When Brock is reactivated by the Office of Secret Intelligence to track down a rogue agent, he subcontracts his ex-girlfriend, the malevolent mercenary Molotov Cocktease, to protect the Venture Compound from enemies within and without.
Brock: You Colonel Gathers?
Hunter: (sounding like Hunter S. Thompson) What! Oh no you don’t! (tackles Brock and sits on his chest, holding a knife to his throat) What do you want from me? Who sent you, you bastard?
Brock: Personnel! Special Agent-in-Training Brock Samson reporting for duty.
Hunter: Don’t you salute me, you bastard! (stabs Brock’s hand with a knife)
Brock: Ow!
Hunter: Leave that Little John-John crap back in Biloxi.
Brock: Yes sir!
Hunter: And don’t sir me, damn you! You’re not in the Marines anymore. This is intelligence. Start using it.
Brock: Okay, Colonel… uuh…
Hunter: Call me Hunter. Now let me get a good look at you. Good god! They’re making ’em big now a days. Don’t they know there’s a gas crunch on?. Look at the size of you. (reads file) Samson, Brock. Born Omaha, Nebraska to a single mother. Half Swedish, quarter Polish, quarter Winnebago. You lost your virginity at fourteen, have one brother and you enjoy Motocross. (burns file with cigarette) The Brock Samson you knew and were is dead. Happy birthday, Frankenstein! You’re O.S.I.’s baby now. Are you prepared to do whatever your country asks of you?
Brock: Yes.
Hunter: Can you keep your head about you when you’re confronted with mind-blowing weirdness at every turn?
Brock: Yes!
Hunter: Are you ready for anything?
Brock: Yes!
Hunter: (pause) Are you still ready for anything?
Brock: Yes!
Hunter: Wrong! (smashes Brock across the knee with a metal pole) Lesson number one: trust no one. Minute God crapped out the third caveman, a conspiracy was hatched against one of them. Get up, damn you! (throws Brock a jetpack) Strap ‘er on kid, your training starts now. When I’m through with you, you’ll be a member of the elite agency that’s been thanklessly defending this big-ass country since the second American Revolution…. the invisible one. Welcome to the Office of Secret Intelligence, Samson!
Brock: So for the next couple of days, it’s yours. I’m trusting you to protect these people.
Molotov Cocktease: (scornfully) From what? Bed bugs and tummy aches?
Brock: Hey, you’d be surprised how many enemies Doctor Venture has. We get into some pretty hot situations here.
Dr. Venture: Brock, which of these looks better? The velour or the Italian knit? Oh, hello.
Brock: Doc, this is Molotov Cocktease. I hired her to watch out for you guys while I’m on assignment.
Dr. Venture: Charmed. Oh uh, and I got some iodine on this. Do you have time to get that out for me before you run off to play Cowboys and Indians?
Molotov Cocktease: Say the word and he’s dead. We could be in Monaco by midnight.
Dr. Venture: Ahh, pardon?
Brock: Ah Doc, come here with me a second.
Dr. Venture: Did you check her references?
Brock: Yeah.
Dr. Venture: Oh great, she’s one of your hussies isn’t she? You’re putting my life in the hands of a hussy.
Brock: She’s a mercenary not a… hussy.
Dr. Venture: Did you have… relations with her?
Brock: Ehhh, no, I didn’t.
Dr. Venture: Hmm, well then Rusty calls dibs. God, she must jazzercise night and day.
(Hank waves to Molotov)
Hank: Hi! I’m Hank!
(Molotov exhales her cigarette smoke in his face)
Brock: (sighs) You know, it’s not costin’ ya anything.
Dr. Venture: What is she, an intern? She getting credit for this in Murder School?
Brock: I worked out a trade. You know how Russians are goofy for American jeans? Well, I snagged a planeload of them the last time we were in Bolivia. (he opens a hatch on the X-1 and a “manaconda” slithers out, hissing)
Dean: Manaconda!
(Molotov jumps on the manaconda’s back, drawing her sword)
Dr. Venture: Alright, she’s nimble. I’ll grant you that. Can she finish the job?
Brock: Wait.
(Molotov slices the manaconda in half, releasing several baby manacondas)
Dean: Eww. Wo-manaconda.
Dr. Venture: Well, let’s say we get you settled in. Shall I make up the fold-out couch in my dad’s old study for you, or, ahh, would you be more comfortable in the master suite?
Molotov: Get something straight, I am here only for a favor to that man whose feet you aren’t even fit to kiss. I am not protecting your lives, I am saving his. Because by the time he gets back, you will no longer need a baby sitter. I’m going to turn you into men.
Dr. Orpheus: So easy to lose track of matters temporal in my vocation, Miss uhh…
Dr. Venture: Cocktease.
Dr. Orpheus: Oh, umm of course. How do you do?
Hank: Gee thanks for coming Dr. O., too bad you can’t stay longer.
Dr. Orpheus: Well I don’t really have to be anywhere.
Hank: (coldly) I said good day sir.
Dr. Venture: (to Molotov) Well, after that rigamarole I could use a night cap. Care to join me? I’ve been squirreling away a bottle of cooking sherry for a special occasion but, haha, heck this is cause enough to celebra… (Molotov walks off) some other time then.
Dr. Orpheus: No no, it sounds delightful. I’ll get the glasses.
(Hank is removing posters from his wall)
Dean: What are you doing with Danica Patrick?
Hank: I’m over her, you want this?
Dean: Nah, not my type.
Hank: Wanna keep the Fun-Tak at least?
(Dean shakes his head no)
Dean: Whoa, not Mary Lou Retton too! What’s going on with you?
Hank: (sighs) Dean, Dean. I sometimes forget that you’re younger than me.
Dean: By a lousy four minutes!
Hank: Then maybe in four minutes you’ll understand. It took a real woman to finally show me that these girls, fine atheletes and easy on the eye both, were but the mere crushes of a boy. And you, my friend, are looking at….a man.
Dean: (gasps) You finally got ’em?
Hank: (covering his crotch) A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells.
Dean: Why is my brother dressed like that?
Molotov: I didn’t ask. I just thought you two liked to dress like idiots.
Dean: Hey!
Brock: (sigh) When do we get to do somethin’?
Hunter: Stakeouts are 80% of the job, boyo. (Brock touches his fake moustache) Don’t pull at that! A convincing cover is the other 20%.
Brock: (sigh) So. No women, no children —
Hunter: No women, no children. Them’s rules. Seperates us from the baddies.
Brock: But what if she’s an enemy agent?
Hunter: Uh-uh.
Brock: An assassin?
Hunter: No.
Brock: Um… oh! A double-agent assassin who just killed the President.
Hunter: No sir. Non-lethal takedown only. President’s not the president anyway, you know that.
Brock: Oh. Hey, how about, you know, uh… a lady Dracula?
Hunter: You mean, le vampyr? Nosferatu?
Brock: Guess.
Hunter: Undead. Not technically a woman in that regard, so you got no beef there. Also, fictitious. (Brock lifts a baguette to his mouth) Don’t eat that, it’s C4!.
Triana Orpheus: Hey, Dean.
Dean: Triana! Thank god!
Kim: (sarcastically) Nice bod.
Dean: Thanks, I’ve been working out… a lot.
Triana: Hey, we came over to use the pool, is that cool?
Dean: No, it’s not cool. Nothing is cool.
Triana: You seem a little weird, are you guys ok?
Dean: (whispering) She’s killing us.
Dean: …and Hank, I don’t know what his deal is, it’s like he’s actually enjoying this.
Kim: The Scooby-Doo kid? Where’d he go?
Dean: He’s swimming laps… uh oh. (Hank is unconscious at the bottom of the pool)
Dr. Venture: Listen, we kinda got off on the wrong foot, you and I, and I don’t mean the one you just kicked my teeth in with, I mean earlier. So, fine. If you’re not interested in one hundred and thirty five pounds of grade A American come-and-get-it, I can respect that. But, uh, we can at least be friends right? (Molotov smiles and shakes his hand) So tell me, friend, you might know this. The whole Russian mail-order-bride deal on the Internet, is that on the up and up?
Molotov: (coldly) I wouldn’t know.
Dr. Venture: Because those Chinese ones are a real racket. The damn thing was already dead when the crate finally showed up!
(Hank has tongue-kissed Molotov while she performs CPR on him)
Molotov: Nyet! Ew, milk breath.
Hank: Incredible.
Dean: Hank! We’ve got big troubles. The Apaches are back!
Hank: What?
Dean: Look. Tepee in your trunks!
(Hanks gasps, the camera pans back to reveal his erection)
Hank: My pants are haunted! My pants are haunted!
Molotov: Do you want me, Hank?
Hank: Yes’m.
Molotov: Your father will never let us be together. He’s a big old doodyhead who wants me all to himself.
Hank: He’s a jerk!
Molotov: Yes, Hank, he is. But what are you going to do about it? (she reveals her breasts, which are in fact duplicates of Hank’s head)
Hank-head breast-beasts: Kill pop! Kill pop! Kill pop! You should totally kill pop.
Hank: Father…
Dr. Venture: Yes, Hank?
Hank: I want to kill you…
Dr. Venture: That’s nice. Play pirate somewhere else, boy. Your father’s busy.
Molotov: Hank, nyet!
Hank: Molotov… I want to… oh baby!!!
Plastic Surgeon: (German Accent) Only whad she azked me to!
Brock: This man was like a father to me!
Plastic Surgeon: Well, zink of ziss woman as, like, a mother to jou.
[Brock screams, picks him up by the collar and begins to slap him] Plastic Surgeon: Your mother! [Slap] Your father! [Slap] Your mother! [Slap] Your father! [Slap] He-he’s your muh-mother and your fuh-father… [Collapses into tears]
Brock: Where’s Hank?
Dr. Venture: Up in his room. Our little man is grounded.
Brock: What’d he do?
Dr. Venture: Get this, I’m working in the lab, right? And Hank sleepwalks in, hauls off and smacks me in the head with a papier-mache sword, pees his pants and passes out.
Brock: So, I didn’t miss much?
Dr. Venture: Pfft. What’s there to miss?