Sigmund Freud. Cigar. Hill reclining on an analyst's couch. Talk of dreams. Freud, says Hill, believed that dreams helped us work out certain urges that society has deemed unacceptable. Urges such as the desire for a world devoid of drivers who seem to think there's a stop sign on every corner, when that is clearly not the case? But I digress. For the good Dr. Freud -- who looks like the insane (if perceptive) freak he must have been, with a gleeful look on his face as he grins at the air and sucks mightily on his cigar (in this case, a cigar is not just a cigar) -- though we might wish to kill an oppressive father, this would be too horrible to bear, so we instead dream of defenestrating our bosses. The mind modifies our dreams to keep strong emotions at bay, as less emotion makes a good automaton. And so thrives society. The difference with Oz, says Hill, is that they actually throw the boss out of the window instead of just dreaming about it. I'm wondering where in Oz, exactly, one would find a window.
Flashback to Guerra shanking Alvarez. In the infirmary, Alvarez pulls the bandage back from his wound as Leo strides in, demanding to know who did the dirty deed. Alvarez has no idea, as everything happened so fast, so there's really not much Leo can do. Then Leo pulls back the bandage and remarks that Alvarez was pretty lucky -- a quarter of an inch difference and Alvarez would be dead, dead, dead. This observation prompts Alvarez to wonder if he's headed back to solitary. Leo says no -- while he'd love to see Alvarez rot in solitary (Alvarez looks taken aback by Leo's compassion), it's back to Gen Pop, where he might not be so lucky time.
So Alvarez is suddenly all better and back in circulation; he strides up to a table where Morales, Guerra, and some other guys are sitting, and tells Guerra they need to talk. Guerra wants to know if Alvarez wants to get shanked again (everyone giggles). Alvarez kicks one guy's chair and asks if he can sit down; the guy says, "Blow me" (everyone giggles). But then Morales slams his hand down on the table, which makes a really loud, echo-y noise that sounds suspiciously like a synthesizer, but then that's Morales for you, and everyone shuts up. Because Morales just isn't funny. So Alvarez sits and tells Guerra that he knows he tried to kill him. Guerra protests, but Alvarez isn't buying it -- you were supposed to stab me in the shoulder, but you came really close to my heart. Even so, says Alvarez, I won't retaliate. Morales looks really serious, because he's not funny, and tells Alvarez that, while he's not welcome back into the fold, he will guarantee that Alvarez will meet no harm. Guerra's bummed, but Morales stands firm. "All scores are settled," he says.
In the cafeteria, some young kid with remarkably large features sits down and tells Alvarez that he wants to be shanked. He's seen what it did for Alvarez and wants in on the action. Alvarez is getting left alone, plus Morales, though he's acting "powerful and generous," is really running scared. Behind his eyes. Which seems impossible to me, but whatever. The kid wants to join Alvarez's gang. I want to see him naked. In this guy's world, Alvarez is the wave, and he wants to get in early. Alvarez mulls this over for a second, and says that he understands that the kid feels the need to prove himself, but that he's not going to shank him. There is, however, something else he can do. "Kill Guerra." And then the dramatic music swells, as though we couldn't see that one from miles away.
As Morales speaks to the air in front of him, Officer Dave Brass hobbles over to his table and tells him to "Step over here." Over here, Brass asks if Morales knows who he is. Yes, says Morales, you're the baller. "Pretty good for a white boy," says Morales, but Brass isn't interested in small talk. He wants to know who cut his Achilles tendon, but Morales claims he doesn't know. Baloney, says Brass; I don't care whose idea it was, I just want the guy that made the cut. Morales wishes he could help; Brass says he'll be sorry he didn't. Then Morales waxes sentimental about Brass's amazing crossover dribble, a dribble like he'd never seen, and moves in for the kill. "You know what they say," he says. "You take away a basketball god's first step and all you got is a seal with a broken wheel." Ouch. Wait -- what? What the hell does that mean? And is that really what they say? Because I've never heard it before. And it's stupid. They should say something else. Many flashback shots of Dave Brass playing basketball confirm that he made a few baskets in his day. Before he became a cripple.
In his cell, Busmalis writes; a stack of pages sits on the table to his left. Rebadow walks in and asks what he's doing. It's a letter-writing campaign to protest the rumored cancellation of Miss Sally's Schoolyard, and Busmalis has heartfelt letters from many inmates, except that he's faked all of the signatures, including Adebesi's, and I get a warm, fuzzy feeling imagining Adebesi writing a letter to save a puppet show: Dear Motherfuckers, Don't fucking cancel that great fucking show or I'll rape you all. Love, Adebesi. And this is just an aside, but if I produced a puppet show for kids and got a bunch of letters from a prison telling me how great it was, I'd have to think long and hard about what I was doing with my life. Busmalis asks Rebadow if he'd like to write one, but Rebadow declines and makes some lame joke about renewing his grandson's chance to beat leukemia. Oh, yeah, the diseased child. Guess Rebadow's cure for cancer hasn't leaked yet. Busmalis wonders how that's going, and Rebadow uses the phrase "pay to play," which makes me want to take back all the nice things I've said about him. Poor Rebadow can't figure out how to raise the money to find the cure. How about a bond-building walk from one city to another, where people are forced to hit up their friends for cash in order to participate?
But that's all right, since it's conveniently time for today's lottery numbers, revealed by the evidently brilliant, blonde star of Miss Sally's Schoolyard (this show must be HUGE). Ryan O'Reily wants to know what kind of numbnuts plays the lottery. Well, Busmalis, for one. And Beecher. And I'll bet Rebadow joins the fray any second now. And that, my friends, makes six numb nuts. When Ryan voices the opinion that one has a better chance of getting struck by lightning than of winning the lottery, Busmalis corrects him by citing the exact statistical odds of lightning versus lottery. Dork. Ryan's long gone by the time Busmalis finishes his sentence. As the blonde exhorts the viewers to play the lottery, Rebadow suddenly looks skyward as a shrill quasi-musical sound erupts on the soundtrack.
Brass hobbles around the cafeteria some more; Rebadow jumps up as he passes, asks him to buy a lottery ticket, and promises to cut him in on the two-million-dollar jackpot. Brass seems skeptical and, laughing, wonders what makes Rebadow think he'll win. "God told me," says Rebadow, "these are the winning numbers," and hands Brass a dollar and a sheet of paper. I'm thinking that it was probably Cloutier -- he needed a break from harassing Hoyt (scared away, perhaps, by Jaz's ample schlong), and decided to do an old man a favor. Or just fuck with his head.
McManus is shooting hoops in the gym when Brass limps in, wearing a really unattractive jacket, and asks about Rebadow. McManus wants to know if he's bothering Brass, but Brass says no; he just thought Rebadow might be psychotic, since he told Brass at dinner that God speaks to him. There's some seriously bad acting going on right now -- the guy playing Dave Brass seems like he's trying really hard, but he's coming off as a constipated gentleman with a spittle issue. No, says McManus -- while Rebadow has indeed enjoyed a long, ongoing dialogue with God, he's pretty stable. And then Brass starts talking about basketball, as this is the first time he's touched a ball since the incident. About some yo-yo named Pete Maravich (I'm guessing this might ring bells for people who care for sports, but I'm not one of them ["that's 'Pistol Pete' -- he's old-school. My parents talk about him all the time; apparently he played like a Globetrotter, but in the NBA" -- Sars]) who carried a basketball with him at all times, even on dates. I bet he got laid a lot -- "Kiss me, now kiss my ball." He even slept with his ball, which to me sounds way more psycho than conversing with God. "Like a marriage," says Brass, as I retch. Brass obviously does not share my skepticism, as he did the same thing until he got to college. Loser. I bet he gets laid not at all. Then Brass raises his arm to throw a basket, but stops suddenly, unable to complete the motion. He tosses the ball to McManus, who starts whining to Brass about hanging out and shooting. Yeah, asshole -- I'm sure Brass wants to hang out with the guy who's largely responsible for his limp. Brass starts to leave, but McManus keeps at him, finally pushing him into a temper. He talks about how Maravich died on the court -- "'til death do us part," and how he'll never be able to do that. "So stop fucking asking me to shoot a round with you." You tell him, Dave. And then he limps out.
Flashback to an Asian guy getting the shit kicked out of him. Now he's looking fetching in orange and listening to McManus express skepticism about his requested return to Em City, as, during his stay, he constantly threatened the lives of Morales and the other Latinos. Plus, Cyril O'Reily's there. Cyril? Oh, so this guy got beaten up by Cyril. All Zen-like (because he's Asian, yo), he says that getting hit by Cyril was the best day of his life, because he saw clearly all that he had done and, if he survived, all that he could do. Yeah, right. If McManus buys this, then he may be more gullible than Leo, since this guy clearly has something up his sleeve. After some more existential jabber -- "Whether or not you bring me back to Em City is irrelevant. And yet I am drawn there. Why? I don't know." It is the love of Mulan, surely -- McManus, perhaps simply to shut him up, agrees to the return. Of course.
Time for Sister Pete to facilitate another pointless interaction, with Ryan, Cyril, and the newly-returned Asian. Cyril apologizes; Pete asks why he hit Kenmin; because he was hitting Ryan; and why was Kenmin hitting Ryan? More Zen Master hooey about showing off after a day in the cage. He was feeling "feisty." Ryan thinks Kenmin is full of crap, as do I, and shows it by interrupting and swearing, both of which are against Sister Pete's rules, so she yells at him. Kenmin accepts responsibility for his actions, and wants to make peace. Over Ryan's protests, Cyril gets up ("I want to make peace too," he says) as does Kenmin, after receiving encouragement from Pete. Cyril and Kenmin hug, Ryan looks disgusted, and I am left to wonder yet again about the incredible naivete of the entire staff, who fall for this shit over and over again. Because, as Cyril cries (cries!) in Kenmin's arms, a close-up of a tattoo on Kenmin's hand and some jangly, Asian-influenced music confirm that Kenmin is evil, evil, evil.
Unbearable Asian pop music swells as a guy and girl make out to a Cadillac and a convertible Mustang stops in front of the Burger-Rama drive-through window. A guy with terrible skin -- the driver of the Mustang -- spies the macking couple and jumps out of the car, gun in hand. He strides across the parking lot, gun held sideways (so we know he means bidness), shooting all the way, hitting the couple and two or three innocent bystanders. Very thorough. According to Hill, his name's Li Chen, and he was convicted last Monday of four counts of attempted murder. Thirty-two years, up for parole in twenty. Li Chen's bunking with Kenmin, probably because they're the only Asians in the whole joint. I hope they have sex. They converse in the strange tongue of their people, which I don't understand, but it must be about the O'Reilys, because they're onscreen. And it must be bad, because Li and Kenmin look menacing.
Cyril's getting singing lessons from Betty Buckley. His scales suck. Ryan, laughing, says so, and Betty Buckley gets mock annoyed, since it's not about being a star but about expressing feelings through music, and also since she's so impressed with her psycho son that everything he does charms the pants right off of her. She says Cyril is doing a wonderful job, in that annoying tone that people use for kindergarteners and, well, retards. She then tells Ryan to try it, but he refuses, saying that he signed up for this to spend more time with his mother, not to sing. He's saved by the bell, but Betty Buckley says she wants to hear him sing Friday. In a completely unsurprising development, Li and Kenmin will be BB's two students, which pleases Ryan not at all.
Back in his pod, Ryan paces and Cyril wonders what's wrong. Ryan knows that Kenmin and Li are plotting against them, and he's afraid they want to hurt his mother. Cyril says he likes her, and wonders if he and Ryan can trade. "Trade what?" wonders Ryan. Cyril offers to give Ryan his "most prized possession" -- a pair of boxing gloves -- in exchange for Ryan's mother. Ryan explains that they don't have to trade, because they can share her. Great -- another ridiculous attempt to demonstrate Cyril's charming simplicity. As Kenmin and Li return from their singing lesson, Ryan stops Kenmin and tells him that if anything happens to his mother, he's looking at another coma -- permanent this time. Kenmin says Ryan has nothing to fear from him, but Li is another story. "He's one sick fuck," says Kenmin. Cut to Li Chen, who looks like a sick fuck with very prominent eyebrows.
Hill again, ruminating about being visited at dreamtime by dead loved ones -- Vern Schillinger and Hank's dead wife provide a dramatic reenactment in the background. These dreams, says Hill, offer us the chance to say all the things we didn't get to say, although Vern's pretty much just sitting there while Carrie yammers on about something. Happy Vern. Problem is, says Hill, you wake up, realize that the person's dead, and get to mourn all over again. Sad Vern.
Unrepentant Vern -- it's time for him to leave the hole. The guards open his cell door and drop his clothes at his feet as Vern, tattoos blazing, says, "It's about fucking time." He finds Robson playing cards in the pool table room, but there's no pool table. So much has changed! Robson reveals that the pool table's getting a tune-up. Schillinger tells Robson to spread the word about a meeting of the entire brotherhood to discuss unfinished business with Chucky Pancamo.
Who's as playful as ever, grabbing a nurse's ass as she changes a bed. She slaps him, as Schibetta wheels the food tray through and tells Pancamo that Schillinger's back in circulation. Schibetta wants to know when Pancamo's getting out; Pancamo wants to know how everything's running outside. Great, says Schibetta. Drugs, kitchen, it's all good. Pancamo tells him not to get used to being in charge, since he'll be back soon. Schibetta brings up retaliating against Schillinger, and Pancamo assures him that all will be taken care of once he's out of the infirmary.
Poet strides over to Redding, seated at a table, and tells him that Schillinger's out of the hole. Big news, this. Redding thinks that's dandy, since now they "can sit back and watch the Nazis wipe out the Sicilians." Word, replies Poet, but that doesn't take care of the thriving "spics." I believe I'll refer to them as "Latinos" instead. Redding, of course, has a plan. While Poet thinks Morales will keep his pact with Pancamo, Redding believes Morales might think it's time to shake things up a bit, and instructs Poet to arrange a meeting.
Which, of course, happens immediately. Redding, Morales, Poet, and Guerra. Redding provides some ham-handed expository catch-up dialogue, kindly encapsulating the entire trajectory of his relationship with Morales -- a declined offer to share the drug trade upon his arrival in Em City, lots of disputes, a hollow truce. See, Redding doesn't crave power any longer; he just seeks it out of habit. Uh-huh. He proposes making the truce a reality by working together. By this time, McManus and Murphy have noticed the summit, since it's apparently happening in plain view of McManus' office -- ah, the hubris. Murphy gets his panties in a bunch, but McManus tells him to let the men talk. "Peace," says Redding, and holds out both hands. Morales clasps them as Poet and Guerra shake. McManus and Murphy watch, incredulous; Murphy says that they'll be "one big happy tit factory" as McManus reminds him that Pancamo won't be quite as excited, and Schibetta and another Italian walk out of the laundry room, see the hand-shaking, and not-Schibetta says they have to tell Pancamo. It's such a rush to see the whirring machinery of power in action, especially when it involves gold chains and hideous sweatsuits.
Schibetta doesn't want to tell Chucky, because he wants to handle it himself, since his father ran operations in Oz and he ran operations in Oz. Uh, yeah, before you got stuck up the ass by Adebesi, says not-Schibetta, and kind of lost your cred. Whatever, retorts Schibetta. That was Pancamo's fault -- he was supposed to have my back, and he let Adebesi have my back instead. Not-Schibetta remains unconvinced, as anal rape really is the kind of overpowering gesture that crowds out extenuating circumstances. Especially among the prison crowd, I'm guessing. So what do we do, asks not-Schibetta. Why, massacre the Nazis with Said's help, of course.
Said sits at the head of table where some other Muslims pretend to converse as the Sicilians, led by Schibetta, march into the room. Schibetta secures permission to sit and lays out his argument for Said -- something about how they both want the Nazis "dented," I think, whatever that might mean, and Said plants himself firmly in non-Schibetta's camp by denying Schibetta's request, because "here in Oz, you will always be known as one of Adebesi's bitches. No matter what you do, you cannot change that." Schibetta maintains that he can too change that; Said wishes him good luck, and Schibetta gets up to leave. Then the other Sicilians, with not-Schibetta as their mouthpiece, lay it on the line: Said's right, and they're not going after the Aryans until Pancamo gives the word. Sucks for you, dude. Take it up the ass one time and you're forever branded. An entire career sacrificed for one moment of passion. A shot of Schibetta pummeling a punching bag lets us know that he's mad and ready to blow. No pun intended, of course.
Schillinger and Robson show up to pick up the pool table from the Aryan repairman; while they shoot the breeze, Schibetta walks in for something and is told to wait. Words are exchanged, and Schibetta pulls a knife from under his shirt and charges Schillinger in the lamest -- and least strategic -- stabbing attempt I've seen yet. If that's all Schibetta has to offer, then he is a wuss, rape notwithstanding. He looks like a pirate in a high school play. The Aryans, of course, subdue him, and as Robson and Schillinger drag him over to the refurbished pool table, lightning prepares to strike twice. Schillinger says, "I always wondered. Was Adebesi's dick bigger than mine? You be the judge," as he sticks his hand in a tub of brown goo -- really unappealing looking lube. Schibetta screams, to no avail, but we're spared the sight of his second rape and cut straight to the infirmary, where Dr. Nathan tells Pete that she stopped the bleeding but he's in pretty bad shape. As Pete instructs the orderlies to take Schibetta to the psych ward, Pancamo looks on from the room, shaking his head in dismay and disbelief. Wow. Poor guy.
Schillinger, ever the class act, shoots pool as he comments on how well the table's working. Because nothing makes a pool table sing like gang-raping someone on top of it. Just ask Jodie Foster.
Sitting in Leo's antechamber, Penders starts hitting on his assistant, who must be really over this sort of thing by now. In more exposition, Penders explains that he saved Leo's life when Clayton Hughes was about to stab him, and then goes off on how Ms. Assistant is the first real woman he's seen after being in solitary for almost a year ('cause the female hacks don't count -- I hope the lady guard standing there kicks his ass after they leave). "You're very pretty," he says, as though she's going to stop her typing and straddle him. I guess you don't get if you don't try, right? Leo calls Penders into his office; when the latter pauses to say goodbye to Ms. Assistant, Leo barks, "Now." Penders, out of solitary, wants to stay out, and thinks that his best chance is to avoid conflict -- and therefore contact -- with the other inmates. Rather than working in the shop, Penders would like a job in Leo's office. Out of the question, says Leo, and don't say you owe me because I hate that phrase, which deflates Penders' quest for payback. In a lot of unnecessary words, Leo tells Penders that he hates him because he serves as a constant reminder of what happened to Clayton, and that he needs to avoid Leo at all costs or risk a return to the hole. Leo then shoos him out with this really strange flapping motion.
With all this talk of dreams, there had to be something about the wet ones. It's time. A shirtless Hill talks of the wonderful, wonderful wet dream, which arrives at puberty with thoughts of canoodling with Pam Grier, Barbi Benton (big shout-out to her), or some little white girl from the fifth grade in a slouchy Girl Scout uniform, which for reasons I'd rather not explore grosses me out. As we get older, the wet dreams stop, but by then we're getting laid, so who cares. Until we realize that our partner doesn't fuck like Pam Grier, look like Barbi Benton, or love us as innocently as the Girl Scout. Wow. I can relate to that approximately not at all.
As a television journalist struggles with a sudden onset of narcolepsy, Governor Devlin talks about a new law that brings back the death penalty -- in the form of electric chair or lethal injection -- and sends a clear message to miscreants: "Stop murdering our families." Yes, that's definitely the message it sends, Governor. Pan out to reveal Beecher sitting with Rebadow and Busmalis, and constantly turning around to look behind him. Rebadow wonders what's going on, and Beecher explains that his hunk of burning love returns today, and he's feeling a bit anxious. Yeah, I'll bet that's what he's feeling. He asks Rebadow how he looks. "Anxious." "I was hoping you were going to say 'fuckable,'" says Beecher. Not with that hair, honey. And yuck. And I think he's got some pretty stiff competition from Schibetta in that department. And I so did not need to hear that.
Why, here's Keller now. Back where he belongs. And Leo's there to greet him, a fact that does not go unnoticed by our prodigal son. Keller tells Leo that he's going to be the goodest, bestest boy in Em City this time around, which suits Leo just fine, except that Keller's not going to Em City. Or Unit B. No, Chris Keller will be in protective custody for the time being. Why? He'll see.
Right away, apparently. FBI Guy -- in helpful expository mode -- reminds us that Keller was released by the state of Massachusetts because it was Pancamo, not Keller, who hired the hit man that killed Schillinger's son. Why, wonders FBI, did Keller confess? Keller says he owed Pancamo, which FBI does not believe -- finally, someone who doesn't immediately believe what every prisoner says! Keller tells FBI to prove it, but FBI hints that it doesn't really matter, since there's been a new development in an old murder case against Keller. A witness has come forward in the Brice Tibbetts case -- picked Keller's picture out of a mug file, and tomorrow they're going into town to see if said witness can do the same with a line-up. As Keller and FBI face each other like soldiers, or like there should be a bit of chicka-bowm music in the background, FBI tells Keller that he'll be isolated -- thanks, old news -- but that he'll be moving to death row before long. I'm thinking this is just a bargaining tactic. "Officer, put this caviar on ice," says cool-as-a-cuke FBI.
Unfuckable Beecher plays with his daughter -- does she know she has two daddies? -- when Katherine the floozy lawyer shows up, all jazzy in red. The bell rings, signaling the end of the visit; Beecher stoops down to kiss his daughter and then asks Katherine if she's got a kiss for Daddy. Yuck again. They start to make out as Beecher's daughter is all, "Get a room, you ugly-haired pervert." Oh, wait, that was me.
In a completely surprising turn of events, Claire Howell will be supervising Keller while he's in protective custody -- maybe Beecher, Keller, Katherine, and Claire can have a fearsome foursome, because you know that Claire's not going let her time with Keller pass without diddling him. Plus, they're already flirting. Pete walks up and asks if she and Keller can speak privately. "Knock yourself out, Sister," says Claire. Ah, Claire. I totally want to see her pad -- I wonder what she does in her spare time. Amateur porn? Mud-wrestling? She's probably a closet Hummel collector. Or those paintings of big-eyed children. Pete asks Keller how he's doing, and he brings her up to date, perhaps as a courtesy to anyone who's just joined our already-in-progress program. Pete looks about as interested as I am, and tells Keller he needs a lawyer. Oh, and Keller wants to spend some time with Beecher. Sister Pete, ever the willing pimp, runs off to see what she can do. Which involves telling Beecher what's happening (luckily we don't have to sit through it again), and wondering if Katherine can suggest a lawyer from her office (since she did such a great job for Beecher). And she'll talk to the warden. Oh, and Beecher wants to spend some time with Keller. Because he's feeling very fuckable.
And what does Leo say? Everybody, now: "No!" Pete demands an explanation, and Leo explains: "Chris Keller tortured, sexually abused, and murdered three men. Why should I try to make him happy?" Solid reasoning, if you ask me, but Leo fails to consider that sex between Beecher and Keller constitutes a primary ratings driver, and that what the people want -- and what generates subscribers for HBO -- trumps any sort of silly moralistic argument against coddling prisoners. The nun agrees -- she's got two very horny clients, dammit! Plus Beecher hasn't done anything wrong (in the last five minutes). And he's really into scat. No, says Leo, he's just the unfortunate victim of some else's excesses. So that's what torture, sexual abuse, and murder are. Because I've been wondering. Beecher looks intense. Then Keller looks very intense.
Then Hill starts talking again. About driving. Or showering. And remembering a dream. And wanting to recapture the feeling of that dream, every detail, every nuance. And missing your exit. Or zoning out. Well, says Hill, as I begin to wonder what the hell he's talking about, if you daydream in the Oz shower, some cocksucker will shank you in the back, and now I'm really wondering what Hill's talking about, and he says that daydreams are deadly, and I throw up my hands and resign myself to the fact that Hill, traumatized by the death of his mother and his wife's request for a divorce, has obviously lost his shit and has been reduced to babbling incoherently. Sad.
In the gym, Robson approaches a very flexible Minister Said and begins mimicking him. Said, of course, gets really angry, since that's about all he does these days. Arif steps in and tries to calm Said down, but the Minister steps up to Robson and tells him that if he says one more word, "I'll snap your cracker neck, right here, right now." Of course, there's a guard watching the whole thing. So Robson doesn't say a word, but he barks. Or roars. Or something. The guard finally breaks up the party, and Arif continues trying to get Said to chill by exhorting him to think of the words of Allah. What words might those be, wonders Said, as he rips off his necklace. Beads rattle to the floor, as Said looks pained and Arif looks sad. Said throws the necklace down and stomps off, as a younger Muslim with Arif begins to question Said's sanity and the appropriateness of his leadership, but Arif refuses to hear any criticism of Said, a great, strong man who's having a bit of a hard time. Plus, most movements -- religious or otherwise -- are led by crazy folk, so I say let him stay.
Pete's leading an interactive moment with Said, Schillinger, and Beecher. Today's topic is drugs and the evil that they do. Schillinger says that he's never even smoked pot, when Said pipes up that he's used smack and crack and some other -acks. Beecher seems surprised, since Said never said anything to Beecher while he was using, but Said explains that his drug days represent a period of his life that he's not proud of. "Unlike now?" asks Schillinger. Said glares.
Then Said walks down the stairs into the TV pit, where Poet sits talking to Slowmar. "Follow me," says Said. Slowmar protests, since the greatest puppet show on earth is on, but Said insists. He push-drags Slowmar over to the side, asks if Poet was trying to sell Slowmar drugs, and tells him not to hang out with Poet anymore. Slowmar protests again, claiming that he and Poet have a relationship that transcends drugs, but Said insists again (continuing the insist/protest dynamic that constitutes the entirety of their grating relationship), reminding Slowmar that one word from him to McManus lands Slowmar back in solitary. Shortly thereafter, Poet walks in on Slowmar, head down on a desk, looking a bit peaked, and proceeds to build on their deep friendship by selling him drugs. Slowmar protests for about a second, but Poet lets him in on a little secret -- he's got a contact on bedpan detail who will pee for pay. Great, says Slowmar, sign me up. Of course, Said walks in as they complete the transaction, forces Slowmar to admit that he's holding, and crushes the offending vial of powder beneath his heel. Poet and Slowmar look nervous like two little kids caught red-handed with porn -- as drug users and criminals, I would expect them to be a bit cooler under pressure, but that might stall the plot, and we can't have that. Said tells Poet to "forget Omar White exists," and Poet agrees. After an aborted attempt to get his cash back, Slowmar sidles off to work, while Said glares some more.
Said then runs to McManus, who seems strangely upbeat about the incident since Slowmar didn't actually ingest any drugs. Said maintains that it's only a matter of time before McManus's secret lover starts hitting the hard stuff; McManus shrugs it off and halfheartedly tells Said to let him know if and when Slowmar does start using again. Said and I both go, "Huh?" Actually, Said takes McManus to task for roping him in with this whole "save yourself, save someone else" crap and convincing him that he could work out his own troubles by helping Slowmar conquer his. Said says that he's been brainwashed -- I mean, "bought in" -- and needs to do this for his own soul. Glare. McManus nods in his infuriating way and says that it's all on Said. There's an answer, but he doesn't have it, and he thinks Said does. "If not," says McManus, "we're all fucked," and walks away, leaving Said to rue the day that he ever let McManus sell him the rotten goods named Slowmar.
But, dammit, a quitter Said is not. He finds Slowmar in the bathroom and tells him to find him when he's done washing up. Slowmar tells Said that he makes his head hurt, and that he's really not in the mood for a drug speech right now. Said explains that they won't talk about drugs; he just wants to have a conversation. Slowmar doesn't want to have a conversation, but Slowmar's needs really aren't an integral part of this relationship, which Said confirms by grabbing Slowmar's face and pressing on his cheeks and explaining that they're gonna have a chatsky regardless. "Now," asks Said, as though Slowmar has just killed Said's dog, "what is your favorite color?" Just two men, opening their hearts to each other. Slowmar's favorite color is white -- and not just because it's his last name. White, says Slowmar, "is clean and shit." Yes, yes it is. White is both clean and shit, which makes it very interesting indeed. Then Eamonn Walker amps up the over-acting even further and asks Slowmar what he's passionate about while moving his arms like he's doing step aerobics. Hey, could you take it down about a thousand notches there? This isn't regional theater. And wouldn't you know, Slowmar digs cowboys. Herb Jeffries and the other black cowboys from the old black cowboy movies of the 1930s. While Said thinks it's all about guns and horses, Slowmar reveals that he's got a thing for Herb (heh heh, I said "herb") because he can sing. Which is pretty convenient, considering that Betty Buckley's giving free voice lessons in the room!
McManus is, of course, ecstatic that Said has helped Slowmar identify an interest; I can't wait to see the PSA where Slowmar explains that singing is his anti-drug. Except for one thing -- Omar maintains that he can't sing. But McManus, ever cheery in the face of obstacles, says, "'Can't' never did anything, Omar." Slowmar wonders, "What does that mean?" Oh, I know what it means. It means that McManus must die. Interest schminterest -- I'm simply glad to see Slowmar speaking in full sentences and making fun of McManus.
Who's now in a meeting with Leo and Ellie -- the latter is pissed because she's just learned of the performing arts program. Wait, this isn't still her first day? She's wearing the same suit, as far as I can tell. She's "the state leeezon, for Christ's sake." As McManus tries to be jokey and preachy at the same time, Ellie wonders where Leo will find the money. Costs are low, he says. He'll do what he always does -- a little from here, a little from there. Maybe he'll embezzle less. Or fire McManus. Who, with the full complicity of Ellie, destroys the already-tenuous professional environment by bantering about his failed marriage while Leo looks bored and gassy and wonders how he got stuck talking to these two losers who keep tearing at each other like, well, like exes. Ellie says she'll try to get Governor Small to pony up some cash, and leaves; McManus looks to Leo for sympathy, but Leo makes a tepid, not-worth-repeating joke at McManus's expense. He deserves so much more, Leo -- so much more mocking and derision.
Slowmar meets Betty Buckley for his first singing lesson, and, after joining her at the piano, immediately wants to know if he has to sing. No, she says, but I encourage you to try. He compares his voice to Barry White, and Betty Buckley chuckles before pegging him as a tenor and starting to play scales. When she offers Slowmar a turn, he instead compliments her appearance (calling her "mighty fine"), and she pops right off of the bench and suggests a different approach. Sadly, this approach calls for her to warble (and I do mean warble) "Jesus Loves Me." I mean, we all knew that Betty had to start the singing at some point, but I would have much rather heard her tackle the song stylings of Barry White. After subjecting Slowmar to repeated "Yes, Jesus loves mes," Betty Buckley wants him to try, but he's really not interested in singing. Or maybe he's not interested in Jesus. After asking if she made Ryan sing when he was growing up, Slowmar suddenly flips out, slams the piano keyboard, jumps up, starts yelling about how everyone's a liar, and channels Stevie Nicks by banging on a tambourine. Betty Buckley, flustered, calls for Officer Brass, who begins to limp over; nice that there's just one officer supervising a no-longer-spry woman's one-on-one sessions with hardened criminals, and that he's disabled. Slowmar gets even more wigged when he realizes that trouble's coming -- very slowly -- and drops to his knees, begging Betty Buckley for forgiveness and apologizing for his outburst. Hey, along with drug testing and singing lessons, has anyone considered anger management as a possibly smart counseling option for Slowmar? Betty Buckley, demonstrating far more class than Officer Brass (who calls Slowmar a "fucking mutt," which would be pretty inappropriate even if Betty Buckley wasn't there -- not that I'm overly squeamish about cursing in front of women, unless they happen to be my mother, but, I mean, isn't McManus all into rehabilitation through respect?), decides to give Slowmar another chance, and leads him back to the piano.
Hill pops by to explain what I believe is the Jungian theory that every person in your dreams is actually a version of yourself (if it isn't, go tell someone who cares), so that when you're dreaming about a person you hate, you're actually dreaming about part of yourself that you can't stand. Except Hill says "motherfucker." I'm remembering -- hazily -- that Hill's monologues used to have some relation to the plot; now they're just annoying intrusions, if you ask me. ["I agree. Except for the 'now' part. Shut up, Hill." -- Sars] And then the scene cuts to Hill sitting at a table with Redding, so maybe Hill dreams about Redding. And can't stand him. And they're the same person. Like Michael and Janet. Except Redding seems more like LaToya.
So Redding's telling Hill about how his mother was all into civil rights, and how she dragged Hill's father down to Washington, D.C. to hear Dr. King, to join the big march. Redding stayed behind, however, to wait for something better to come along. Hill's parents were part of the most important event of the 20th century, while Redding was "two days in to a five-day drunk." Smell the sadness dripping down the walls. Touch the regret hanging in the air. But the market of parties interested in a journey of change and self-discovery dried up last Tuesday. Thanks, though.
Guerra's in group, talking about how he got a postcard from his "honey" -- she's in Maui (marrying Aidan, perhaps?). Ryan's off about how great Maui is, with vaginal volcanoes and big-breasted women, but he kind of stops himself when he realizes that Sister Pete is sitting to him. From what she's been doing lately, it seems like she'd like to know Ryan's preferences. Maybe she can set him up. Pete wants to know if it bothers him that his girlfriend is in Hawaii, if he's lonely, needs a date. Guerra's confident that his girlfriend still loves him, but the postcard makes him sad about all the places he'll never see. Hill, annoyed that someone thinks they've got bigger problems than him, chides Guerra for kvetching about his girlfriend going on vacation. See, he thought it was bad to lose his legs and his freedom, but he's recently realized that the worst thing -- the thing that really steals your manhood -- is having a woman walk away from you and then turn her head around slowly. In black-and-white. Oh, and -- she's got a purse.
Cloutier, backed by what sounds like a lot of flies, lures a mesmerized Dr. Nathan into his lair, waving his bubbly hand at her -- his arm is swathed in part of a dress that Bjork might fancy -- and stroking her cheek when she approaches his bed. She says she wishes she could understand, and then kisses his hand. And then rubs some soot from her lips and uses it a cross on her forehead. Someone darts out from behind the wall and smacks me in the head with a board.
Timmy Kirk's talking to a big skinhead named Gunner -- or Gunnar. This is the other side of Nelson. He looks like one of those people some witty advertiser would show knitting booties or doing ballet to illustrate how a tough detergent can be gentle on clothes. Kirk wants Gunner to kill Cloutier when he delivers mail in the infirmary. Kirk tells Gunner to "waste" Cloutier, which is the preferred term for quasi-religious freaks to use when describing those they want dead. And then Gunner goes off to deliver the mail. I love how quickly things happen on this show -- you never have to sit through a pesky tangential scene to find out how things will end. Gunner goes into Cloutier's room, leaving his mail cart outside and wandering in unchecked. Obviously, there's no one at the door, because Cloutier's weak and in a prison and in the middle of a big investigation and has lots of enemies. Gunner stuffs a pillow in a surprisingly expressive Cloutier's face, and then Dr. Nathan strolls by, puts two and two together, and runs into the room, only to be knocked over by the kitty-petting thug. A guard pulls Gunner off, but Cloutier's in pretty sad shape, gasping and wheezing and flopping on the bed.
In the cafeteria, Kirk asks one of the more artfully decorated bikers where Gunner is. Solitary. Cloutier? Alive. Jaz walks up and tells Kirk about seeing Cloutier in the hole; Kirk thinks Jaz was dreaming, but Jaz is convinced that Cloutier was there with him, and is kind of over Kirk trying to weasel out of responsibility for an increasingly wide path of death and destruction. That night, Jaz enjoys a peaceful cigarette in his pod; a guard tells him to put it out, and as he grinds it into the floor, an ethereal voice says, "Smoking is bad for you, Jaz." Without thinking, Jaz answers, "I know," and then realizes that Dylan McKay has somehow made it into the pod with him. Jaz Hoyt's wet dream doesn't star Barbi Benton. Jaz starts screaming, but Dylan tells him that it's all in his head -- he's the guilt Jaz has been building up ever since he killed his "first cat" -- is that Cloutier-speak for "black person"? -- and that he must either kill Timmy Kirk or live with Dylan McKay in his head forever. Jaz assents. Thine is a vengeful God.
As Mukada prepares for mass, he tells Timmy Kirk that Dr. Nathan is filled with glowing reports of Cloutier's recovery, and that the burned guy should soon be able to explain exactly how he ended up behind that wall. Mukada's really adding fuel to the fire here -- doesn't he think that goading Kirk might further inspire his nefarious tendencies where Cloutier is concerned, especially since someone just entered his unguarded room and tried to whack him? The guy did bury a living human being behind a wall, after all. I'm just saying. Then Kirk offers Mukada a blowjob. Dude, blowjobs don't solve everything. They solve a lot, but not everything. I'm sure the cigar-chomping Freud would have a field day with Kirk's continuing fascination with offering blowjobs to people who aren't likely to accept. Hoyt barrels in and begins pummeling Kirk; when Mukada tries to stop him, Hoyt knocks Mukada (who does a nifty stop, drop, and roll) off the makeshift altar, pulls a wooden crucifix from its stand, straddles Kirk, looks skyward, and plunges the little Jesus deep into Kirk's belly. Mukada looks on, horrified. Kirk, of course, says, "Oh, Jesus." Cut to Cloutier as he sits up, looking pleasantly avenged. In the infirmary, Dr. Nathan and a passel of nurses work to save Kirk, who screams, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as Hoyt confesses, on tape, to a long string of murders as Leo stands over him, arms crossed.
Religion explains to Science that Hoyt really believes that Cloutier ordered him to kill Kirk; Science expresses astonishment, since Cloutier can neither move nor speak, but Religion refuses to discount Hoyt's position completely. As they near Cloutier's door, Science wonders if Hoyt's gunning for the insanity plea, but all bets fly out the window as the door swings back to reveal an empty bed. Well, gosh golly, says Science, he was here just a second ago. Religion, holding his Bible, fondles the bed where Cloutier's body lay before he decided to slip out for a burger. I hope he's gone off to drive McManus insane. At mass, Mukada, wearing a tablecloth, delivers a sermon about Jesus' resurrection, just in case anyone out there wasn't completely aware of what's happening. And then Hill wraps things up with another irrelevant aside about how, unlike the real world, the way to survive in Oz is to have no dreams. But then, since most people out there never realize their dreams, the folks inside aren't really missing anything, are they? Except Hawaiian tits.