[That night, at the National Archives, Brain, wrapped in bandages with his arm in a sling after his injuries at the golf by former president Gerald Ford, looks up at Pinky through the mail slot]
Now reel me up, Pinky. Slowly.
[Using a fishing pole, Pinky slowly reels him up]
Poit! Are you sure you don't wanna rest a bit?
[Brain bumps his bandaged foot at the door each time he sways back and forth]
There's no time to rest, Pinky. Ooh! Now that we have the document signed… Ah! …we must place it in the National Archives… [groans as if to say, "Doors!"] …so that it can be discovered. Ow!
[He reaches the top of the mail slot]
Now, push open the mail slot and hoist me in.
OK.
[Pinky accidentally lets go of the reel and pushes the mail slot open. Brain screams and hits the ground. Inside, Pinky lands on the floor]
Hold on, Brain!
[He reels the fishing pole line quickly. Brain grabs the rolled-up document and hangs on for dear life as he bumps the mail slot, then falls and lands hard on the floor]
Poit! Are you alright, Brain?
I'm fine, Pinky.
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