Episode Report Card Jacob Clifton: A+ | 58 USERS: A+ YOU GRADE IT I Have Hot Ice Cubes In My Head
By Jacob Clifton | Season 4 | Episode 18 | Aired on 02.04.2014
Hanna hip-checks Spencer on the street, after screaming her name a half-dozen times, but old Bleedin' Gums over here is in no mood.
Spencer: "I gotta go. To somewhere. Where? Don't ask. Why? Couldn't tell ya. I have to go to a pharmacy. Or wherever there's drugs. Momma needs a fix."
Hanna: "Yeah, by the way? You look like dogshit. And I mean that in the context of, you always look amazing? But what is wrong with you at the current time?"
Spencer: "I have a toothache? I have to go to Ezra Fitz's place. I mean, I have an inability to study unaided. So I have to go the pharmacy."
Hanna: "Which is the other direction. Seriously, what the fuck?"
Spencer goes APESHIT on her at this point, making all the people at all their little bistro tables wince and turn around and wish there were other restaurants on other streets, and also that there were other streets.
Holbrook: "Shit, was that blur the former Spencer Hastings? Did she hurt you?"
Hanna: "No. I am investigating her details and behaviors like Sir Arthur Murray taught you. And it is going very well."
Holbrook: "I got the impression she was the levelheaded one."
...In what fucking universe? You need to go back to Detecting school, my velvet-voiced friend, if that is the "impression" you have at any point received.
DILAURENTIS
Emily lies to Jessica about having lost an earring in Alison's room, which Jessica pushes back on because A) she is drunk and B) she is in there four hours a day dusting it and getting business advice from her dead daughter, but eventually she swans off into the house, leaving Emily to grab a handy scalpel (just no big dealin' right there on Alison's vanity), slice open the painting's back, snag an envelope inside, and then put it -- regrettably -- back on the wall to entrance and terrify once more.
In the envelope is a wad of Benjamins -- fifty of them, to be exact -- rubber-banded to a piece of loose-leaf with Alison's fucking psycho writing on it, to wit:
BarileVolante@PTmail.com
gye21975@ertweb.net
(212) 555-0185
Which, I don't know. They say later it's probably contact info for her network of safehouses across the country like how most teenage girls have, already set up in advance just in case they are buried under a gazebo, so we'll go with that.
CABIN
Ezra: "Just staring menacingly at some cans of chickpeas, how 'bout you?"