So, Terry "McManus" Kinney directed this episode, and while it would perhaps be misguided to cast aspersions on his directorial abilities based on his character's shortcomings, I just did.
Hill sits in front of a Wheel of Fortune, which starts spinning when he waves his finger in the air. People love to get their fortunes told, says Hill; they get cards read, palms read, even bumps on their head read. Ooh, look, I made a rhyme. Then Hill goes all cutesy-pie jive turkey and says, "If that card ain't credit, why read it [well, because maybe it's a verse-riddled wallet card from your grandmother with a crisp five-dollar bill tucked neatly inside, even though it's 2002. Ever think of that, smartypants]? If that palm ain't holding something, let it go. And shit, if you got bumps on your head big enough to read, forget about your future, yo [God, that is so ghetto. I'm all wet], 'cause your problems are in the here and now." And then the wheel, which boasts mug shots of all the inmates, stops on Said, whose black-and-white picture gradually fades into the real full-color thing, droning on about Ahmad's murder at hands of Robson, and we see a sepia-toned flashback of Robson letter-opening Ahmad, and I begin to feel completely justified for doubting Terry Kinney's directorial instincts as I get a queasy stomach at a full, commercial-free hour of excruciating torture stretching ahead of me.
Said, with professional tattletale Arif, is thundering to Leo about Ahmad's death by slicing. Oh, Arif must be there because there aren't any witnesses -- he's developing a nice niche as a snitch. Leo wants evidence, but Arif instead explains that Robson may not be the actual slicer, but definitely masterminded the slicing plot. Maybe from a grassy knoll? More flashback. Said wants to know what will happen; Leo assures the somber twins that he'll continue investigating, which I think means sitting behind his desk and acting fed up. So does Said, who accuses Leo of dragging things out, "hoping that everyone's gonna forget. We won't forget." More flashback, which sucks because I really want to forget. Arif, necklace swinging vehemently, follows Said out of Leo's office, adamant that Ahmad's "death must not go unpunished." Said promises that Robson will enjoy a day of reckoning soon. Muslims and retribution: two great tastes that taste familiar together.
"Slice Me" Robson delivers the mail; Slowmar approaches and asks if he's got anything for Minister Said. Instead of answering, Robson reveals that he's got something common with Said: they both believe in slavery. For Robson, sadly, slavery no longer exists, but according to a book he read in the library (and here I thought Robson only entered the library to mock and belittle), the Muslims still practice slavery. In Africa. Slowmar looks dazed and confused by the sheer number of words escaping Robson's mouth. Robson says Said must know this as well, since "he went and got himself one." And who might that be? A befuddled Slowmar, of course. Who summons his wits to deny that he's anyone's slave, as Robson does his best minstrel impression, complete with jig, and calls Slowmar Said's "house nigga." Take that, Omar "Stepin Fetchit" White. While I might have phrased this slightly differently, it's high time someone acknowledged the culturally dubious aspects of Slowmar's general vibe.
Slowmar goes off on Robson, as Said yells, "Omar, come here!" Slowmar knows he's not supposed to fight, he says, but he doesn't really appreciate the way Robson addresses him. Said yells again, louder and with more emphasis (who knew such a thing was possible, but Eamonn Walker pulls it off), and a few of the gathered inmates go, "Woooooooo," and Slowmar suddenly realizes that it's true, all of it, that he is a slave, he is, he really is, and moves his hand around his head like he's brushing away the flies, knocks over a chair, and flails his way up the stairs, as Said glowers in Robson's general direction and everyone else stands in folded-arm disinterest.
But that trauma doesn't keep Slowmar from singing a song that sounds nothing like "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," unless this is the mythical lost verse about hand-holding fun in the sun. Reggie the Drug Dealer, using a mop and bucket in a cunning undercover move, comes a-knocking, and tells Slowmar that he sings "like shit," although I think Slowmar's throaty singing is infinitely preferable to his speaking voice. Slowmar makes the handoff; Reggie's face falls as he turns around to see Said approaching, with his somber-ray in full effect. Said throws open the door of Slowmar's practice closet and demands to know what Reggie, "a major drug dealer in Unit C," was doing in Slowmar's room. Not fooled by Slowmar's quick-witted reply about Reggie's fandom, Said closes the door and gets very close to Slowmar's face. Said intimidates Slowmar into admitting that he's selling drugs; when Slowmar makes the distinction between using and selling, Said growls, "Selling drugs is using 'em." Slowmar, fed up with Said's draconian brand of chaperoning and his refusal to conform to the piss-test school of drug use, finally says "fuck you" to the Minister, who, in a you-can't-fire-me-I-quit twist, says "fuck you" to Slowmar before removing his white beanie (here comes trouble) and proceeding to go all Gloria Nathan on Slowmar's deserving ass. Eamonn Walker, of course, uses the entire spectrum of "I'm deranged" signifiers, so it's no surprise at all when we see him, naked and bloody-knuckled, reclining against a wall in solitary.
McManus arrives, not to apologize for the heavy-handed direction of tonight's episode, but to demand an explanation. Said wonders how a reason will change the fact the he beat Slowmar. "Everything was going so well, why didn't you come to me?" wonders McManus, confirming that he resides in a different universe than the rest of us. Well? I beg to differ. When Said refuses to explain, McManus gets all huffy and tells him to "fucking rot," as he turns around and stomps off with his dump truck and shovel. As soon as the door closes, Said's face becomes possessed and moves in about seventeen different ways simultaneously, as he moans and cries to his maker before doing a slow interpretive pain dance that culminates with his mahogany frame curled like a fetus on the floor, as Slowmar's whiny voice tries to tell an unbelieving McManus that Said beat him for no reason at all.
Slowmar, blood-crusted and looking like hell but fully mobile, takes about seven hundred words to tell McManus that he'll be honest: he was selling drugs out of his practice room, and Said caught him. Slowmar swears he's clean and that he's only selling dope because he was threatened. McManus wants to know who Slowmar's working for (gee, Tim, I wonder. Who on earth could it be?), and blows a gasket when Slowmar won't spill. I discover that I'm really tired of hearing people yell at each other, which is all this episode has yet to offer. After some more yelling, "I've Got A Soft Spot And A Hard-On For Omar" McManus tells Slowmar that the practice room is history and that if Slowmar's "piss shows even a hint of aspirin," he gets to have some toast. Or something like that.
Slowmar leaves McManus's office and sweeps down the stairs to find the necklace brigade waiting for him. The Oz-wide Crap On Slowmar Festival continues as Arif and his back-up dancers explain that Slowmar is to blame for Said's time in the hole. Actually, says Slowmar, one beaten-shut eye-ronic helping him to see clearly, "That motherfucker's in there because he can't get a grip on his own goddamned guidance." Apparently forgetting that Muslims don't do the "blaming others" thing, Arif calls Slowmar "toxic" and tells him that he stands alone in Em City every day that Said is gone. As the three Muslims stride off to Knitcaps Anonymous, Slowmar sees unfriendly faces everywhere (some even stand up for effect), driving home the point that alone is not a good place to be with the subtlety of a jackhammer.
In solitary, Said continues the Ballet des Bananas, his face a featured soloist.
McManus rushes by the laundry room, engulfed in a jacket that could have belonged to Andre the Giant. Slowmar calls him in to say that perhaps he could stop by solitary to check on Said, because he, Slowmar, is "kind of floundering out here," which is the God's honest truth, since he keeps flopping around like a beached fish. He's feeling really lost with his master, er, Said, and realizes that "I really need that fuck. Who knew?" Lots of slavery proponents, that's who. The ones who said masters were doing slaves a favor by taking care of them since they couldn't take care of themselves. Remember them? Apparently not, since this tricky trope grows ever more offensive and irresponsible.
Eager to do his love's bidding, McManus rushes to Said's solitary cell, bringing an outfit with him. Said, taking a breather from choreographing, leans against the wall, which looks like the expensive granite currently favored for upscale kitchen counters, and protests his return to Em City. In a convenient coincidence, he isn't ready to leave -- and he doesn't deserve to! McManus reveals that Slowmar explained the whole dust-up, but Said's stuck on himself. "Once again," he says, "I lost my humanity for what I thought was the greater good." Get over yourself a little, why don't you? McManus disagrees, opining that Said's scared because his actions are all too human. Then Said goes full throttle on the histrionics, rendering whatever he says unintelligible, although I do decipher that he wants more time in the hole. "Man, this is crazy," says McManus. Little man, you speak big truth. Then McManus is all, "I'll wait to hear from you," like Said's going to call or email him or something, and says he wants Said "back in Em City, dancing with Omar White." I kid you not. He said dancing. Then McManus shuts the door, and everything goes middle-passage Amistad, with the whites of Said's eyes gleaming in the darkness as he moves into the light for a bit of yoga.
Hill, dressed as The Crazy Lady From Down The Block, wonders -- rhetorically, since we know from past hurts that he'll have the answer -- how one becomes a fortune-teller. Usually, he says, they're middle-aged ladies who just tell you stuff they wish would happen to them. They fabricate your dreams because theirs got dashed. And then he turns Jamaican (which is just like turning Japanese, except that he's got a bowl full of pot, which he dumps on the table and fondles) and zeroes in on the irony of having your future told by someone who "don't got none." If I were Miss Cleo, I'd be talking to my lawyer right now. Oh, wait, she already is.
In the hospital, Pancamo wants to know why he's not feeling so fresh. Gloria explains that he's got a staph infection (yes, that staff is a might infectious bunch, hardee har har). Gloria goes on to explain that a staph infection is completely nasty, and Pancamo, though Gloria's mentioned nothing even remotely related, divines that he's gotten this disgusting illness from being in the hospital. Pancamo worries that he might die; Gloria assures him that they're doing everything they can. To kill his sweatsuit-clad ass. At least that's about how much she seems to care. Pancamo begs for mercy, because he, like so many others, doesn't "want to die lying in [his] own shit."
And then we cut to someone theatrically pulling the cover off a pool table that's surrounded by Aryans. Robson says he's "getting hard just looking at that beauty," and I start thinking about the connection between Italian shit, Robson's dick, and pool tables. And then I start thinking about my vomit, and then I move on. Schillinger tells Franklin, still dolled up, to rack the balls, and I start thinking about how the friends of The Actor Who Plays Franklin must make fun of him for having to wear pigtails and lipstick and ride bitch. Then I start thinking that they probably work in cubicles or in retail, and that it's likely The Actor Who Plays Franklin that makes fun of them. And then I realize that I'm supposed to be paying attention to this crappy show, and I start thinking that everyone's probably making fun of me for my job, even though I stopped wearing pigtails and lipstick, like, months ago.
Robson's happy that the Sicilians are losing power; Schillinger, master of the colloquialism, says they have other fish to fry. As he fondles Franklin's manly bottom, he says, "You know, sweet pea, I like a nice, firm ass. You need to go to the gym." And while you're there, give a message to Adam about his friend Beecher. About what he does with his nice, firm ass, I'm betting.
As they jog together, Beecher asks Adam about his visit with his family. His mom cried, he says. It was embarrassing. Then Beecher, who runs like a girl, tells Adam that he should be glad someone cries for him and that it's time they stop running. And then shoves Adam's head into his groin in a friendly "I told you to stop running, asswipe" gesture, since Beecher needs to get Adam and his precious bum back to Em City before he goes to work for the steely nun. Adam tells Beecher that he needs to become his own man, and that he can't wait to see how he looks in Revlon's popular "Yummy Boyhole" lipstick, which won't smudge no matter how many blowjobs you give. I can't wait either. There's Franklin, doing curls. In curls. "Hey, handsome," he greets Adam, who's disgusted by the woman Franklin has become. "I'm in here because of you," says Franklin, in a non-Muslim way. "I didn't want to rape that girl." Adam's all holier-than-thou about not wearing animal-tested makeup, but Franklin says it's just because he's got Beecher, and is likely paying the same price for protection, just in more understated outfits. Adam, not shy about hitting girls, attacks Franklin.
In McManus's office, Adam says that Franklin "came onto me and I had to set him straight." He's sarcastic as McManus says -- big surprise -- that he's going to be lenient. If I were McManus, I'd slap that arrogant smirk off his face in two seconds flat if he pulled that shit on me. But then, I'd have a spine. Adam trots down the stairs and acts short with Beecher, who puts his hand on Adam's shoulder (big mistake!) and wonders if everything's okay. "Don't be fucking touching me," growls Adam, as he stalks away.
Schillinger, sharing, about "'omosexuality," as he calls it. Looks like a Said-less interaction. Anyway, Schillinger's sorry that, during their last session, he minimized the pain he caused Beecher. Sister Pete, who looks like she just stepped out of a salon (for nuns), looks on expectantly, as Schillinger admits that he abused Beecher when he arrived and wants to apologize. Pete asks Beecher, a frown where his neck used to be, if he accepts. Beecher doesn't know.
Katherine McClain, sporting what looks like a leviathan comb-over (or a fallen soufflé) atop her head, confers with Keller. The local DA will be prosecuting, as the FBI would need to prove that Keller brought Tibbets's body across state lines for dumping, which they can't. Keller, legs spread, rubs his thighs to draw attention to his crotch. It works. Keller maintains that dumping the body doesn't mean he killed Tibbets, and McClain explains what she does all day, and then wonders why he had the body if he didn't kill Tibbets. "Wasn't me," says the sexual riddler. McClain brings up the pesky line-up and the pesky witness, but Keller, leaning forward and inspiring a look in Katherine that is at once frightened and hungry, reminds his crackerjack lawyer that everything went down at night. When it's dark. And you can't see. She and her jaunty hair-beret counter that Keller could plead his own case. "You're prettier," he says. "Not by much," she says. And then a buzzer rings, signaling that it's time for our contestant in this installment of Kris Keller's Kreepy Innuendo Korner. Claire arrives as Keller asks Katherine to tell Beecher about a dream he had in which Beecher was elected President. Claire, who looks like she put a bowl on her head and cut around it with her eyes closed, gives Katherine a withering look from the top of her ill-advised 'do to her presumably cheap shoes and steps into Keller's cell to tell him about her own dream. They were gladiators. He was Sextus. She was Cunnilinga. I think her gladiator name should be Vagina Dentata. Or Stinkypuss. They start making out.
So do Katherine and Beecher. He's happy to see her, and says his daughter had a great time at Adventure Country with Katherine and her son, Brad. In case she's forgotten her son's name. Maybe Beecher's daughter and Katherine's son made out, too. He ruins the moment by asking about her meeting with Keller; she jumps out of his embrace and says they're building a solid defense. Then she gets all serious and asks Beecher if Keller ever talked about the murders. "You wouldn't lie to me in order to protect him, would you?" she wonders, when Beecher says no. Of course not. And it's no again. She softens and moves to leave, satisfied by his honesty. Beecher wonders if Keller sent a message for him, but she hardens quickly and says, "No." A relationship built on lies is meant to last.
Flashback to Robson threatening to hide his Vienna sausage in Adam's buns; Frankie the Fixer pins Robson to the wall, as, in the present, Schillinger accosts Beecher in the library for a top-to-bottom chat. Schillinger puts on his earnest disguise and tells Beecher that he tried to convince Robson not to rape Adam, but that Robson's "headstrong" (why are the Aryans consistently the wittiest inmates?), and that he's glad Frankie prevented it. "You're glad?" asks Beecher. Well, not exactly, but Schillinger's all turned around, and he's trying to rid his life of shit, even though this is Oz, where shit's about the only thing going. So, long story short, Schillinger offers to deliver a letter to the cloistered Keller on his mail run. Beecher's "suspicious," but Schillinger swears, "on the graves of both of [his] sons," that he's just trying to do good, clear his conscience, and move on. Aw, shucks, Vernie's goin' all soft and mushy. As if. The camera closes in on Beecher's toady face and then cuts to Keller, shaving the neck that Beecher wishes he had. In more ways than one. Schillinger wheels the cart by and drops off Beecher's letter to skeptical Keller; he promises there's nothing fishy about the fact that an avowed homophobe and notorious rabble-rouser has suddenly decided to deliver mash notes for two male lovers that he's heretofore despised. He'll even take Keller note back tomorrow.
Lights out. In Beecher and Adam's pod, Papa Bear tells Baby Bear it's time for beddy-bye, but Baby Bear's feeling confrontational. After Beecher asks why Adam has been so quiet all evening, Adam inquires, "Were you a fag before you came to Oz, or did you start here?" He goes on to repeat all the salacious, old-news gossip he's unearthed. Schillinger. Keller. Beecher dodges the question with some philosophical "complexity" talk, but Adam's not buying: "You're either a fag, or you're not a fag." I'm afraid I have to side with Beecher here, Precious; sometimes things aren't quite that simple. Adam wishes he'd known sooner and scolds Beecher for acting "normal," when Adam knows that all Beecher wanted was to play with his dingle. Beecher tells Adam not to be an asshole, and Adam says, "Oh, you'd like that, huh, to be up my asshole?" Because deep down, Adam really, really doesn't want that. No, sir. And then comes the shoving; Adam throws a punch, Beecher pins him immediately, and the guards arrive to break up the love match.
Adam tells McManus that Beecher -- i.e. "this faggot" -- jumped him, that he was just protecting himself, and that he doesn't want to spend another night in the same pod. McManus agrees, and ships Adam off to the cage with a pair of white vinyl hotpants, some body glitter, and a feather boa. Then, stating the obvious, McManus tells Beecher that Adam has a problem or two. Beecher agrees, but pulls out the tired "I know his family" crap, like being rich and white somehow elevates them both, and assures McManus that he can turn Adam around. Like the beat? Out in the blue light of night, a guard escorts Beecher back to his pod; as the pass the erotically-lit cage, Adam hisses, "Faggot," and then repeats the word, amplifying it into a shout, chanting it as Beecher crosses the common area until he's yelling at the top of his lungs like the twisted, pathetic creature he is. That seems like a sure way to stay a back-door virgin. While this set-up is both obvious and manipulative, I eagerly anticipate Adam's comeuppance (heh heh, I said "comeuppance"), especially the moment when he realizes that he loves every minute of it.
Schillinger, still on his mercy kick, tells Beecher that he's figured out a way to get Beecher some face time with Keller -- he should quit working for Pete and go postal. Schillinger will send him on the protective custody route, and voila! Oh, yeah, there's just one thing. Schillinger wants the luscious Adam in return, to do with as he pleases, which -- based on Adam's anger, potential for pure Aryan-style hatred, and kissable mouth -- makes sense. Perhaps Vern seeks a son to make up for his two dead ones. Beecher steps in to fill the "I'm trying to live a life of misguided valor in this stinkhole" void left when Vern's true colors reemerged, and tells him that he can't turn his back on his rebellious charge and let Vern "subject Adam to the same horrors you put me through," even for the chance to see Keller. Vern, stunned, compliments Beecher's "strength of character," and wanders off.
Hill wonders if "the future ain't fuckin' with the fortune-teller," for example, if the fortune-teller says you'll fall in love but she neglects to mention that your lover, who's also your sister and serial killer, will soon perish from cancer. Hill's staring into a crystal ball and wearing a red head cover, trimmed in gold coins, that looks exactly like what the Virgin Mary would have chosen had she gotten fed up with the chasteness of baby blue and decided to become an independent woman, part one. So, anyway, back to the blathering Hill, who posits that God might only hand out a fraction of the future to a fortune-teller. Um, who cares? And what are you talking about? And why is every fortune-teller in these derogatory monologues a "she"?
Murphy and Brass at the time clock; Murphy says, "Fuckin' Friday," and Dave Brass doesn't get it, since Murphy should be excited about the impending weekend. Turns out Murphy gets depressed each Friday since that's when they get the small pittance disguised as a salary. "One Note" Brass starts talking about basketball -- this time it's the $160,000 take-home pay of even the worst NBA player, which triggers Brass's volatile temper, and he starts yelling at Murphy about cash, and Murphy's all, "Whoa, Nellie, count to ten," looking as though he'd prefer a root canal to this conversation. , Brass is off to see Gloria, who tells him that all the blood tests came back negative, although they should run them again in a few months just to be sure. After ascertaining that Martinez doesn't have AIDS, Brass, temper flaring once again, limps quickly over to Martinez's bed, asks why he "doused" him, and then starts beating him. Gloria yells at him to stop, and Brass says, "Oh, so it's okay for you to hit this cocksucker, but not me?" Oops -- busted, Dr. Left Hook.
Flashback to Rebadow asking Brass about the Mighty Ball ticket purchase; it's time for the drawing of the numbers! Busmalis asks Rebadow if he's excited, and then proceeds to recap the whole "grandson" storyline in my least favorite aspect of Oz (and that's saying a lot), when the writers insult the viewing audience by reminding us what's going on with clunky, forced expository dialogue. It's hard to care so much. Rebadow worries that God might have dicked him over on the numbers as he and Busmalis rush off to the television. In the staff lounge, Brass reads the paper as the drawing starts; as the numbers begin to match the ticket, a crosscutting extravaganza ensues and both men become more agitated. Well, jiminy crickets, all the numbers match! After an eloquent "motherfucker, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Brass goes apeshit, yelling and jumping around on his one good leg while the staff looks on, amazed and embarrassed. In his excitement, Brass appears to have swallowed his top lip. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Rebadow stands quietly stunned, not yet realizing that he's about to be royally fucked by PuffyGimp.
The realization dawns quickly, however, and Rebadow makes a beeline to McManus to complain. McManus, wary for about four seconds, realizes that, as Brass bolted Oz and jumped on a plane without visiting his locker or -- and here's the clincher -- punching out, Rebadow just might be telling the truth. He picks up the phone and starts to get to the bottom of things.
Hill sits in his wheelchair inside a spinning pod along with lots of massive, numbered ping-pong balls, which looks pretty cool. Rebadow stands behind him, stone-faced. Maintaining the fortune-teller motif, Hill talks about being lured into a storefront, knowing that it's all bullshit, yet hearing the one thing that you really want to hear, and then beginning to hope that she (yes, "she" again) actually knows the truth.
Dave Brass accepts his really big two-million-dollar check, and informs the world that he's a C.O. at Oz. Or he used to be. He quit. Rebadow looks livid. He then looks livid in a closer shot. And a closer one. And a closer one. Until we're counting his eyebrow hairs while feeling dizzy from the rapid cuts. In the gym, Terry Kinney jumps rope, perhaps as penance for the last scene. Murphy walks in and asks if anyone has heard from Brass. Nope -- no one. Not his family, not his sure-to-be-a-sad-case girlfriend. He left the lottery office and hopped a plane. Murphy says that Brass was understandably excited upon winning, and that he'd have screwed just about any of the inmates, but that Rebadow, with a dying grandson, is an exception. Murphy thinks Brass's decision was "dead-of-winter cold." McManus counters that "Brass was a good guy" -- "was" being the operative term. McManus says he got to know Dave Brass when they were ballers, but he's so deluded that nothing he says is worth much, and he's feeling guilty about Brass, because, as usual, it's all about him, since he opened his big mouth, and because McManus forced Brass to come to Oz, even though he had a "big pair of gigantic NBA tits in his face." They must have been really huge -- but what does an NBA tit look like, anyway? Murphy tells McManus to shut up since Dave Brass filled out an application, and that working in a maximum-security prison comes with some fairly obvious risks, and then they talk some more but I'm not listening. I'm wishing that Murphy would tell McManus that he is to blame, instead of talking McManus out of his guilt, which is exactly what he wants.
Smellie walks in, all bundled up for the cold, and tells PrettyDogLady that she wishes she had a fur coat, "like one of your seeing-eye dogs." PrettyDogLady jumps up on her high horse to tell Smellie that they're actually called "guide dogs," like anyone cares, and then Smellie makes a bunch of constipated facial expressions and pretends to be interested in the progress of the program, which is going very well, thank you. PrettyDogLady puffs herself up by explaining that she's got three of the more disparate prisoners she's ever worked with, and she's kicking ass. Alvarez rolls out of bed with his dog (I'm still wondering where these dogs go to the bathroom); Penders gives his dogs some pills; and Hill -- uh oh -- Hill's a big fat mess, babbling, sweat-soaked, and falling out of bed, as his dog jumps against the glass with an Lassie-style urgent message about how drugs and people just don't mix.
Gloria repeats what the dog told her -- that Hill's got some major kidney problem that often affects paraplegics, and a whole "shitload of heroin in his bloodstream." She's also shoved some tubes up his nose. "I Just Run The Place" McManus is shocked -- shocked, I tell you -- that Hill's back on the smack, and toddles off to get to the bottom of things. But not before a snippet of Sallycize, complete with the chirpy ubiqui-blonde jumping around in a bikini behind a volleyball net, gets Guerra in a lather. McManus strides into the common area and ignores requests for an update on Hill's condition, heading straight for Redding. In a cry for help -- I mean, "show of authority" -- he grabs Redding's collar and demands to know who supplied Hill with the drugs. I fight the urge to yell, "Beecher did it!" Redding assures McManus that he knows nothing about it, that he's old, and should be dead, and refuses to outlive young Hill, and he toddles off to get to the bottom of things. McManus tells him to deliver the perp to him as soon as he finds him, so that he can give them a sound tongue-lashing and a lollipop. Redding heads straight for Poet, who denies any involvement in Hill's big smack attack, suggesting that Redding interrogate his enemies rather than his friends.
True crime time: it's Penders, who shoots some kid for a reason that the segment fails to communicate. Perhaps it's because his hat is dumb. Criminally negligent homicide. Seventeen years. Up for parole in nine.
Needless to say, Hill will no longer be part of Man's Best Friend, where Penders and Alvarez will be teaching the dogs self-control and focus by forcing them to restrain themselves from eating steaks that PrettyDogLady places on the floor. They can't get distracted by meat, or pussy, when they're leading blind people across freeways and into helicopters; they must focus on their person at all times. "I haven't seen a steak in seven years, and now you're gonna put it on the floor so a dog won't eat it," says Penders. No, the dog won't eat it, because it's already been trained within an inch of its life, as evidenced by the fact that the dogs don't make a beeline for the pan as soon as they walk in the door, but whatever -- we get to watch fabricated cruelty to animals as they fake whine. Per instructions, Alvarez pulls his dog, Julie (insert retributive story for bitter Ozwriter here), away from the steak, and then he pretty much lets her eat it.
Back in the common area, Kenmin tells Alvarez and Julie the story of the dog his parents gave him when he was a wee lad. Basically, he hacked the thing to bits, which really peeved his parents. When Alvarez tells him to fuck off away from his dog, Kenmin maintains that he was kidding, but that's neither funny strange nor funny ha ha. I don't like Kenmin, or his meticulously styled hair. Where, exactly, does one find a hairdryer and gel in Oz? Morales walks over and tells Kenmin to do as Alvarez says. Kenmin obliges, and hustles away, saying, "Someday, Morales, someday." Someday…what? He's gonna feather Morales's hair? Alvarez wants to know if Morales is now protecting him, but Morales says no but, getting all serious, he wants to ask a question. Where's Mukada's office, he'd like to know. Pause for laughter. Oh, there's not any? Let's move on.
Morales, comfy in velour, barrels into Mukada's cavernous office. Mukada, comfy in sackcloth, expresses surprise to see him. Morales, suddenly uncomfy, agrees. He sits. They stare. Morales talks about some guy he killed; Mukada thinks he's come because he's feeling guilty. Hardly, Daddio. Morales realized that he was the last person to hear this guy's voice. "I own his last words," says Morales. "I got a feeling you own my sister's, and I want them." Oh, says, Mukada, referring to their "chat" and pretending that he didn't just soil his drawers -- she loved you, and she couldn't wait to see you. Morales explains that his sister Annette "was the spitting image of our mother," as Mukada dry-heaves, and he wants to confirm that she at least died happy. Mukada says she kicked the bucket in high spirits indeed, except, of course, for the problems she was having with her husband, and I look a mile away, and I see something coming, and I know what it is. Problems? Morales is shocked. He knew of no problems. What kind of problems? Mukada squirms, says that he's not sure exactly what sort of problems, but she did mention Viagra and a harness, and suggests that Morales ask the husband in question. Nifty idea, agrees Morales.
In the visiting room, Morales greets Annette's widower with a hug, and asks how he's been holding up since her death. Husband acts all sad until Morales confides that his sister was a "cunt," which unleashes in Husband a torrent of criticism and unburdening. Apparently, Annette thought she could become a model (so she was at least seriously delusional) and went around shoving her tits in the face of anything with a dick. So, of course, Husband "cut a fucking chunk out of her arm." After providing a few more lurid details about Annette's libidinous exploits, Husband confides that he doesn't like disrespecting the dead, which is too bad, because the boy's got talent. Morales assures him that he'll never have to do that again, as he slams Husband's head repeatedly into the table, leaving a bloody spot that I'm sure will be hard to remove, before two guards get a telegram that contains a clue and pull Morales away. And now it's Morales's turn for the full frontal; with his business flapping in the breeze, he's escorted past Mukada, who's wearing a guilty, knowing look and some wicked Flock of Seagulls hair and just happens to be loitering around solitary (all those naked men, perhaps).
Then Mukada walks by the infirmary bed of Timmy Kirk, who's apparently alive and contrite. After discovering that Hoyt made a confession and a move to death row, Kirk informs Mukada that he'd also like to make a confession -- a true confession? -- and return to the Roman Catholic fold. No way, cupcake, replies Mukada, as he walks away from the incredulous little devil. Hee. Score for the Mookster. Then Hoyt sits on his death row bed, which represents his only screen time thus far this week.
Hill represents with another "fortune-telling is bunk" thought piece, this time focusing on the yore-ish practice of reading steaming entrails. I'm tired of these stupid misogynistic interludes.
And we move on to the obligatory Ryan "Leave Me Alone I'm A Family Man" O'Reily segment, as a SORT team aerobicizes into Cyril's cell to halt his zealous beating of a guard. In the infirmary, Pete jerks her arms and wonders what to do about Cyril, since they can't just keep sedating him every time he beats someone silly, which is happening quite often these days. Ryan wants him out of solitary; Gloria says she tried (since her love for Ryan clearly justifies the jettisoning of her professional ethics), but parade-rainer Leo refused. Pete reminds Ryan that Cyril killed Li Chen…self-defense…rape my ma…can't prove it…Kenmin's a chink cocksucker, and then Ryan of Selective Memory Farms pulls the long-haired stoner out of his butt, and everyone scrambles like mad to get the stoner in front of Leo to clear Cyril, conveniently forgetting that Cyril beat the crap out of a guard who we can only presume had no nefarious plans for Betty Buckley. Actually, Pete scrambles, Cyril sleeps, Ryan stares and babbles about the glass of happiness, and Gloria places her hand over Ryan's. She might as well be waving as she disappears around the bend.
Leo's interrogating Stoner, who denies ever insinuating that Colby was the father of Erika's Lebanese-Canadian Siamese twins. Stoner says he needs to go to protective custody (he also needs a good conditioner); as Pete assures Leo that Stoner, he gleefully shares that he doesn't give a rat's ass, and advises Pete to explain to Cyril that he needs a good lawyer.
She obviously fails miserably, as we see Katherine explaining to Ryan -- duh -- that Cyril's is a tough case, especially since Pete's analysis says that Cyril knows right from wrong. Oh, she'll take the case, because if she didn't, they'd have to import a lawyer from another state, but recommends that Ryan go with "a name brand." Like Skechers, or Massengill. Ryan's not sure what she means, so she rattles off the three lawyers she knows -- "Barnum" F. Lee Bailey, Johnnie "The Tard's Got Heart, So Smell My Fart" Cochran, and Ken "Who Moved My Personality?" Starr. Of those three, who'd do a cameo? Like we don't all know the answer already. Katherine cops to not being a one-woman PR circus, a veritable font of "razzle-dazzle," and says that Ryan really needs someone who can whip the media into moral outrage over the fate of an extremely violent halfwit. When Ryan frets over the expense of Media Whore, Esquire, Katherine tactfully explains that he must answer the question, "How much is your brother's life worth?"
Betty Buckley blames herself, since she didn't listen when Ryan told her that something bad was sure to come of her presence in Oz. Ryan says it's been a joy having her around. Betty Buckley suggests hiring some razzle-dazzle; when Ryan explains that razzle-dazzle only looks cheap, she suggests convening a family meeting to explore innovative fundraising possibilities. Unconvinced that a family meeting is such a hot idea, Ryan asks Betty Buckley if she's seen his father lately. With my busy stage career, she says? Ha! It's been over thirty years since she's seen Seamus (oh, of course his name is fucking Seamus), but she "can't think of a better reason to stare the old bastard down."
And so the meeting convenes. Betty Buckley, evidently the butt of a joke in the wardrobe department, sits as Ryan paces. Aunt Brenda (the always-lovely Anne Meara) arrives first, bearing noted cure-all chocolate peanut clusters. She stops short when she sees Betty Buckley, and then directs Seamus, who's standing in the doorway and looks like he's been downing a fifth of something corrosive each day for a few decades, to sit his sorry ass down. He immediately starts attacking Betty Buckley, as Ryan moves into the central "Give Me Money For Cyril's Defense" portion of today's proceedings. Upon learning that a name-brand lawyer runs somewhere north of $20,000, Brenda and Seamus both scoff. Seamus assures Ryan that none of them have that kind of cash, but Ryan queries Brenda about her large disability settlement. Umm, that would be the money I live on, explains Brenda, and my life is a damn sight more important than my knuckleheaded nephew's. Ryan thinks she should give it up because she claims to love him; when she says he does love him, Ryan says, "But not enough." Asshole.
Seamus and Betty Buckley bicker some more -- a touching exchange that involves Seamus talking about wiping the dirty asses of his sons and Betty Buckley exploding cops, while Betty Buckley talks about Seamus's infidelity -- until Ryan pleads for mercy and says that, as they're discussing Cyril's life, none of this shit matters. Brenda begs to differ, opining that shit is all there is and that the best thing they can do for Cyril is let him die. She gets up to leave; Ryan protests, but Brenda says that there has to be more than blood to make a family. As Betty Buckley sheds a tear and Seamus looks like a bloated frog, Brenda tells Ryan, "You knocked on the wrong door, honey." Amen, sister. Brenda leaves; Seamus follows. He says nothing to Ryan, but calls Betty Buckley a "cunt." I'm excited because I've gotten to type the "c" word twice in very short order. Betty Buckley stands up, apologizes, laughs at a lame Ryan joke, and then gives him the kind of hug you give when you really don't want to hug someone, when you stand far away and just put your arms around the person, and it looks fake and weird and forced, and this pseudo-hug detracts from her assertion, which is that she and Ryan and Cyril really are a family and that they'll weather this here storm. Ryan says that Brenda was right: "The best thing we can do for Cyril is to let him die."
In the infirmary, Ryan stands over Cyril in the classic I'm-going-to-smother-you-with-a-pillow stance. Cyril's eyes fly open with the classic I'm-about-to-be-smothered-by-a-pillow look, but it's an opportunity missed. Cyril then fights against his restraints and asks Ryan if he was bad again. Real bad, bro. Cyril wants to go back to Em City, but Ryan explains that he's headed for solitary. Cyril dislikes solitary. Ryan knows. A guard arrives to take Cyril back to his deluxe single room; as single, melancholy piano notes swell, Ryan looks serious, then Gloria looks serious, then Hill says that only one person knows the future. He's the judge (yes, it's a he), and he's right all the time, and all the lucky folks in Oz have gotten their futures told, and the future ain't bright. Betty Buckley, in the cafeteria, turns out to be the culprit behind the piano water torture. Cyril arrives back in solitary, and Ryan looks serious again.
week: Oh, sweet Jesus.