Blip blip blip blip blip. 24. Terrorists are plotting to assassinate a presidential candidate. My wife and daughter have been kidnapped. And now that I got the Golden Globe, Ted Casablanca is writing blind items about how I'm stepping out on my wife and partying way too much. My name is Kiefer and this is the longest day of my life. Blip blip blip blip blip.
Previouslys. Palmer learns from Kreepy Karl that power has a price and that price must be paid, and therefore Theo's shrink needs to be murdered. Igor is told to murder the Kieferettes, but they kill him first. Nina tells SubstituteKiefer that she doesn't know where Kiefer is. SubstituteKiefer doesn't believe her. All Kiefer wants is to get his family back and, apparently, make out with a very bloody FauxYork. The following takes place between eleven and noon on the day of the California Presidential Primary. Et cetera.
California multi-lane freeway featuring unremarkable scenery. In fact, I'd say that this is the exact generic image I have in my mind whenever Dionne Warwick sings about how "L.A. is a great big freeway / Put a hundred down and buy a caaaaar!" Kiefer and FauxYork are driving to the TerrorKompound, only FauxYork is refusing to tell Kiefer exactly where they are going, opting instead to give him driving directions on a need-to-know basis. The screen splits, and SubstituteKiefer has everyone gathered in the Kiefer Kube so she can tell them how much progress is being made. Uh, Alberta? I think your workers know that progress is being made, since they are the ones making said progress, while all you've done since you assumed power at CTU is to stare at Nina through the vertical blinds. But thanks for the positive feedback, Empress Alberta. However, she maintains, Senator Palmer is still in danger. And speaking of Senator Palmer, the screen splits again to reveal him leaving the elementary school sans Lady Mac. He pushes his way through the press and his huge Secret Service detail and gets into his limo with Poor Man's Hume Cronyn. But Alberta DeVil isn't finished with her staff meeting yet. Katching Kiefer is a top priority for CTU, according to her. Reaction shot of Nina looking busted. Another top priority is finding out more about Faux-tographer. Reaction shot of Soul Patch looking bustedor thinking about having some new headshots made, I guess.
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As the FauxYorkMobile draws nearer to the TerrorKompound, Kiefer calls Nina to brief her on his whereabouts -- somewhere in North Hollywood. He needs satellite photos of the surrounding area so he can identify "structures and personnel." He asks her to download these images and send them to his Palm Pilot via the fabulous CTU WhateverTechnology. Oh, and then, since it's a few minutes past the hour, it's time for Nina to ask Kiefer to turn himself in as Alberta is turning up the heat. Only this time, Kiefer agrees with her�sorta. He promises to call Alberta once he knows that the Kieferettes are safe and back up Nina's klaim that she knows nothing about Kiefer's whereabouts or activities. Nina hangs up her cell phone, because a bunch of Calvin-Klein-clad extras are walking by. Soul Patch comes by to ask Nina if she's going to tell SubstituteKiefer about FamousOriginalKiefer. They discuss the potential trouble they may be in, and Nina concludes that she will have to live with her mistakes. "I appreciate you looking the other way on this," says Nina. "But don't feel like you've got to help me cover for Kiefer anymore." "I'm not doing this for Kiefer," says Tony, glancing down at her pubic area and then stomping off to do work or something. Nina gives the camera a sweaty, haunted look and then returns to her desk. A POV from the Kiefer Kube reveals that Alberta is watching Nina's every move through the vertical blinds.
The time is 11:05:17 AM. At The Stable Of Sensuality, the Kieferettes are in the process of hiding Igor's body. They have found a giant can -- it looks like a Claes Oldenburg sculpture of an oversized sardine tin -- and they place it facedown over his body. Hey, it's literally the giant can of whoop-ass that Bride just served up! Oh wait, my friend Larry just informed me that this is probably a horse's water trough. Bride feels gross about having to kill a man. Spawn -- whose hair keeps getting bigger while her vest keeps getting smaller -- feels pretty cool about the whole thing. I mean, it's not like she had to have non-consensual sex or kill a man in self-defense. Their ethical debate is cut short by a beeping noise coming from the TerrorCorpseCan. It's Igor's beeper. They flip the can over again. Bride winces as she removes the beeper from Igor's back pocket. Oh sure, she'll deal with someone's privates for a cell phone but she's not doing a necrophilia scene for a mere beeper. She checks the number on the LCD display and warns Spawn that the TerrorSquad is probably going to come looking for Igor. They cover up Igor's blood with some hay, overturn the can again, and put the beeper back in Igor's pocket. I don't know why they bothered. Bride sees a couple of TerrorMinions coming. She tells Spawn they need to hide out until these guys pass.
11:00 AM -- 12:00 PM
“ I'm trying not to be one of those gay men who sees homoeroticism everywhere, butI'm seeing homoeroticism everywhere. ”
The FauxYorkMobile approaches some cyclone fencing -- the perimeter of the TerrorKompound. Kiefer parks and grabs a blanket from the trunk. Good thinking. I hate it when I have sex outdoors and pine needles get up my butt. His cell rings. It's Nina. She's got the satellite photos, but they're a few hours old. Kiefer is "ready to receive." I'll say. Nina sees plenty of GunWieldingTerrorMinions in the photos and begs Kiefer to let her ask SubstituteKiefer for some CTU backup. But Kiefer doesn't want no stinking back-up. Say it with me now: it's his family in there. Plus, adds Kiefer, CTU could screw things up and make this "another Waco." Nina sends him the satellite photos, which the WhateverTechnology places in Kiefer's Palm Pilot instantly. Kiefer komes back to the FauxYorkMobile, cuts the duct tape around FauxYork's legs, and takes him out of the car. "What are you doing, Kiefer?" asks FauxYork as Kiefer spits on his face and wipes the dried blood off of him. Okay, last week Kiefer threatened to shove a towel down a guy's throat, and this week he's into spit. I'm trying not to be one of those gay men who sees homoeroticism everywhere, butI'm seeing homoeroticism everywhere. I wasn't aware of this until the last couple of years, but one of the leather bars in the West Village has a "spit" night. A friend of mine used to go to them, and I'd be like, "Spit? Is there any bodily fluid that isn't sexualized?" Not to be TMI or anything, but my kink level is pretty low. And I'm not saying this like I'm more moral or restrained than anyone who likes kinky sex. I simply don't get adventurous sexually because I never truly want to. But, yes, there are times -- on a fantasy level -- when I could see how S&M or role-playing could be appealing. I understand that it might be fun to be tied up. I understand that it might be fun to be spanked. I even understand how it could be fun to be humiliated and called nasty names in bed. Spitting I don't get. At all. My friend says he gets off on it because it's a "degrading head trip," but I will always associate spitting with being in fifth grade and having "lungey" contests with my friends. I did not have sexy friends in the fifth grade. All I can picture is either a dark West Village industrial loft space full of ten-year-olds having "lungey" contests or some dentist wearing Sans-a-belt slacks taking the suction tube out of my mouth and telling me to spit into the basin on the left, and neither of those things are getting me excited in the least. So anyway, once FauxYork is looking a little cleaner, Kiefer makes him drive the FauxYorkMobile the rest of the way to the TerrorKompound, since that's the only way he'll get access. FauxYork isn't too thrilled with the idea. "If Gaines thinks for a moment that I brought you here," says FauxYork, "he'll have no problem killing us both." "Then we should avoid Gaines," says Kiefer, pressing FauxYork doggie-style against the side of the car, his face pressed up against his ear and the gun aimed at his neck. They drive off.