Last week: A very crispy Cloutier returns to Oz; inmates in solitary return to Gen Pop; tensions escalate between the Aryans and the Muslims; Ryan convinces Montgomery to finger Stanton for Keenan's murder; a bus crash inflates the gratuitous death count.
So Bradford-to-Broadway diva Betty Buckley's chosen to be referred to as Betty Lynn Buckley in the credits -- hitching a ride on the oh-so-fashionable three-name bandwagon. This trend-spotting acumen combined with a recurring role on a sexed-up prison drama should really solidify her men-who-love-men fan base. Work it, Abby. But just remember that you're no Mary Kate Olsen.
Rob Morrow directed this episode. Just a plain old transmission of fact, as he's never made much of an impression on me.
Hill, erudite in half-spectacles, sits in some grass under an apple tree, in front of a super-blue sky and a massive rock foundation, and discusses the laws that govern us all: those of God, those of nature, and, in distant third place, the laws of man. Oh, he's in a tricked-out pod with a video screen wall in back; the hyper-color of everything inside looks kind of cool as the camera pulls back to reveal the contrast with the starkness of Oz. Nice work, Rob Morrow. Now please just don't make an apple fall on Hill's head.
Anyhooch, laws. Man's laws follow God's and nature's because, says Hill, manmade laws require the consensus of a group of people who believe that they've come up with an ultimate truth that every citizen must abide by or risk punishment. Problem is, the truth-divining group is always comprised of politicians; Hill then gets all rhetorical and wonders whether members of tonight's studio audience would prefer to be subject to the whims of the Almighty or the whims of politicians. Me, I'm not so sure they aren't the same thing. And then, sure enough, a fucking apple falls right on Hill's head. A pox on thee, Rob Morrow.
In the cafeteria, Alvarez swaggers along, tray in hand, as Guerra says, "Here comes the dead man." Alvarez encourages Guerra to make his move, but Guerra, seeing a guard nearby, tells Alvarez he'll wait until later and will be keeping an eye on him. Alvarez replies that "truer words have never been spoken," a remark designed (quite well, since it works like a charm) to make Guerra ask what he means. "Being only that you've got one good eye, you droopy-eyed motherfucker," says Alvarez, and I sort of forgive him for last week's bothersome look-at-me-I'm-crazy acting because that's pretty funny, and it's funnier still when Guerra jumps up, seething, and grabs Alvarez, and he does in fact have only one good eye. As the guards separate Guerra and Alvarez, Rebadow looks on, with two eyes, mesmerized.
Apparently the lunchroom scuffle inspired a yearning for clean clothes; Rebadow removes a load from the dryer as Alvarez walks in with his laundry bag. Rebadow is fascinated with Alvarez's decision to throw caution to the wind; Alvarez asks if Rebadow thinks it'll work, if he'll survive, but Rebadow doesn't know. Alvarez thinks Rebadow should have a pretty good idea, since he's been in Oz for the better part of three decades, has seen it all and more, and knows all the tricks. What, by the way, is Rebadow in for? I started watching too late and have never figured that out, but he's always intrigued me. Definitely an interesting character. ["First-degree murder." -- Sars]
Rebadow says there aren't any tricks -- he's just been himself. Then he goes philosophical, explaining the generation gap to Alvarez. "Young people today," he says (and I groan), have come of age in a world of infinite choice, which is cool, but so many of them tend to battle with themselves over their own identities. In Rebadow's day (and I groan again), things were simpler. No finding-yourself crap. They were just a bunch of teenagers headed to war. Alvarez thinks Rebadow is about to pull the hero card, and asks if they were all he-men (to Alvarez's She-Ra), but Rebadow says no; it was just about accepting who you were, working with what you had, and being ready and willing to accept the blow. Tucked within his nostalgic armed-forces pep rally, Rebadow's got a pretty good rule of thumb: never turn down blow if somebody's offering. Rebadow tells Alvarez that he's "faced plenty of hurdles and moments of fear" in his life, but "coming from an age when men took the blow [see?]," he's always felt comfortable in his own skin. Edified, Alvarez bolts.
Lara Croft's breasts, followed closely by Lara Croft, run and jump; the camera pans back to reveal Guerra playing on a computer. Do these guys really have internet access? That seems like something that would be off-limits to prisoners -- just think of the bomb-building, pedophiliac, and other nefarious opportunities, not to mention the fact that online porn could make the computer room an awfully messy place to spend time. Alvarez wanders in and sits down to Guerra, who's growing increasingly befuddled by the former's brazen behavior. Alvarez rolls his chair over even closer to Guerra and tells him that he wants him to stab him (this sentence is brought to you by the pronoun "him"). More befuddlement. Basically, Alvarez wants Guerra to stab him in the shoulder -- but not to kill him. Guerra gets the satisfaction of a free shot at Alvarez without retaliation, and Alvarez survives. Alvarez demands witnesses (no guards, just inmates), so that if Guerra does kill him, someone will go to the warden and land Guerra on death row. Two guards look at the pair suspiciously, and they smile and look guilty (and Guerra's eye is totally droopy -- I had never noticed that before). So, is this just Alvarez buying his survival, or does he have something else up his sleeve? Discuss.
Guerra, whittling and talking to Morales, says he is, in fact, going to kill Alvarez; he'll just place a shank in his hand after he's down and claim self-defense. Morales gets all wiggy because his sister is dead, and since he's heard the news, he's "felt nothing." But Guerra's murderous plans give Morales a little charge in his belly -- his words, not mine -- and he thinks that's a little fucked-up (my words, not his). Morales says that his sister worshipped him, and that Guerra can't kill Alvarez. Guerra's now getting confusing messages from all sides and wonders what the hell is happening. Morales tells him that, because he hasn't shed a tear for a sister who thought so highly of him, and because he's getting all revved up over the possibly slaying of Alvarez, something is wrong. They owe it to themselves -- and to the memory of Annette -- to take a quiet moment and try to figure out what's happening. Okay, time out. Morales is just now realizing that there's something amiss? Like perhaps he's a complete sociopath who's dangerous tendencies have been exacerbated by prison? Are we witnessing the beginning of a turn-around that would make McManus all wet-eyed? Morales just doesn't seem like the introspective type. Guerra tells him it's just a delayed reaction -- that he'll be "crying like a baby" in a week -- and argues that they don't have time to wait. Their best chance to kill Alvarez is now. As my mother never said, don't put off until tomorrow what you can kill today.
Alvarez is doing sit-ups in the gym; Guerra enters, and Alvarez hops up. "Ready?" he asks. Guerra looks around, the one guard in the room conveniently runs out (literally), and Guerra pulls a knife from his pocket. Alvarez starts shouting for all the inmates in the room to look at him, and a series of quick cuts establishes that he's got all the witnesses he could want; as Guerra approaches, Enrique "Papa Conscience" Morales appears, so Guerra sticks to Alvarez's initial terms and stabs him squarely in the shoulder (eliciting appreciative yells from the peanut gallery). Guerra's bad eye goes all googly and he hands the blade to an accomplice as Alvarez goes down, blood seeping from his shoulder; Morales, presumably satisfied, makes a hasty exit. Alvarez gets ample screen time to writhe in agony as he lies bleeding on a gym mat.
Redding's helping Hill get dressed for his mother's funeral, Redding's tie-tying emphasizing his fatherly relationship to Hill; Hill says he wishes Redding could attend the services. Redding agrees that he'd really like to go, but understands because he's not really a relative. Hill still can't believe that his "Moms be dead." I am shocked, simply shocked, by this display of Ebonics from our trusty monologist -- even times of extreme grief do not excuse massacres of the Queen's English. Redding starts reminiscing about meeting Eugenia -- years ago, at about age 14; Redding was hanging with Hill's father when a woman, attached to a beautiful pair of eyes, started across the street. Redding pointed her out to Hill Senior, their eyes met, and the rest (wedding, child) is history. Hill, a close-up of his profile indicating that he's about to utter something important, asks Redding, "You always loved my moms, didn't you?" Redding says of course he did, but Hill turns around and repeats himself, emphasizing and drawing out the word "loved," and making it sound salacious and naughty, so there's absolutely no question what he means. Redding says he loved Hill's father too -- um, okay, TMI, thank you very much -- but that life works out the way life works out. Zen Master Redding then hands something he'd like Hill to place on his mother's grave -- his high school graduation ring. Because nothing says "gee, sorry you're dead" quite like Jostens.
A puppet that looks like a used tampon fills the screen as Ryan asks Busmalis about his disappearing fiancée and Poet says something rhyming and dumb. Busmalis points out that Norma's name is still in the credits of Miss Sally (the puppet show, I presume), and Poet says something that doesn't rhyme about the show -- oh, according to Poet it's called Mith Thally's Thcoolyard -- getting cancelled, which upsets Busmalis in exactly the way I imagine he'd be upset by the cancellation of a puppet show. Poet calls him a sad fuck and says he understands why Norma bolted, which quite upsets Rebadow, who tells Poet he knows not of what he speaks and that he's a "stupid fool." Rebadow retreats to his pod; Busmalis follows.
After thanking him for his support, Busmalis warns Rebadow that he's gonna get his ass kicked; Rebadow shrugs it off, and Busmalis wonders what's wrong. Seems Rebadow's son came to visit and delivered the news that Rebadow's grandson -- Alex, Jr. -- is getting worse. He's developed non-lymphocytic leukemia (yikes) and is in desperate need of a bone marrow transplant. Rebadow's no good as a donor -- no family member will do, because, Rebadow explains, "Alex Junior's mother is of West Indian and Guatemalan descent. My grandson's unique mixed-race heritage makes for the most beautiful skin you'll ever lay eyes on. It also makes finding a suitable donor extremely difficult." I painstakingly transcribe these lines because -- in addition to being rather interesting (and something that, if true, poses considerable challenges -- ah, those pesky laws of nature) -- they represent decent dialogue, which is an unfortunate and increasing rarity on the show. I'd like to give props to those lines and ask for more, please. We come crashing back to earth as Busmalis becomes a living, breathing PSA, lamenting the lack of minority bone marrow donors and wailing that doctors should get the word out and find more. Rebadow lowers himself to Busmalis's level and says that there's never enough money to support worthy causes before trundling off to see Dr. Nathan. From subtle to bludgeon in 8.4 seconds.
According to Dr. Nathan, the umbilical cord, like bone marrow, contains cells that can help fight leukemia, although that's still a very experimental procedure. Interesting leukemia-related fact number two. She sympathizes with Rebadow, and says that when she hears stories like Alex Junior's, her Latina heritage kicks in and makes her upset that she's so American (but she can still say "Latina" with an authentic-sounding accent. Like J. Lo, she's real). When Rebadow asks what she means, she explains that in Central and South America there's a widespread belief that certain herbs can be very effective against disease, but she's such a disciple of Western medicine that if it's not manufactured in a lab and guaranteed to cause extreme birth defects, it's no good to her, as she hands Rebadow some pills to swallow. Ah, the irony.
Dr. Nathan's words light a fire under Rebadow, who heads to the library and asks for any material dealing with herbal medicine, with an emphasis on R&D for leukemia remedies. As he sits in the cafeteria, engrossed in the Well Being Journal, a dark hand reaches across the table and steals Rebadow's cookie. Then another dark hand reaches across and steals his apple. And then his sandwich. Sayeth the oracle of Oz: if white people bury their heads in books, black people will steal their food. Watch out, honky!
Rebadow is obviously serious (like cancer -- ha ha!) about his research; at lights out, he keeps reading. day, he's online (guess that answers my question about the Web), and, after ingesting a journal and a website -- eureka! -- he's found the cure for cancer. It's lapashel (I refuse so much as an attempt to verify the spelling, so don't get all huffy with me if you actually know it), an herb from the rainforests of Paraguay. Rebadow has huge ears (but not as big as Martha Stewart's -- if you notice, they're always covered in pictures, but I saw a 60 Minutes story on her once; she pushed back her hair and I almost fell over. Bet you're all thrilled with that tidbit), and I love his neckerchief. A small way to make a big statement. Unfortunately, lapashel is an evergreen that boasts over 100 species; identifying the one that actually works takes time and lots of money. Rebadow vows to raise the money to finance the research; though I'd generally be skeptical of such claims, the man did just discover the cure for cancer, so I think he's really got it in him. Never underestimate a man in a neckerchief.
Back in the videopod, Hill lists a few laws which can be found on the books around our fine country, which will lead to punishment if violated: in Rhode Island, it is illegal to throw pickle juice on a trolley; in the state of Washington, all lollipops are banned; in Indiana, no baths may be taken between October and March; in San Francisco, one cannot pick up and throw used confetti; while in North Carolina, it is illegal for dogs and cats to fight. That last one, observes Hill, goes against the laws of nature, since dogs and cats are born enemies. Or have men just created the natural law that they are enemies?
Stanton gets wheeled into the infirmary, kicking and flailing and whining like a baby, after receiving a trauma to the head. He tells Dr. Nathan that he doesn't love her; after getting over her initial sadness, she wonders why. Stanton tells her that Leo thinks he (Stanton) is obsessed with her (Nathan's) tits (while he eyes them), which makes Nathan even more upset that she's not the object of Stanton's adoration. Stanton suddenly starts freaking out and yelling that Nathan has to tell Leo he's an innocent man; he pushes the guard away and grabs Nathan's coat, which freaks her out. Ryan, lurking around the infirmary as usual, sees the commotion and punches Stanton in the head. Nathan says she was handling the situation just fine (Ryan, like myself, doesn't think so) and tells him to get the fuck out of her life. Done. Good. Fine. Bye.
Montgomery, in the food line, tells Ryan he wants some more beets -- oh, yeah, and some more money to keep his mouth shut about lying to the warden. This guy's been in Oz for three years and doesn't know that you don't fuck with Ryan O'Reily? He deserves whatever's about to come his way. Ryan says he'll meet him in the library later to discuss the terms of their deal. Talking to Dotcommer, who looks like someone attacked him with blusher, Ryan laments Montgomery's greed before deciding that he'll miss the library rendezvous and will send Stanton in his place. Ryan tracks down Stanton trying to lift weights; when Stanton jumps up and tells Ryan to leave him alone, the latter muses that they got off on the wrong foot and actually have something in common -- they're both suspects in the Keenan murder. They both have eyewitnesses who claim they saw them do the deed. Now, says Ryan, I'm not sure who's fingering me (can't turn around that far, eh?) but I know who's been talking smack about you. Stanton wants to know, but Ryan professes reluctance to spill the beans, as Stanton might do something crazy. Tell me. No. Tell me. No. Tell me. No. The exchange involved a lot of "fucks," but this is a family site, y'all. Martin Montgomery, says Ryan, and Stanton goes ballistic, calls MM a "cunt," and stalks him to the library, where he plunges a Paper Mate pen into his neck. And Peter Criss and his bad hair go off to prisoner heaven. Wonder if Paper Mate paid for that little product plug.
Leo's questioning Ryan about the Paper Mate incident -- oh, turns out Peter Criss and his bad hair just went to Benchley Memorial. Leo asks about Ryan snitching on MM (just a rumor I was repeating, says Ryan) and then about Keenan's shamrock, which was found in Montgomery's cell. Oh, yeah, says Ryan, I think I recognize that. As usual, Leo's getting nowhere.
TV news anchor says that '60s radical Suzanne Fitzgerald, otherwise known as Ryan's real mother, was released from prison after Governor Diminutive commuted her sentence to two years of community service. Cut to Sister Pete and Mukada (looking completely recovered from the bus accident) telling Suzanne how jazzed they are that she'll be doing her community service at Oz, and what a nifty idea starting a performing arts program is (I, for one, think it's preposterous). Pete worries that it'll be tough to convince the inmates to sign up; Mukada thinks they'll jump at the novelty but that it will be tough to keep them involved. Suzanne says that she's motivated ten-year-old boys, so she can surely manage the prisoners. Great -- a cavalier attitude like that always gets punished. Can't wait to see what happens to Ryan's Moms.
Behind curtains on the cafeteria stage, Suzanne hammers out a dirge on the piano. Ryan appears. They hug. He reminds us that Suzanne is not Cyril's mother, and that Ryan and Cyril are half-brothers. Ryan introduces Cyril. Cyril gives Suzanne a dorky paper flower he made. They hug. Suzanne asks if Ryan and Cyril will be signing up for her program. As if. She makes a stupid joke about the boys' father's voice -- like a warthog! -- and Cyril laughs like a retard. Which makes a lot of sense. Suzanne asks if they boys will have some of their friends sign up, which translates to Ryan holding Busmalis against a wall and demanding that he join. Busmalis showcases his prodigious singing talent (high school drama, natch), but Ryan says that as far as his mother's concerned, Busmalis has never sung before in his life. Hey, he's already convinced me. As Ryan walks away, Hoyt says that his mom looks mighty fine and asks if she fucks younger guys. I love Hoyt. Ryan tackles him.
In the cafeteria, Suzanne attempts to relax Busmalis by fondling his face while he sings scales. The meal shift enters. Ryan looks horrified, makes a beeline over to his mother, and tells her they need to talk. He tells her that she has to quit, that he's pissed off a lot of the other inmates and that she might be in danger. She points out the guard standing nearby and thanks Ryan for his concern, but tells him that she isn't going anywhere. He gets more agitated, because she's not picking up on his thinly veiled "Mom, you're embarrassing the hell out of me with your dumb-ass music classes and all the other guys will make fun of me" pleas. She tells him that this is where she's needed, and that nothing he can say will change her mind, as Pancamo wonders if Ryan plans to work.
Flashback to Dave Brass getting his Achilles tendon slashed; McManus walks in to find him back at work, manning the reception desk. McManus acts all awkward because he didn't go see Brass in the hospital, because it's all about him and his insecurities. In response to McManus' inquiry, Brass says he's not sure what the future holds, and wonders if McManus ever found out who cut him. Negative, Dave. Well, I think that's why I'm here, he says. I want to know. McManus, uncomfortable that the conversation has veered away from him, starts babbling about how he feels that the cut was designed to remove Brass from the final basketball game. After they decided not to play, McManus told Morales that they were playing, and he feels bad and responsible and sorry. Yawn. Brass tells McManus he'll buzz him in, and then throws a fit when the door won't work before limping over to open it manually. So we know that Brass is one rage-filled dude.
Immediately inside the gates, Leo's perky assistant tells McManus that there's a staff meeting with Devlin at 11:00. Sharp. This means that McManus will be late. Sure enough, McManus slithers in at 11:13 as Devlin -- snippy as ever -- introduces the new liaison between his office and Oz. She'll help with problems that arise and clear up changes in the administration's policy. She's a perky, mellifluous blonde named Eleanor O'Connor, "fresh off the boat from New York City" (confirming that Oz is not there), who uses the word "bullshit" in her bland "thanks for having me" speech. Clappity clap clap goes the staff -- except for Claire, who looks like she washed down a few bong hits with a shot of Jagermeister. Ms. O'Connor -- oops, "Ellie" -- sticks around for a meet-and-greet; Mukada bounds up and tells her he loved what she said (probably because she used a naughty word for doo-doo), while Pete says it's the first smart thing Mini-Gov has done in years. Demonstrating laudable professionalism, O'Connor immediately confides to Pete that she hears Devlin is not well liked, as Claire swings in and slurs that some people love him. Perhaps, Claire, but that's not the kind of love they're chatting about right now. Go lie down, honey. McManus quickly wishes her luck and bolts the room, with Murphy in hot pursuit.
Murphy wants McManus to stay away from "nice, genuine" Ellie -- he thinks that McManus jumps on every skirt that enters Oz. McManus tells Murphy that "I'm not gonna be fucking Eleanor O'Connor, because I already did." Seems Blondie is McManus's ex-wife.
To drive home the point that many laws are dumb, Hill reels off a few more. In Arkansas, a man can legally beat his wife once a month. In Los Angeles, a man can legally beat his wife with a leather strap no more than two inches wide. If she gives her permission, the strap can be any size. Oh, yeah, and in many states, butt-sex is illegal. That ranks high for stupidity, inappropriate use of political power, and reversal of the laws of nature.
McManus walks into Leo's office, where Perky Assistant reveals that he's busy, since McManus can't gather that from the shouts emanating from behind the closed door. It's Brass, protesting Leo's decision to reassign him to reception; he wants to be dealing with the prisoners in Unit B. McManus raises his voice in protest, but Leo says that guards who deal with prisoners need to be agile. Good point. Leo says he feels bad, but that prisons aren't charities, a distinction that seems to have evaded McManus for far too long. McManus corners Brass by the time clock and suggests that he sue. "Sue who?" asks Brass. Sue Ellen! Oz, the prison system, the state, whoever, says McManus, and launches into a PSA for the Americans with Disabilities Act, passed by Congress in 1990 to prevent discrimination in the workplace. Why no, Officer Dave Brass, it's not just for people in wheelchairs. It's for People Just Like You. McManus suggests that Brass seek out Eleanor O'Connor.
Post seek-out, Eleanor O'Connor pays McManus a visit, during which they engage in unremarkable ex-spouse banter. She's impressed with Em City and says maybe it was worth walking out on her after all; he protests; she tells him it's fine, that he made his choices and she made hers; he says it's good to see her and asks her to dinner; she says no. Then she brings up Brass; sad story, she says. Had him reassigned to the cafeteria, which gets him back in the fray and frees up time for physical therapy. She's working miracles already. She wonders if McManus told him to sue (sure did), wonders if he was serious or just testing her (a bit of both, actually), calls him a son of a bitch. That's the nicest thing you ever said to me, says he. Name-calling will get worse, says she. Smile, smile, check ya later.
After winning at pool, Robson wanders over to where Schillinger sits, head down, and leans on the bars with his arm raised, showing off a big, smelly armpit. Robson tells Schillinger he should come out and play, but Schillinger's still torn up about the accident. Seems Carrie's parents are taking Jewel back to Montana, and Schillinger worries that he'll never see his granddaughter again. Robson, caring deeply, shrugs it off; when Schillinger asks if he ever had kids, Robson says his wife didn't want to mess up her figure. Then do what the famous do and adopt!
It's the "not in real time" camera. Pancamo, on the outside and in black and white, stops his car -- vanity plate: KICBOXER (nothing but class for Pancamo) -- opens the trunk to reveal squirming body bag, opens body bag to reveal squirming woman, kisses taped-over mouth, and lobs package into water. Pancamo (a.k.a. Charlie the Enforcer) got sentenced to 35 years in 1997. Up for parole in 15.
In his office, McManus tells Pancamo and other members of the Stallion crew that Peter Schibetta will be returning to Oz. Nope, he's not in the loony bin anymore; an intensive course of therapy has cured him. From the trauma of being raped by Adebesi? The Italians are skeptical, as am I -- unwanted insertion by Adebesi, psychological ramifications aside, has got to be incredibly traumatic. Schibetta -- a small, dark, intense-looking guy -- walks into the cafeteria with the Italians and the O'Reilys, and says that the new Oz looks totally different from the old Oz. What are all these people on? Schibetta flashes back to his rear-entry nightmare -- bent over a counter, pants down, Adebesi thrusting and listening to his ever-present headphones -- as a guard knocks on the bars and tells Pancamo that the FBI wants to see him.
The Feds want to know if Pancamo knows a guy called Gaetano Sensetta; Pancamo says, "Not that I recall." And that's all he can say, as Mr. FBI keeps pushing for information about Sensetta. Seems that Sensetta recently entered the witness protection program and told authorities that Pancamo told him to kill Hank Schillinger. Pancamo looks unfazed. FBI asks if Pancamo knows Vernon Schillinger, a fellow inmate. Pancamo's response? "Not that I recall." FBI goes on the reveal that, although Chris Keller confessed to the crime, he never named the hit man and failed a polygraph test. FBI wonders why that might be the case. "Nice tie," says Pancamo. FBI finally gets the faintest hint of a response when he tells Pancamo that his conversation will be with Vern Schillinger. Yes, indeedy, Pancamo should be nervous.
Pancamo, back in his pod, red-trimmed sweatsuit unzipped to reveal the upper section of a truly terrifying set of man-boobs, tells Beecher about recent developments. Beecher reminds Pancamo that, when he asked him to hire someone to kill Hank, Pancamo assured him that no one would ever find the body. Six months, says Beecher, is kind of different from "never"; he knows that Schillinger will castrate him when he finds out the truth. Pancamo promises that he'll take the heat since he screwed up; no one will ever know that Beecher originated the hit (yeah, right). Like me, Beecher remains unconvinced.
Schillinger, waxing philosophical about Oz: "You try to put the shit behind you, you make a real effort, and just when you're thinking, well maybe I have, more shit comes flying." FBI's conversation is, in fact, with Schillinger; after verifying that FBI is absolutely certain that Pancamo ordered the hit on Hank, Vern charges into the gym with a small Aryan army and rushes Pancamo. Robson comes from behind and stabs Pancamo in the side, as the fracas degenerates into a free-for-all. Punches are thrown, kicks are kicked, and someone takes a particularly gruesome-sounding -- and -looking -- bite out of someone else. SORT teams descend to restore order as Pancamo is rushed to the infirmary, lying on his non-bloody side. Nathan lifts Pancamo's shirt, and we're treated to a thoroughly gratuitous close-up of Pancamo's gaping, quivering wound. Schillinger gets thrown in the hole -- he's the first hole-bound prisoner who doesn't give us the full monty. There's not even an ass shot. Wonder what that's all about.
Sister Pete shows up at Beecher's cell; he plays all dumb and innocent and asks what's up. Oh, she says, nothing much. The Aryans attacked the Sicilians because Pancamo ordered the hit on Hank, and Chris Keller had nothing to do with anything, and Massachusetts doesn't want him, so he's coming back to Oz. You know, just another day at the office. Beecher remains stone-faced, revealing nothing, but I bet he's got a hard-on.
McManus walks by the cage, which still holds White -- a.k.a. Slowmar. White, of course, starts panting after McManus to stop and chat, but the Timjob disrespects Slowmar and keeps on walking. Ever the diplomat, Slowmar calls McManus a "heartless motherfucker." His ploy works; McManus calls him on his shifting perceptions of McManus's heart size -- the other day it was big, now it's gone. What gives? Slowmar says his time in the cage has revealed a new solution to his problem -- he wants to just "hang out" with McManus, spend time in his office, shoot the proverbial breeze. See, McManus is the only friend that Slowmar has, and Slowmar really needs a friend. As well as a bullet in the head. Murphy lets Slowmar out of the cage; he keeps begging. McManus seems overjoyed at this idea, but Slowmar really wants help, and since McManus can't resist a sob story, he says he'll try to think of something.
At mealtime, the Muslims pray, and a rather young-looking, red-capped neophyte surreptitiously puts a piece of bread in his mouth. Sucks for you, kid, because Said saw all, and he arrives at the table to demand that the guy take the bread out of his mouth. He does, and apologizes; Said is livid that he can't quell his desires for just a moment to give thanks and praise to Allah, and tells him to get up and walk away. And to remove his kofi. Arif protests that Said is being too harsh on a new Muslim, but Said will brook no dissent. As the young Muslim sits back down, Said goes ballistic and grabs him as the guards rush in. McManus sees the incident and brings Said to his office for a chit-chat. He wonders what's up with Said, who says something that I can't decipher even after a few viewings. McManus chides the Minister, a man who used to fight with words, for choking Muslims, and implies that he's a little directionless at present, but Said says he knows exactly what he's doing -- he's realized that the Adebesi side of him, which came to the surface the day he killed Adebesi, is the core of his being. McManus is having none of this, and tells Said that everyone has demons, but that Said has given himself over to this newfound badness. McManus theorizes that Said, more than anyone else in Oz, can straighten himself out, and this knowledge, combined with Said's failure to act on it, is what's driving him batty. Said begs McManus to put him in solitary, but Tim's got a better idea. And here comes the plan -- if Said wants to save himself (which he does), he's got to save someone else.
Slowmar. At a lunchroom summit, McManus introduces Said to his new charge, and I suddenly feel new sympathy for Said. From now on, Said says, he and Slowmar will be inseparable; they will share a pod, eat together, exercise together, work side by side. McManus tells a very reluctant Slowmar (who looks like he's furiously trying to figure out what Said's words meant) that he's still got to go to counseling and rehab and get tested for drugs once a week -- and that this is his last chance. If he makes one wrong move, it's back to the hole permanently. Slowmar gets it.
And moves into Said's pod -- all nervous gestures and oral diarrhea. He's already driving Said more insane than he was before, but I imagine that Said thrives on an external cross to bear -- likely a pleasant diversion from what's going on in his head. Said remains silent for a few moments of Slowmar's ridiculous posturing and then starts to lay down the law: "Don't hustle me." And, in response to Slowmar's generously dispensed terms of endearment: "I am not your baby. My name is Minister Said and you will address me as such." Slowmar doesn't want to be converted and starts to protest; Said tells him to get out, but then Slowmar gets all contrite, and Said tells him to make his bed instead, and gives him a new mantra -- "I will not fight." After some healthy skepticism, Slowmar starts to get into the words, but then starts to talk about the worms that plague him every time he goes into solitary, and then starts to think about all of the days -- 23,000 -- that he'll be in Oz. 23,000 days of not fighting and staying sober. Slowmar realizes that his chances are not good at all.
More silly manmade law time, courtesy of Hill (Cloutier's walling plays on the video screen). In Nogales, Arizona, it is illegal to wear suspenders; Hill wonders what horrific event transpired to cause the city leaders to outlaw suspenders (I recall an outbreak of rainbow ones during my youth that could easily inspire a letter to my representative) and whether there are fringe groups that meet under cover of night to don the outlawed braces.
In the infirmary, Mukada asks after Cloutier (well, he was dancing earlier, but now he's a bit tuckered out, so he's back in bed) and wonders if he can see him. Nathan warns him that Cloutier isn't looking so hot, but Mukada says he worked at Benchley Memorial while he was a seminarian and has seen burn victims. Not like this one, Daddio. Mukada walks in, sees Cloutier, and begins an "Our Father." We get to see Cloutier as well, from a different angle, in extreme close-up this time, mesh holding his seared flesh on his face, as he makes some bubbly prayer noises. Just to share for a moment, I'm currently eating Chinese food and am slightly amazed that I didn't just spit up all over my keyboard.
Back in his office, Mukada indulges in the vices of nicotine and caffeine. Cloutier's redheaded usurper arrives. Seems he's gotten wind of a bus crash memorial that Mukada's cooking up, and wants know why he wasn't asked to participate, since he's been ministering to many of the Christians since Cloutier's "accident." Accident, my tight little buttcheeks, says Mukada, and reading from a Bible on a stage does not a ministry make. Red demands inclusion and, when Mukada questions his credentials, whips out a laminated card signifying his status as an ordained priest that he got online. See what havoc internet access can wreak in a correctional facility? Bad, bad internet. Mukada tells Red to shove off, but Red says he'll go over Mukada's head, to the warden. He'll ignore you, says Mukada. "Then I'll go over his head, to God," says Red, which is too much for Mukada, who spits that everyone knows Red was involved in the Cloutier incident, and that as soon as the Reverend can testify, it's off to eternal solitary for Red. Red gives Mukada the finger (with a kiss -- cute touch) and retreats.
Red, of course, immediately begins plotting Cloutier's demise; Cloutier's throat is still sore (yeah, that's a good word for it) from the accident, says Red, but once he can testify, they'll all be in trouble. Hoyt argues that he's already screwed, but Red is adamant. But, says Hoyt, if he dies then they finger me. Right, says Red; that's why we need someone who is "beyond reproach." Excuse me, you're in a prison. I don't think that's gonna happen. Oops, my bad -- apparently Jim, who's conveniently in the room, is beyond reproach, but doesn't want to ice Cloutier since it was Cloutier that brought him to Jesus. Red tells him, "If you're not part of the solution, you're Satan's tool." Um, that's not the way I heard it in Business Blather 101. But it seems to work -- management gurus take note! It works until Cloutier comes to Jim in a vision at night and tells him, don't kill me, kill Hoyt and Kerr, or perhaps "Kirk," which must be Red's name. ["It is, in fact, Tim Kirk." -- Sars] Jim nods his agreement as a beatific looks spreads across his face; I think we might have witnessed a nocturnal emission.
In the gym, where bad things seem to happen, Jim tells the guys about his visitation before making a very ill-advised attempt to follow Cloutier's orders; Jim buys the farm instead, as Hoyt snaps his neck with a bar. And, after claiming self-defense, gets sent to the hole by Leo. Red's podmate asks if there will be a memorial for Jim -- sure, says Red, we have to pray for his immortal soul, and he looks ever so sincere while gnawing on a toothbrush.
Hill chimes in for his final to-the-camera address. Man's laws, says he, are arbitrary and transitory; what's legal today may be a felony tomorrow. God's laws, however, are carved in stone. Them suckers don't change -- and when you break God's laws, you don't go to prison, you go to hell. And you burn. Yeah, if you happen to believe in that whole God thing.
And here's Hoyt in solitary, showing off his manhood -- I think he's chosen this position, seated, legs up and spread, to best highlight his tubesteak. I was beginning to worry about the low dick count after last week's dongfest, but this certainly makes up for Schillinger's modesty. Hoyt hears his name and looks up, bathed in a pool of light. There's Cloutier, clean-cut and clean-shaven, all iridescent and tricked out like some swinging '60s English psychedelic spiritual acid freak, saying, "Don't be afraid." Hoyt, of course, is terrified and starts writhing on the floor as the camera cuts to burnt Cloutier, eyes a-twinkle, the hint of smile on his charred face.
week: Leo tells Alvarez he's going back to Em City; Officer Brass wants Morales to tell him who cut his ankle; the Sicilians approach Said about joining forces against the Aryans; Red wants some bald guy to kill Cloutier, who continues to haunt Hoyt in the guise of 's Dylan; Redding proposes that he and Morales work together. They hold hands.