As this episode begins, I'm busy watching the blinking lights on my temperamental cable modem, so I end up hearing it before I see it. What I hear sounds like the product of a rave DJ being held, Misery-style, by a clan of backwoods Ozarks types. So imagine my surprise when I don't see an emaciated club kid being shackled to a turntable to a corn crib, but am greeted instead with a vision of a sleek airplane.
As the frenetic technocountry keeps playing, we get an unprecedented TMICam shot that begins at one of wings, winds through a propeller, follows a cable down, and zooms around some stuff that only diehard aerospace junkies would be able to identify. The upshot is that we eventually end up following a propane line which is providing the necessary heat for the cherries jubilee that's being whipped up by the chef on the plane. I'm guessing this is no ordinary Southwest Airlines flight. After seeing a blonde making a lot of dramatic gestures, we know we'll be seeing more of her later. (It's Elaine Hendrix, whom I remember fondly from The Chronicle, although more people may remember her from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion; I'm usually not good with Hey! It's That Guy actors, but you don't forget a fantastic pair of eyebrows like hers.) The camera pans around so we can see the in-flight masseuse, the smoking, and the general debauchery. However, there's soon a little turbulence, and so people are forced to sink into the chaise longues or loll about the beds; Elaine Hendrix toasts everyone. I believe that's our confirmation that she's the alpha female here.
The camera zooms up to a porthole in a door, and then we hear a horse whinnying. We get the other side of the porthole and more horse noises with a side of rattling chains, then a sweeping shot of the interior, which holds pricey-looking toys like motorcycles but nary a Vuitton valise. After a shot of a covered meal on a tray, we see the horse in its stall. I should point out that, unlike other little girls, I never went through a horse phase. I yawned through the first chapters of National Velvet before putting in down; I failed to comprehend why Trixie Belden thought riding horses was the keenest activity ever. So I can't tell you if this horse is a chestnut or a bay or what have you, nor can I tell you if it's a quarter horse, third-horse, or all horse. I can tell you it's kind of brown with white socks and a white splash on its face. It's also standing in a stall where the crumpled, bloodied body of a blonde woman is slumped against the wall.