Let the music play.
Pete's first up; she's chosen a song I don't recognize, something about days like these. Looking solemn, earnest, and limber, she wears a sensible periwinkle twin set and eyeglasses on a chain, but the gray streaks in her hair speak to a wild side. Throaty, heartfelt delivery. Nice resonance. A few unsuccessful reaches.
Betty Buckley's backstage throwing a Mariah -- her contract specifically says that she is not to be upstaged by Latina singing sensations, and here's Rita Moreno opening the show. Betty's brandishing a length of pipe, planning a devious blow to the kneecap.
As Pete continues singing, Said puts his skullcap back on and -- after contemplating its roundness -- his necklace. If you play Pete's song backwards, there's a message about how these two threads work together. And about how suicide for the devil is cool. Said's leaving solitary; his reunion with Arif and the other Muslims looks like an ad for the new Dockers line of religious headgear -- matching slacks and belts, fun, sporty tops in a variety of soothing jewel tones, and caps knitted by three-year-olds in Saipan. Lots of hearty man-hugging and back-patting ensues.
Said's moment of happy ends when he returns to his pod and sees Omar's face. Omar's also studying music, but I know that it's his face that upsets Said, because Said says, "Your face." Apologies all around -- Omar knows he fucked up, Said knows he fucked up, the required shit-beating tension release has happened, so now they can bond. Omar fills Said in on the Redding angle, Said understands that he was too rigid to seek out for help, Omar confesses that he needed some "Ike Turner treatment," and then Said has to ratchet it up a few psycho-spiritual levels. He reveals his own addiction -- to power. Omar, justifiably confused, grunts. In full understatement mode, Said throbs, "My power trip. I was high 24-7, being the master of your recovery." Then he asks Omar to call him "Kareem." Omar, stifling a laugh, says thanks and clasps Said's outstretched hand as Arif looks on from outside, crestfallen and matronly.
Betty Buckley, out on bail and under heavy sedation, tells McManus that he'll be very happy with the upcoming variety show, and that Omar will be the grand finale -- he may suck, she says, but by performing he'll be a success. McManus beams with self-satisfaction and magnanimously asks if there's anything he can do to help, fully expecting the answer to be, "Oh, no, you've done so much already." But Betty Buckley needs an emcee. D'oh! McManus doesn't want to risk the humiliation of getting up in front of a bunch of men who think he's a pussy, and sends her off to bother Father Mukada, who does it for God.
Yep, Omar sucks. Emphatically. It's almost like…he's trying to suck. But no, that can't be. Betty Buckley looks like Emmylou Harris while Omar butchers his number. He starts to freak out about his overzealous sucking, but Betty Buckley entrances Omar by doing the hypnotic circle march. She moves around him and commands him to repeat after her as she drones, "Fuck. Them." Omar, strangely surprised to hear the F-word coming from a woman who spawned Ryan O'Reily and blew up a cop, hesitates, then acquiesces.
Out of range of Betty Buckley's mind control, Omar again feels nervous and seeks out Poet, he of the brazen spoken word, for performance advice. Poet recommends drugs. If they're good enough for Olympic athletes, they're good enough for hardened criminals, is what I'm thinking. He gives Omar a tit and, for ordering right now, a free side of mouthing off about McManus and Said's bullshit -- how he's been there before, how Said wants him to be a symbol, "a phoenix rising on the wings of poetry from the ashes of a crack house." Ha. How Said-like. Poet seals the deal with a word of advice: "Remember one thing. Everyone's eyes will be on you." Good Poet, always ready to help out a friend in need. Omar grabs the tit and stumbles out, collapsing in despair on the stairs, as the hoots and hollers of a heckling audience rise in the background.
And now it's time for the variety show. Which is mildly confusing, since this could easily be a surreal dream sequence. Busmalis staggers off stage with a remark about the tough crowd as Omar reaches Betty Buckley, wrapped in a light pink boa that eerily matches her hair, ready at the curtain with a final word of encouragement for her star performer. "I would tell you to imagine that they're all naked," she says, "but I guess you've already seen a lot of them naked." She just broke the wind beneath his wings.
Mukada announces Omar; Betty Buckley parts the curtain and kicks his ass onto the stage. Greeted by a rousing chorus of boos, he stands, a deer in headlights, before sheepishly starting his song. The mike erupts in feedback, but Omar plows ahead. As the camera pans past Betty Buckley and poor Father Mukada, who was tackled by Patricia Field in the green room, where she balanced a Styrofoam hat on the side of his head and pinned a very large and very fey-looking flower to his lapel, the jeering subsides, Said and McManus exchange self-validating glances, Schillinger looks like he smells poop, and Ellie smiles like she just slathered Vaseline on her teeth. Omar finishes his perfectly pedestrian number. Said jumps up, applauding. McManus follows, and soon Omar's enjoying a healthy ovation. Betty Buckley runs over with a hug; Omar looks ecstatic. And not very fucked up.
In the hall, McManus and Ellie banter, thankfully out of anyone else's earshot. She's telling him that she knows he's gloating because he proved her wrong. He denies it, but he's totally gloating. She thinks he's cute for finding "vindication in the prison version of Star Search" (does Tom Fontana find vindication in the prison version of Melrose Place?). He babbles on about one success being worth all the abysmal failures, and it seems like he's grasping at straws to justify his sad existence, but she buys it and gets all flirty and touches his shirt and says lots of cute stuff before leaving him wanting more.
Omar pops by for a quick chat with Poet; Poet thinks he be the man with the plan, but Omar surprises him by returning the tit, untouched and complete. Omar says he came close, but then decided that he should feel the moment. See, sometimes a good beating is exactly what the doctor ordered. Smacks you right into line. Poet thinks Omar's fucking with him, but Omar says, "It's the tits that's fucking with you," and plants a kiss on Poet's forehead before walking jauntily out of the pod.
Over in the laundry room, there's trouble brewing with The Coordinated Separates Who Worship Together. Arif enters with a coterie of the beefiest Muslims as Said folds his clothes; Said correctly guesses that they have come to express concern about his continued association with The Smooth Sounds Of Omar White. Said explains that he is officially best friends with Omar, despite all that he's put him through during his recovery, because the alternative is repugnant to him. What's that mean, asks Arif, sad that he's no longer Said's official best friend, looking about twelve years ago with the upturned collar of his pale lime polo sweatshirt. Never content to stick with the issue at hand, Said guns straight ahead to big-picture territory, confirming Robson's assertion that Muslims do keep slaves. It's an aspect of the religion that Said has left largely untouched, but now he's ready to cast off his rose-colored glasses, as he explains, "Our Islamic brothers of the north, they capture our African brothers of the south, all in the name of Allah, to Islamicize the people who look like you and me." Basically, and with hats off to Arif for the encapsulation, Said now considers his "attempts at conversion a form of enslavement." Because Said's doing it for himself, not for God. Said could not abide his failure to convert Adebesi, so he killed him. Sponsoring Omar has taught Said that people should be allowed to be who they are. And that's a beautiful lesson to learn, as this week's episode of The Odd Couple comes to an end.
It's crime time in primetime. Robson, in full skinhead drag and spray-on hair, accosts a well-dressed black couple as they saunter down an empty street. Robson stabs the guy with an overtly sexual thrusting motion and then holds the blade to the cheek of the terrified woman. For assault and murder in the first degree, Robson gets a life sentence, with a chance of parole in twenty-five years. Aryans are complete fucking losers.
Robson sits down with his loser friends with a slight meal -- "nothing cold or crunchy." No, he's not on a diet, but his mouth hurts like hell. Even juice makes him wince like a baby, and forget about ice cream. A dentally aware bigot guesses recessive gums, and suggests that Robson not mess around with his mouth. Schillinger advises the avidly dentist-averse Robson to make a beeline for Dr. Feradj. Robson especially doesn't want a "sand nigger's paws probing [his] mouth," but Schillinger assures him that dentists wear gloves. Ever since that AIDS thing, you know, which just affects faggots and black women, so there's nothing to worry about anyway.
In the land of scary brown people, Robson learns that he needs gum surgery and decides to act like a dick to the guy who'll likely be giving it to him, which seems real bright to me. He can either have tissue from the roof of his mouth grafted on to his gums, which hurts like hell, or he can have gum tissue from a cadaver. Robson doesn't want the pain, but isn't sure about a dead person's gum tissue, and tries to intimidate by using the word "fuck" a lot. Dr. Feradj explains that dead gums equals organ donation, and gets points for dressing down Robson, saying, "Your own fucking tissue would require a longer and more painful period of fucking recovery. In the end, your fucking gums would be healthy either fucking way." Ha. Robson keeps at it, however, invoking some really well-chosen racial epithets, whining about needles, and demanding that Dr. Feradj wear two pair of gloves. Feradj replies, "Yes, sahib," and rips Robson's x-rays off the wall before retreating to his lair to mastermind yet another evil oral fate.
Mulling his options with Schillinger, Robson, particularly sassy this week, hints that he's leaning toward the gums of death. Robson tries the "organ donation" argument on Schillinger, who gets queasy and uninterested as Robson describes the procedure, which solidifies his decision to plumb the morgue for a healthy mouth.
So he immediately gets the gas -- laughing like a schoolgirl, gums a-bleedin,' Robson tells Feradj that he should be selling the stuff. "They may have tits," he says of the prison's drug crowd, "but you've got pussy." After making a Nazis/gas joke, Feradj takes a massive needle to Robson's mouth and begins explaining various "Why Hitler Hated Jews" theories that involve Hitler's psychology and descent (and potentially impure blood), while holding a scalpel in Robson's mouth. Then he mentions that the gums are always of unknown origin and that they might -- gasp -- "come from a kike, or a spic, or even a faggot. I mean, you could be getting the beautiful gums of a big, black nigger." Robson squirms, and I want to high-five Dr. Feradj.
Hoyt's singing a song I don't recognize either, about free will, which I'm sure will lead to indignation over my musical knowledge. He's doing some upside down pull-ups, air boxing, tough-guy emoting.
Alvarez and Penders arrive for dog lessons; Penders shows Ms. Dog that he trained his charge to fetch, which pisses her off, since the men were expressly ordered not to teach the dogs any "recreational activities." Nice one, dipshit. After commanding the men to wander aimlessly, Ms. Dog instructs a guard to fire a shot, which scares the bejesus out of Alvarez, Penders, and the dogs. Ms. Dog scares me -- she's got that no-nonsense-black-lady character down to a science, and she don't give a rat's ass about how the boys feel because she's in it for the dogs. And the dogs need to learn about control and retaining focus. At all times. Penders and Alvarez make some cheesy remarks; Ms. Dog ups the ante by explaining that the way to teach this lesson is "by standing on his leash and saying 'chill.'" Chill? That's right, doggie. Take a chill pill and mellow out, baby.
As the guard fires another shot, there's a flashback to Rivera, eyes gouged, in the infirmary. In McManus's office, Alvarez revisits the couldn't-be-more-perfect coincidence that drove him to the program and explains that he wants to do right by Rivera by giving him Julie The Seeing Eye Dog. Ms. Dog orders McManus to call Rivera to arrange a dog-brokering session. Although McManus wonders how Rivera will feel about returning to Oz, he and his wife Anita are there in no time flat. Free stuff, man. Works every time. Ms. Dog's channeling Pam Grier. Anita's convinced that the dogs are for lonely people; she likes taking care of her husband and doesn't care that the dogs will help her by freeing up time. She obviously wears the pants in the family. As Rivera does his best Ron-Popeil-infomercial rendering of, "I'm skeptical," Anita lays into McManus for the best idea since -- well, since those shitty interactions with Alvarez. When she discovers that Alvarez trained the dog in question, she flips, and forbids her husband to have anything to do with innocent, lovable Julie, who's gotten herself all mixed up in the petty wars of men. As Anita hustles her baby out the door, Ms. Dog and McManus entreat Rivera to take the dog, while I'm wondering why, if there's such a shortage of dogs, they're bothering to force one on a guy that doesn't really want one. Oh, yeah -- self-righteousness.
More crime. A protest. There's a cow protesting something. And Father Daniel Meade. A priest who destroyed private property and assaulted an officer of the law. An old priest who gets a fifteen-year sentence in Oz. Yeah, right, whatever.
As Miss Sally fondles the buttocks of a female associate on her new fitness show, Ryan leads the old man to his pod, where they'll be roommates. Ryan doesn't hold the door open for Meade, because he's got no manners. Purse-lipped and stark white, Meade starts on about an O'Reily family in his old parish, Saint Teresa Of Old-Fashioned Protesting Whup-Ass. Ryan cuts him off with the assertion that he's got no use for a priest. Wise Old Irish Priest Meade goes, "Duly noted." Will the salty man of God break down Ryan's wall of isolation and lead him to Jesus? Or will Ryan kill him? Stay tuned!
Cyril and his blond fall suit up for court. As he's escorted down the hall, Betty Buckley tells Ryan that she'll be sitting behind Cyril every day and assures him that Cyril won't get the death penalty, but Ryan's eyes look cold and hard, like a beautiful and expensive gem. Cyril shows up; Ryan kisses him, Betty Buckley holds up the new suit she bought, and Katherine, mercifully re-coiffed, bustles around officiously. More brotherly assurance as Cyril, as they say, faces his day in court.
Morales and Guerra and some other people play basketball in the gym, while Kenmin practices ballet. Ryan walks in and tells Kenmin that his number's up: he knows Kenmin was only faking about his fear that Li Chen would rape Betty Buckley, he knows Kenmin set him and Cyril up, and he knows that Kenmin thought Li Chen would waste the O'Reilys. Damn, this show is fucking ridiculous. Kenmin does a Not At All Scary jump; Ryan sort of threatens him and then walks away, as the old priest watches and lifts a miniscule weight, which I think provides the perfect metaphor for this flaccid scene.
In the lunch line, Ryan tells stoner Glen Shupe that he really should reconsider telling the story that Ryan wants to hear, but Shupe insists he's telling the truth, which is not always a good thing. In an apparent insult -- the impact of which escapes me -- Ryan calls mashed potatoes "special," and dumps a bunch on Shupe's tray. Shupe gets huffy and dumps his tray in the food. Ryan goes to Morales and tells him that he'll kill Kenmin, no trace to Morales, if Morales sees that Shupe has a non-lethal but debilitating accident, no trace to Ryan. They shake. Meade watches again. It's almost as though he's Ryan's conscience. Seconds later, Shupe rolls into the infirmary, missing an arm and yelling bloody murder. And then the arm follows, all droopy and limp-wristed and disgusting, accompanied by a C.O. Gloria's expression is that of a woman being handed a severed arm.
In Pete's office, Katherine explains that Cyril's trial didn't go well. "Judge Moore was in a foul mood," she says, "and the prosecutor, he's tough and smart." Well, gee, thanks for opening that door so wide, Katherine. Betty Buckley reveals that Cyril got agitated and talkative during jury selection, which didn't help cheer up the judge, who's uninterested in Cyril's mental state. Pete decides to chat up the halfwit.
In Cyril's cell, Pete speaks slowly, using simple words. When she wonders about the day, Cyril replies, "Lots of mumbo jumbo," and makes some mumbo-y jumbo-y noises. I wish the shelf above Cyril's head would leap off the wall and bludgeon him to death. To help him deal with loneliness and a desire to share, Pete gives Cyril a special gift. A sock puppet. A fucking sock puppet. A fucking sock puppet made of an old, green, pilled sock and two big black buttons.
I hurt myself, I'm laughing so hard.
Cyril loves the puppet. Pete wants Cyril to talk to the puppet in court, quietly, when he feels the need to verbalize. It's so crazy, it might just make Cyril look crazy. Pete's like a MacGyver of the mind -- with an old sock and two buttons, I can get this man off death row! To put her diabolical plan in motion, Pete coaches Cyril on stage-whispering to footwear, and promises that after Cyril's virtuoso performance each day, she'll discuss the things that confused him and plant the seeds of further signifiers of insanity. Cutting to the heart of the matter, Cyril thinks that the puppet needs a name. Jericho, he decides. When Pete asks why, Cyril lifts the puppet to Pete's face, and as we're treated to a close-up of Pete gazing longingly into Jericho's deep, black button eyes, some voice that sounds perhaps like Cyril on a serious Quaalude bender says, "'Cause the walls came tumbling down." Is this shit for real? A supernatural puppet? Did Cloutier disappear into a sock? Will Jericho transform Cyril into a brilliant seer? I'm reminded of the sock puppet show that used to be on MTV, but blanking on the name. ["Sifl & Olly, I think." -- Sars] Pete's got to stop smoking the spleef.
Lights out. In his pod, Kenmin practices ballet, and invites Ryan to dance the forbidden dance. In his pod, Ryan flips Kenmin off and turns around to find Meade on his knees, praying. Praying a lot, says Ryan. Meade, all Tip O'Neilled out, says he needs a lot from his God, and wonders if Ryan ever prays. Not since some priest tried to cop a feel when he was younger. Meade winces, wounded by Ryan's sudden entrance into the dark closet of Catholicism, and tries to apologize for centuries of swept-under-the-rug molestation, before Ryan says that he's kidding. But what's the real truth?
More music I don't know. Redding, spray-painting the glass walls of a pod, sings about marching to various wars. And Handsome Johnny, and a long road to freedom. Redding does this weird sort of shimmying dance with a stool, but he's not a bad singer. His singing is better than his acting. Now he does laundry and asks McManus if he's got any information about Hill, who's been transferred to Benchley Memorial, a.k.a. I've Got Better Things To Do With My Time Hospital. Nope, says McManus. You? 'Cause remember when you were going to find and deliver the person who supplied Hill with drugs? Remember that? Like O.J. searching for the real murderers, Redding's looking around. McManus remains unconvinced, but Redding growls, "My word is my bond."
Poet tells Redding that the Sicilians must be Hill's suppliers, as they're bitter about Redding's surge forward in the drug trade, but Redding wants evidence. So Poet tells Guerra (who's looking at porn online) that Redding thinks he supplied Hill with the smack, and enlists Guerra in the search for a disinterested witness to corroborate his Sicilian story. A search that ends abruptly, as Busmalis shoves past for some fun computer time and Guerra rolls over and puts his arm around Busmalis's shoulders. Cut to Busmalis telling Redding that Salvatore DeSanto, perched conveniently outside the door for visual identification, gave Hill the offending substance. Poet busts in as Busmalis leaves, all overeager and proud of his scheme. Redding hands him a vial of "mindfuck" and tells him to slip it into DeSanto's dinner.
At dinner, after opining that Redding cannot be killed, DeSanto falls on the floor in convulsions. Fast forward to McManus's office, where McManus informs Redding that DeSanto is brain dead, knocked senseless by an OD of LSD. Redding acts all sad, badly, but McManus, laser insight on full power, isn't convinced, and suggests testing DeSanto's food. Great idea, agrees Redding, except for one thing. No mo' food. "My boys ain't so good at cooking," he says, "But when it comes to the end of the day, man, they can clean up that cafeteria."
"Bottom Boy" Schibetta talks to Pete about his recent carnal escapades. While he thought that being raped by Adebesi was the worst thing that could ever happen to him, three Aryans turned out to be even worse. After Pete emphasizes that "you did not deserve to be raped," the bell rings, and Schibetta informs Pete that therapy's not helping and that he won't be returning. So she marches straight to Leo and expresses a desire to find the three men that diddled Schibetta.
Leo's less than keen about the idea, since trumpeting anal rape doesn't do such great things for a prison's public image, but Pete holds firm. "Your daughter was raped," she cries, but Leo doesn't equate the two, because in Oz, "rape has a leveling effect." Schibetta, he goes on to explain, wanted to be a tough guy since his arrival, but got put in place by men who like to butt-fuck men. "Survival of the fittest," claims Leo. Um, okay, Leo. That's a new one. Pete jumps up, responsibility for the enlightenment of the world crushing her shoulders, and begs to differ. "You want rape to do your job," she claims, and walks out.
Pancamo, the other Italian with recent staph invasions, shows Gloria a medal that Al Capone gave to his grandfather back in the day. Chitter chatter, Pancamo's getting worse. Feeling (and looking) like shit, Pancamo says, "I haven't prayed since the fifth grade. I've forgotten how." Perhaps Meade can hold a class for lapsed pray-ers.
Gloria runs into Pete in the mailroom, and they exchange complaints about their respective days. Gloria thinks Schibetta should speak to another rape victim. Maybe Schibetta should get to rape Adam. Pete wonders if Leo has a personal beef with Schibetta, but drops it when Gloria doesn't have anything to offer. Gloria worries about Pancamo's staph infection; because the actor needs the screen time, he can't join Hill (and Glen Shupe, presumably) at Benchley Memorial, but he's dying. Gloria blames herself. Pete says they both suck at their jobs, and Gloria wonders what they should do instead. "Form an all-girl band," suggests Pete. Yeah, and call it The Bad Choices. With Pete on bass. Pete decides that she wants Gloria to talk to Schibetta. Gloria agrees, as long as Pete will teach Pancamo how to pray. Partner swapping. The wave. And, just so we know it happened, Schibetta walks into a room with Pete and Gloria and sits down as Gloria slowly reaches over and takes his hand, and Pete's silky voice recites a Hail Mary as we cut to her holding Pancamo's hand and leading him in prayer. He's got to be pretty bummed about his prospects if there's a doctor actively recommending prayer.
Mukada's number, in a pod with purple backlighting and a glitter-on-black "Variety" sign. He's got the Janet Jackson headset on, and is singing a Tori Amos song I recognize. I'm scared that hers is the only piece I've recognized so far, and I'm scared for Mukada, who's now singing about sex and screaming, and pantomiming screaming while holding a Bible, and now licking the Bible, in a move straight out of Madonna's "Express Yourself" video, except she used a milk dish, and pulling his hair like he's too sexy for his pod, and singing about love and leather. The purple lighting makes him look very Pierre et Gilles. Oh yes, I'm scared.
The warm leatherette drops in on Hoyt, who's glad to see a human being. Mukada brings up Hoyt's sudden string of confessions, and mentions that he's been very silent about his accomplices. Hoyt tells Mukada that he's not gonna snitch on his buds. Friends, schmiends, says Mukada. I'm talking Kirk. Hoyt thinks he polished the little blowjob factory off, but Mukada sets him straight. "As hard as you tried," says Mukada, "he survived." Stating the obvious, Hoyt grunts, "Cocksucker." Mukada suggests tattling on Kirk, which will increase the population of death row, and Hoyt sends for Leo. In front of Leo and Mukada, Kirk maintains that Hoyt's lying, that it's his word against Kirk's, and that he's innocent. Mukada, bone tired of Timmy Kirk's evil ways, lunges toward him; when Leo restrains him, he and Kirk exchange "you'll burn" priestly oneupmanships.
After being shooed out of a liplock with some floozy in the visiting area, Kirk approaches Big Clarence and begins flirting. After ascertaining that Clarence is an arsonist, and that he maintains an active arson network, Kirk offers Clarence a blowjob. Judging from the smile that spreads across Clarence's ample face, I'd guess that Kirk's finally found someone who will let him suck his dick. And maybe even give him something in return. Pretty damn quickly, as Our Lady Of Fatima goes up in flames, with the man on the TV saying that two priests were killed and that a Father Ray Mukada suffered smoke inhalation and is in critical condition at, oh my gracious, Benchley Memorial. Guess B.D. Wong got another gig. I'm impressed. Timmy Kirk, an unswerving literalist who sits in his pod scribbling rad red-and-black drawings of Satan that he's totally gonna laminate and put on his skateboard, got quite a big return for one blowjob. He does have kind of a purdy mouth.
A WOZ fifties-style microphone. Someone's crept into Beecher's heart, and it burns. Someone's snuck into Schillinger's head, and it aches. Okay, we're at the undisputed best moment of the week, as Beecher and Schillinger trade verses in a romantical duet about facing the music. I'm confident that this will not be topped tonight -- or maybe ever. That's funny. But then it gets better, as the disco beat starts thumping, the lights start flashing, and the two exes start a truly inspired synchronized dirty dance, complete with simulated backdoor entry. Beecher rips off his shirt; Schillinger does the John Travolta finger point, and then dips Beecher. Oh, mirth.
Then Schillinger's taking a crap, which is so too much information. Franklin, in pigtails today, wanders in and asks how Operation Infinite Guenzel Defloration progresses. Schillinger maintains compete confidence that, by week's end, "he'll be sucking my cock." Yay.
Katherine. Keller. She deposed the witness. The witness is very credible. The witness had a flashlight. Keller, no longer so credible, maintains his innocence and pleads witness error due to familiar look. I think the jig's up, Dr. Lecter. Katherine tells a story about how, because she knew her ex-husband was lying one time, she knows that Keller is lying, and since he deserves a fair trial, she's gonna go over there. He tries to charm her with his sexy ways, but he strikes out, and she clicks away as he calls her name. She clicks on over to Pete's office, where she promptly tells Beecher that she's no longer on the case because Keller's guilty, and she swore she'd never defend a guilty person, which seems like a preposterous thing for a lawyer to say. Then she asks Beecher if he was telling the truth about Keller's silence concerning the killings. No, he says calmly, "I was lying." Seems Keller talks a lot. Who knows what to believe? Katherine queries, "But you believe him when he says he loves you?" Affirmative, says Beecher. Just don't make him mad! "You two belong together," she says, and dumps his ass on the cold pavement, finally demonstrating both wisdom and backbone. Cyril might just have a chance!
Adam's boasting to some bikers about the fact that he knew the woman he raped -- they used to date, met at a bar, did some K. The typical frat-boy seduction. The bikers act suitably impressed. Beecher stops by the table and asks for a word; Adam's reluctant to leave his new pals to talk to a faggot, but Beecher manages to get him aside to advise him that the bikers are Schillinger's allies, and are just playing nice to lure him over to the brighter, whiter side. The bikers walk up and inquire if Adam's going on a date with Beecher, which sends the uptight closet case over the edge. As Beecher turns to leave, Adam clocks him on the back of the head, grabs him, and pretends to fuck Beecher's mouth. I'd say Adam's just about to have a penetrating visit with the Aryans. Sure enough, Beecher heads straight for Schillinger, where he gladly exchanges Adam for the chance to deliver mail to Keller. Then it's off to see Frankie the Fixer, who completely understands Beecher's decision to rescind the protection order. Resigning to Sister Pete is Beecher's TO DO item; she's surprised, and wants to understand Beecher's feelings, but he's pretty much not interested in an interaction, and motors for his last stop. That would be Tim McManus, to secure permission to work with the Aryans and to recommend that Adam vacate Em City. And that's that. Beecher verbally hands Adam off to Schillinger, picks up his mail cart, and bolts for protective custody. At least four men and a prurient viewing audience should be getting lucky very shortly.
And here comes randy Claire, on the prowl, substitute penis -- er, "nightstick" in hand. Keller, despondent over Katherine's defection, isn't in the mood to do the hokey pokey, and says so in no uncertain terms. Claire's not trying to hear that, see, because she brings Keller goodies and now she wants some of her own. And as the more masculine one here, she'll call the shots, thank you very much. She pokes him with her nightstick, but Keller does not like to be poked. After she moves in for more pokeage, Chris Keller, Serial Killer arrives, calls her face a "cunt," slams her against the wall, and begins choking her. Claire, looking unattractive and surprised, fends him off with the offending nightstick. After radioing in some specious call for help, she begins delivering a severe, nightstick-driven beating to her unwilling fuck-toy. This muddies the waters a bit. So the tease will continue.
Over in Unit B, Adam's having better luck. After dismissing Franklin's sarcastic greeting with a "Fuck you, faggot," Adam runs into Schillinger, who gives him a face slap for speaking and then watches as two beefy Aryans drag Adam into a closet (ha ha) for what he so richly deserves. As Schillinger prepares to enter the chamber, Franklin asks if he can watch. "Well, if you don't," says Schillinger, "how are you ever gonna learn?" That Vern -- always looking out for the welfare of others. As Adam's screams rise and one door closes, I'm just sad we don't get to see another one open.
Beecher leaves his cart outside of protective custody, takes a few deep breaths, runs his fingers through his hair (it's futile -- get thee to a salon) and charges in to see his true love. Instead, he finds Claire; when Beecher asks where Keller is, she tells him that Keller gone to -- guess where -- Benchley Memorial. Guess someone's getting an expanded plotline on someone's other show. Claire tells Beecher, "He acted up, I shut him down." She's so witty and fun.
And Beecher gets to do a second musical number, a more somber one this time, about days like these, that calls for him to don a robin's-egg t-shirt. It sounds kind of like Bryan Adams Unplugged -- and like the same song that Pete sang at the beginning. The sophisticated shirt-color parallels at work here suggest that I'm correct. After emoting and pacing around a pod for a few seconds, Beecher's suddenly in the gym, wearing a different outfit, where he finds Adam, naked, streaked, bloody, and looking none too pleased with his world. Beecher looks pained, but I really don't give a shit. What goes around comes around, jarhead.
I'm sad to report that Betty Buckley, distraught that she was denied a big solo number in tonight's episode -- and by reports that she was bought out of her contract for $28 -- has gone completely mental and was last seen shuffling around downtown wearing a muu-muu and far too much lipstick.