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Tonight's episode begins in the past. Sadly, it's not far enough in the past to justify shooting the whole thing in sepia tones and putting everyone in Olde Tyme Costumes. It's only far enough back to show Michael getting some playing cards tattooed on his arm: three of hearts, one of clubs, two of hearts, nine of spades, a bunch of numbers I can't see, then ending with a three of clubs, a five of clubs and a two of clubs. I have no doubt these specific suits have some tremendously significant meaning. I just don't know what it is.
We transition from Michael's inking to the prison yard, where Abruzzi's laying out a hand of solitaire and glaring balefully at the new, non-Team Escarpara PI crew. Inside the St. Louis building, the PI crew is doing all sorts of demolition-related work and managing not to find the big honkin' hole in the middle of the floor. We see one fireplug of a worker go tromping all over it, but the fire-damaged plaque miraculously holds his weight. Maybe if Michael's feeling generous, he can leave an escape note advising Pope et al. to rebuild St. Louis entirely out of meaningless award plaques, so it'll be stronger than ever.
In the yard, Abruzzi's trying to get Bellick's attention so we can transition that much more quickly into this week's scene establishing that verily, Bellick delights in the suffering of others. What will it be this time -- denying transplant patients a new organ while snacking on a plate of liver 'n' onions? Stacking school boards with creationists? Nothing so spectacularly evil, I'm afraid: Bellick just wants his bribes. "You think I like getting piss thrown at me? Spit on? These other chumps might do it for the 40 grand a year and the little blue uniform, but I'm not that dumb. Falzone's envelope is the only reason I come through that fence every day, and it's the only reason I'm going to keep coming through that fence until I have enough money to buy that house on Lake Gray. I'm thinking early retirement, John. And you're interfering with that." Bellick stomps off. Abruzzi collapses against the fence in a sebaceous swoon.
In another, less oily part of the yard, Michael's standing around and staring. I can't believe his habit of going pop-eyed at the slightest provocation hasn't weirded out the other inmates yet. Abruzzi comes over, saying testily, "They're gonna find it. The longer they're in there, the sooner they're going to find it." Michael does not reply, "Well, if someone hadn't put all his accounts in his corrupt boss's name, this wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Instead, he settles for stating the obvious: they have to get back in there. Abruzzi says, "I'm going to say something crazy to you." "Surprise, surprise," Michael sneers. Abruzzi continues, "I don't give a damn about that Fibonacci anymore --" "You're right. That is crazy," Michael jeers. Abruzzi continues, "Because I got bigger things to think about in here, like survival. You see, I'm kind of short on friends in here, in case you haven't noticed." "Well, have you maybe tried asking people about their interests? Refrained from cutting off their toes when they tried to reply?" Michael asks. Or not. Abruzzi says he just wants out alive. Michael's all, "Don't you try to be all subtle with the Fibonacci mention when what you really want is for me to give him up to Philly Falzone for you." Abruzzi's like, "Okay then. I'll just let my accent get a Eurail pass and travel all over. How du yew like me nooow? Neuw koan we tuk about Feeeebonahhhhci?" Michael looks at him, clearly thinking, Pick a diphthong and stick with it.