You're a tough little guy. You know that?
Screw the baseball game.
Hooray for Chubbie Webbers!
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