Episode Report Card Sobell: B- | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Road trip romance -- dead!
By Sobell | Season 2 | Episode 5 | Aired on 09.17.2006
Later, as Kellerman's strolling down the street, he's dismayed to learn that the number sequence on the origami crane is not, in fact, the hotline to Michael Scofield but a long-disconnected phone number.
Cut to Sucre sniffing Maricruz's robe in the dressing room. There's a knock on the door and, not thinking that perhaps the bride wouldn't knock on the door of her own dressing room, Sucre rushes to open it. Unfortunately, he's now face-to-face with the groom. Sucre pulls Hector inside by his tuxedo lapels. Hector says dismissively, "Calm down, calm down." The man has liquid nitrogen running through his veins, because he's cool enough to keep stalling Sucre until the whine of the police sirens is audible. I kind of wish that instead of this "Oh, who will Maricruz choose?" nonsense, the writers had explained whether Maricruz told Hector that Sucre was around, thus selling out her babydaddy without having to do any of the actual dirty work, or if Hector managed to figure it out on his own when Theresa collared Maricruz. Anyway, the upshot is that Sucre's bathrobe-sniffing interlude is at an end. Sucre heads out into the hall, bellowing Maricruz's name. Theresa is the one who comes out. She urges Sucre to take off. He's all, "Did you tell Maricruz I wanted to see her? Did you?" Theresa's downcast eyes say it all: the bride-to-be has absented herself from any potential drama. Sucre's entire face crumples into a knot of pain, and he rips his crucifix off his neck. Sobbing, "Maricruz" one last time, he presses the cross into Theresa's hand and races off. Man, after this afternoon, Theresa will be inducted into the Maid of Honor Hall of Fame, with all she's had to handle. Sucre, you will be happy to know, escaped just ahead of the police. Sadly, for those of you who wouldn't mind assisting him during his rebound phase, it's not clear where he's headed next.
(Speaking of rebounds, I would love it if the Athletics rebounded here. It's the eleventh freakin' inning. Win already!)
Back in FBI headquarters, Mahone is busy pushing pins into the bright pink spiders that are crawling all over his special fugitive map. As he picks up a market and begins circling things, the bats begin circling his head. Yes, y'all, it's his withdrawal meltdown. Fortunately for him, his dealer just called.
Cut to downtown Chicago, where Mahone's meeting with a specimen by the name of B. Fanatic. In a deviation from the usual entrepreneurial zeal that the best freelance pharmaceutical professionals have, B. Fanatic recommends that maybe Mahone should consider getting his brain vitamins from a licensed medical professional. Mahone snaps, "Doctors take notes. That's why I have a deal with you." B. Fanatic sighs that things between them just aren't the same -- Mahone only wants him for his pills now. He misses their cuddling, their laughing together, their cozy talks about Shales. Popping a pill in his mouth, Mahone says crisply, "That part of our deal is over. I no longer need an informant on the case." B. Fanatic says, "I thought that's all you cared about was finding him." After a long, shuddery exhale, Mahone says, "You can't get them all." All of you who think that Mahone killed Shales and buried the body beneath his birdbath, raise your hands. B. Fanatic offers to keep an ear out for Shales, but Mahone runs him over with, "Midazolam. Fifteen hundred milligrams, every thirty days. That's all I want from you. We understand each other?" Then he gets shirty when B. Fanatic has the nerve to demand payment for his services. As Mahone stomps off, B. Fanatic wonders idly whether Mahone's a turncoat in the government's War on Drugs.