Episode Report Card Demian: D | 7 USERS: B YOU GRADE IT It's Like The Hardy Boys Aren't Even Trying Anymore
By Demian | Season 7 | Episode 3 | Aired on 10.07.2011
...FLASHBACK! We arrive in an very damp and very, very yellow Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1998 to find Wee Sam sitting on a park bench, folding up a newspaper of his own whilst informing the unfortunately never-seen Teen Dean via antique cell phone that the monster they're looking for is "something called a Kitsune." And once again, there was no need for me to link to the relevant Wikipedia entry for that particular mythological beastie because Kitsunes on this show are actually, as Wee Sam puts it, things that "look human 'til they sprout out claws and stab you behind your ear to get to your brain," which is disappointing, because I think we've already seen more than a few things that look human 'til they sprout out something to stab you behind your ear to get to your brain on this show, but I don't have time to bitch about that now because we've already shot...
...back forward in time to find Present Sam tippy-toeing his ginormous self out of that ridiculously scenic rustic homestead in the middle of the night, presumably to investigate the recent spate of killings in the greater Bozeman metropolitan area on his own. To his credit, he thoughtfully leaves a note for the still-comatose Dean that explains his absence. Unfortunately, he then proceeds to steal the Impala, so I'm assuming Dean's gonna be wicked pissed, anyway.
Meanwhile, down in the greater Bozeman metropolitan area, a twitchy blonde approaches an excessively hirsute biker-type beneath a graffiti-bedecked highway overpass and fumbles around inside her jeans pockets for enough cash to purchase her next fix. Alas, the twitchy blonde comes up a couple of bucks short, but just as the excessively hirsute biker-type rather bluntly suggests he take out the difference in trade, police sirens erupt nearby, causing the twitchy blonde to flee up to the main road. For his part, the excessively hirsute biker-type chooses to skedaddle deeper into the gloom beneath the overpass, and that's a very bad move on his part, indeed, for barely has he begun to trot off into the distance when a small something darts in from the side of the frame to tackle him to the ground. And by the time the camera catches up with the dimly-lit action, the excessively hirsute biker-type is dead, a small puddle of blood pooling out from beneath his rapidly cooling head to trickle into this evening's first METAL TEETH CHOMP!