Sandy aftermath of the emergency landing. Kellerman moves to phone the Vegas facility on his cell, only to realize there's no signal in the middle of the Mojave. And this man is a surgeon? Wise Guy assures the boys that he can fix the plane. Yeah, doll. I'll be over here in Chicago, holding my breath. Or not.
Back in the hospital, Fish Lips enters the darkened room of what appears to be a desperately ill patient to find Snickers waiting for her. Seems the "fraud" in the bed "has befuddled [Fish Lips's] computer system." Apparently, the guy's been paying bimonthly premiums rather than biweekly ones, and is therefore ineligible for Mission's "Platinum Deluxe" services. Fish Lips admiringly wonders how Snickers caught the guy. Snickers proudly whips his "utilization mini-tool" from his pants. Calm down. It's some sort of hand-held PDA equipped with an uplink to Sutro's mainframe at their "U.S. headquarters in Bermuda." I hope these actors get hazard pay for spouting this crap. Fish Lips coos, "What else does your mini-tool do?" On second thought, these actors can rot in Hell for all I care. Niki, hon, I have no idea how you get through this on a weekly basis, but I imagine it involves an ocean of booze. The Marimba Of Misguided Affection tangos into the frame as the dorkerrific middle management team continues in this nauseating vein until the mini-tool uplink interferes with the patient's monitors. Fish Lips breathlessly promises to meet Snickers in the lobby after her shift.
Desert Of The Damned. Time's a-wasting, the heart's a-melting, and Wise Guy's no closer to a-fixing his goddamned contrivance. Kellerman and Wee Willie hike off towards a nearby highway to hitch a ride, hoping to reach Vegas before the three hours remaining on the ticker's ticker run out. This should suck. By the way, Wee Willie hasn't uttered a word in the last fifteen minutes.
Highway Of The Damned, sixteen minutes later. A product-placed Jeep blows past the boys. Kellerman bitches. The heart goes, "Sloosh!"
Hospital. Skippy The Wonder Dweeb sneaks up behind Yang and suggests that they "collaborate" on a paper regarding Mr. Lin's miraculous recovery entitled "Spontaneous Resolution of Massive Pulmonary Emboli, by Posner and Yang." That should capture the Nobel committee's attention. Not. Yang's enthused, until Skippy suggests they "get together after work and bang it out." Christ on a stick. Who talks like this? Aside from poorly-written characters appearing in third-rate HMO satires featured on floundering broadcast networks, of course. Maggie grimaces in revulsion. Word, Dr. Yang. Skippy gets snippy, noting that not all interns get to write papers. Perhaps, but no intern gets off on desperate single entendres, so shut it. Idiot. Maggie reluctantly agrees to meet him in the lobby after her shift. I hope that lobby's roomy enough to accommodate the pile-up of misguided, sick-making lust that's scheduled to appear at five o'clock.