This episode is basically Breaking Bad meets Parks and Rec, with less meth and way more paperwork. Our unsuspecting hero, Pete Forcelli, rolls into Phoenix ready to fight crime—only to discover the ATF is running what looks suspiciously like a cartel loyalty program. Buy 10 AK-47s, get the 11th free! Meanwhile, the U.S. Attorney’s Office can’t be bothered, because apparently prosecuting crimes is sooo last season.

Nick and Ryan dive headfirst into the madness, armed with booze, banter, and zero faith in government efficiency. Along the way we meet straw buyers dumber than a bag of hammers, FBI agents acting like Mean Girls (“you can’t sit with us unless you share your informants”), and one ATF guy skipping work to salsa dance in Colombia. Honestly, it’s less law enforcement and more reality TV—except with body counts.

Think Narcos narrated by two slightly buzzed uncles who alternate between outrage and dad jokes. It’s equal parts history lesson, roast of bureaucracy, and drinking game. By the end, you’ll know how gun laws (don’t) work, why prosecutors can ruin everything, and which Oktoberfest beer pairs best with tales of federal incompetence.

Bottom line: this isn’t just an episode—it’s a tragic comedy where Uncle Sam accidentally becomes the cartels’ favorite gun dealer.

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Forget CSI: Miami—this is CSI: Adelaide, where the corpses are dapper, the calves are suspiciously jacked, and the detectives are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Nick and Ryan crack open the mystery of the Somerton Man, a 1948 beachside “who-dunnit” featuring:

• A corpse dressed sharper than a banker on Derby Day, but with all his clothing tags cut off like he was sponsored by Goodwill’s Witness Protection Program.
• A secret scrap of paper reading “Tamám Shud” (translation: “The End,” or “plot twist, bitch”),
• Doctors who could only agree on two things: (1) this guy had elite ballerina calves, and (2) his liver was working as hard as Nick and Ryan’s after three old fashioneds.
• A suitcase full of clothes with no labels, a sewing kit with sketchy orange thread, and a missing penis pump (probably).
• A code in a Persian poetry book that no one has ever solved—because nothing says espionage like a half-finished Sudoku from 1100 A.D.

Along the way, you’ll meet Joe Thompson, the woman who “definitely didn’t know him” while nearly fainting at his face cast, and Greg the Professor, who somehow knew way too much about foxglove tea and poison arrows (we see you, Greg).

Bottom line: this isn’t Dateline—it’s a Cold War mystery retold by two brothers who measure credibility in whiskey pours and have decided the best legacy you can leave behind… is being remembered for your calves.

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This episode isn’t so much “paranormal investigation” as it is Ghostbusters meets Dumb and Dumber, with extra booze and a demon who apparently hates plumbing. Nick and Ryan unpack the saga of the Smurl family, whose Pennsylvania duplex turned into a 15-year carnival of supernatural nonsense. First it was rugs growing stains faster than toddlers with Kool-Aid, then rocking chairs that refused to respect personal boundaries and eventually TVs catching fire like God’s version of a parental block.

Things escalate into full-on nightmare fuel: invisible slap fights, levitation, and one truly unfortunate bout of demonic coitus that sounds less like The Exorcist and more like Ghost Hunters After Dark.. Oh, and let’s not forget Casper taking a dump” because who doesn't like supernatural shit?

By the time Ed and Lorraine Warren show up to poke the supernatural bear with prayers and holy water, the house is less “family home” and more “Hell’s Airbnb.” We’re talking shadow figures, demonic wing-flaps, and bloodcurdling screams that can only drive the surrounding property values through the roof!

Fueled by rum, rye whiskey, and banter sharp enough to cut through ectoplasm, Nick and Ryan turn this 1970s nightmare into a tragicomic romp. Bottom line: it’s a literal shitshow— Starring demons, diapers, and dookie!

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