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This week, Our Intrepid Heroes are forced to take a detour to Black Rock, New York, when a storage company rings Daddy Shut Up's cell (which El Deano keeps active just in case, don't you know) to notify them of a possible theft at their worthless bastard of a so-called father's unit. Turns out two losers -- hired for the job by Bela, an aggravating broker of demonic trinkets -- broke into the place to snatch a voodoo rabbit's foot worth approximately one million dollars. Why so much? Because it brings whoever touches it unimaginable amounts of good luck. Why did Sucky John have it buried away in a remote storage facility beneath all sorts of protective charms? Because if the person who touches it then proceeds to lose it, that person dies! Dun-dun-DUN!
Naturally, after the boys track down the losers who stole it, Darling Sammy has to go and wrap one of his tremendous mitts around the thing, so when Bela of course slyly finagles it out of his possession, The Ginormotron has no choice but to spend the rest of the episode face-planting into asphalt, losing his shoes, battling unruly air conditioners, setting himself on fire, and getting shot in one of his remarkably broad shoulders, and it is far more amusing than it has any right to be. It's left to Dean, then, to confront Bela at her tastefully appointed loft in Long Island City, and after he successfully retrieves the cursed foot, Our Dear Boys salt it and burn it, thereby ending its mangy century-long rampage of terror across the face of the planet.
Oh, one more thing: Gordon Walker is back, and he's rounding up a posse of whackjobs even more batshit than he is to bring Darling Sammy down for good. We'll just see how well that whole plan works out for him, yes? Want more? The full recap starts right below!
Rattle, Rattle THEN! Long story short, Dashing El Deano traded his life for that of his impossibly tall younger brother's, The Openly Demonic Hate Blonde might be able to get him out of that deal, and Gordon Walker was crazy, even more so after Our Intrepid Heroes got his psychotic ass slung into an Indiana jail. Are we all caught up? Excellent. Moving along!
Silence, Silence NOW! The disappointingly silent NOW! creeps forward on the screen until it's obliterated by an abrupt cross-fade to a length of concertina wire stretched across the chain-link fence that surrounds a rather penal-intensive collection of buildings. Somewhere deep inside, The Guy Who Unfortunately Shot Brandon Lee passes through security and eventually finds himself staring through a sheet of bulletproof glass in the visitors' area at a bald-headed gentleman of color we all know is Gordon "Whackjob" Walker even though we can't see his face, because they just devoted a full third of the THEN! to that particular nutbag's backstory. The Guy Who Unfortunately Shot Brandon Lee picks up the telephone receiver and confirms the Devil's Gate-related details of last season's finale for the lengthily incarcerated whackjob's benefit, and gossips that he knows a guy who knows a guy who knows Bobby, and that Bobby admitted he was "at Ground Zero" with Our Intrepid Heroes at the time, but stressed that they were there to prevent the entire disaster from occurring. Whackjob Gordon -- who still has Capital-I Issues with Our Dear Boys, The Ginormotron in particular -- scoffs at this fourth-hand version of events, insisting, "Bobby's edge ain't what it used to be. Sam could have him believing anything by now." "Listen," The Guy Who Unfortunately Shot Brandon Lee counters, "as far as talk goes? Sam Winchester checks out. He's a hunter, that's all." The rabid Sambitches on the forum boards would beg to differ, Guy Who Unfortunately Shot Brandon Lee: Darling Sammy's a hunter -- and so much more! Sigh. So anyway, Whackjob Gordon crazily titters at this before granting The Guy Who Unfortunately Shot Brandon Lee his actual character name for the evening when he asserts, "Kubrick, I'm not even sure he's human." Whackjob Gordon then crazies some long-out-of-date exposition regarding Darling Sammy's role in the impending demonic war before letting his eyes go dead as he states, "Sam Winchester must die!" Muah ha ha ha METAL TEETH CHOMP!
That may be, my scaly friend, but we'll have to wait for confirmation of your theory, because the screamy bitchfest has suddenly been interrupted by the incessant bleeping of a cell phone. After Zombie Sam pissily notifies the world at large that it's not for him, Dean checks his own silent cell for a moment before realizing the noise is emanating from the glove compartment. "It's [our worthless bastard of a so-called father's]," Dean frowns. He "keep[s] it charged in case any of [Sucky John's] old contacts call," don't you know, so Sam's forced to root around behind the cigar box packed with fake IDs until he retrieves the thing and answers to find someone looking for "Edgar Cayce." Darling Sammy -- bless his unnaturally oversized zombie heart -- LIES that he's the gentleman in question, and quickly learns there's been a break-in at a storage container their worthless bastard of a so-called father rented in the Black Rock neighborhood of Buffalo. Needless to say, the very existence of said storage container is news to Our Intrepid Heroes, because John sucks, and he of course never told them about the place when his now thankfully dead ass was alive. In any event, the boys hastily set aside whatever plans they had in favor of a quick side-trip to western New York.
Meanwhile, Kubrick's parked his seedy RV off the side of some freeway somewhere, and we scamper inside with the camera to find him conversing with a dimwitted compadre named Creedy. The topic? Darling Zombified Sammy, and Whackjob Gordon's crazily unwavering hatred of same. Apparently, because Whackjob Gordon can't escape the joint to pull the job himself, he's tasked Kubrick and Ko. here with hunting down and slaughtering Our Dear Ginormotron for him. That's not really important, though, because the sole purpose for this scene's existence is to give us all a glimpse into Kubrick's somewhat unhinged levels of devotion to The Son Of God. Yep, he's got a black-velvet interpretation of The Passion prominently displayed on one wall, and Dimwitted Creedy's just discovered a rosy-cheeked Miracle Eyes Jesus in the kitchenette's cupboard. Creedy tilts the Miracle Eyes Jesus back and forth over and over again, as you do, until Kubrick steps up to snatch the tchotchke away with a seething, simmering, and entirely serious, "Don't play with my Jesus." "Dirty!" shrieks Raoul, shocked and appalled. Calm yourself, doll, though I suppose this is as good a point as any to note that tonight's episode was written by Ben Edlund, so expect the wacky shenanigans hinted at here to erupt all over your screen right about...
...any point that isn't this one, actually, for before we can indulge in the wacky shenanigans, we must first follow Our Intrepid Heroes as they investigate their worthless bastard of a so-called father's storage unit. It's a dark and dusty place, natch, and the boys discover a variety of painted symbols inscribed upon the floor at the entrance apparently left there to prevent demonic sorts from entering. And what of those untidy blood stains marring the concrete? Why, they're an indication of the tripwire-activated shotgun Daddy Shut Up installed to prevent human sorts from entering, of course. Seems the recent robbers who desecrated Sucky John's secretive lair -- and yes, there were two, going by the footprints they've left behind -- stumbled across the thing, and at least one of them received a full blast of buckshot for his trouble. This did not deter the looters, however, from staggering past the various relics of Our Dear Boys' collective childhood in the antechamber (and what the hell kind of a storage unit has an antechamber, anyway?) to smash their way into the true treasure room all the way in the back. It's a veritable armory of land mines and shotguns and various other implements of demonic destruction. Oddly enough, though, they left all of that alone in favor of snagging one of the many, many so-called "curse boxes" -- that is, vessels constructed "to contain the power of a cursed object" so said power doesn't escape and kill people -- from the heavily laden set of shelves Sam and Dean find on the far wall. "Well, maybe they didn't open it," Dean hopes.
Well, they haven't yet, as we discover once we've shot over to a dingy apartment containing a couple of additional dipshits we'll never see again after tonight, these two named "Grossman" and "Wayne." Wayne's the one who took a shoulderful of buckshot at the storage company, by the way, and he's now draped across a tatty sofa with said shoulder encased beneath a pile of bloody towels. The gentleman bicker between themselves over Wayne's grievous injury for a moment until Grossman decides to break open the charm-bedecked box himself. The woman who hired them for the task, you see, promised them only a couple of hundred dollars apiece, and Grossman here figures they'll make at least twenty times that if they fence whatever's inside on their own. And so, having popped the lock with a screwdriver, Grossman slowly -- s-l-o-w-l-y -- raises the lid to find...a rabbit's foot? "EVIL!" shrieks Raoul. Dude! Volume! Warn me the time, will you? And besides, what've you got against cute little bunny rabbits, anyway? "Nothing at all!" Raoul replies without hesitation. "In fact, they're quite tasty!" he adds, smacking his lips. "However, I do believe we just sat through an interminable scene in which those cunning lads of ours hinted quite broadly at the supremely foul wickedness of this mangy little fetish, so I feel quite justified in calling a spade a spade! EVIL!" Well, then. I suppose I should have been paying closer attention. Though that's a difficult task when this entire third of the episode has been so goddamn BORING.
In any event, Wayne immediately snatches the mangy little thing from its bed of black velvet and starts ranting, "Are you kidding me? I'm gonna die from a damn rabbit's foot?" "Oh, you don't know the half of it, honey!" titters Raoul, giddily anticipating the gore to come, and Raoul! Would you let me get to it, first? "As long as you're quick about it! This particular installment of our delightful little bit of televisual entertainment is beginning to drag!" "Beginning"? Didn't you read what I just...you know what? Not worth it. No sooner has Wayne wrapped his hand around the fetish than a neighbor comes a-pounding on the dingy apartment's front door. Grossman crosses to answer and rather indiscreetly informs the gentleman he finds on the landing of Wayne's current predicament. Turns out that's a very good thing, because the new arrival "used to be an Army medic in 'Nam." He hustles over to examine Wayne's wound and, after sending Grossman to fetch his first-aid kit, smirks down at his patient as he supposes, "I guess this is your lucky day." Wayne grinds down into an odd bit of slow-motion as he directs his attention from the medic above him to the rabbit's foot at his side. Is that a DUN!? I think that's supposed to be a DUN! Oh, fuck it. Let 'em actually earn it the time.
A short time later, Metallicar grumbles up to a crappy little Corolla parked outside Chez Dipshits. Dean confirms the Corolla's license plate matches the one caught on the storage facility's security tapes and remarks about the dipshits' dipshittery before we hop back upstairs to find...
...Wayne gloating over a particularly excellent poker hand of four kings. Given what's to come, I would have preferred aces over eights at this juncture, but I suppose they figured no one would get the reference. Because apparently we're all idiots. In any event, as Grossman affably enough deals again, Our Intrepid Heroes silently pick the back door's lock and make with the Tough Guy Jazz Hands down the hall with their weapons at the ready. No, not like that. "Dirty!" shrieks Raoul, this time shocked and appalled yet strangely excited at the same time. Filthy beast. "Hey!" Out in the living room, Wayne's nailed his second royal flush in eight hands, and is just coming to the realization that he can't lose thanks to the mangy fetish's intercession when Sam and Dean burst into the room, screaming, "Freeze!" and "Don't move!" and the like, and the wacky shenanigans may commence...now. Yep, Dean slams Wayne backwards against the wall, shouting questions while shoving his gun into the poor man's face, but the instant the mangy fetish distracts his attention, Wayne bats Dean's business hand away with enough force to send the pearl-handled automatic to the floor, where it instantly fires off a round of its own accord upon impact. That bullet ricochets first off the radiator to slam into Sam's gun, stinging it out of The Ginormotron's mighty mitt before ricocheting again to zip right past Dean's head and shatter a lamp. There quickly follows -- accompanied by some Blues Brothers-esque funky-funky keyboarding on the soundtrack -- a rapid-fire sequence of shots in which Grossman and Wayne knock the snot out of Our Intrepid Heroes, thanks mainly to the fact that Our Intrepid Heroes have been transformed into a pair of literally bumbling and bungling idiots through the mangy fetish's influence. They accidentally smack into each other and the furniture and such until, finally, If It's Thursday, Sam's Getting Choked rolls around. Yep, Grossman's straddling Darling Sammy on the floor, throttling the dear boy's remarkably healthy neck just as the rabbit's foot gets booted over to Sammy's side during the course of the separate fray between Wayne and Dean. Sam, scrabbling desperately for anything he can get his hands on to use as a weapon, latches onto the mangy thing, and in an instant, all of the good luck drains from Wayne to flow into him, and I think I've seenthisone before, too. Sigh. Fucking Charmed. In any event, Our Intrepid Heroes regain the upper hand when Grossman and Wayne, through a series of fumble-footed mishaps of their own, basically knock themselves out by tripping over various items of Dean-smashed furniture and slamming their heads against the floor. By the way, in an indication of Sam's uncanny new luck, Wayne pointed the business end of Dean's pearl-handled revolver directly at Darling Sammy's remarkably healthy neck, only to have the thing jam on him. Just so you know.
With their adversaries thus temporarily dispatched, Sam and Dean repair in the Impala to a strip mall's parking lot, where Dean grinningly presses a bundle of just-bought lottery scratch tickets into Sam's hands. "That was my gun he was aiming at your head," Dean reasons, "and my gun don't jam, so that was a lucky break." "Scratch one!" he orders, passing Sam a penny. Sam reluctantly complies, all the while fretting that the foot "has to be cursed somehow," and wouldn't you know it? He's just won $1200. Dean lets loose with an enthusiastic yawp and smiles, "I don't know, man -- doesn't seem that cursed to me!" Just you wait, Dim Dean. Just you wait.
In any event, Bobby hasn't a clue how to break the foot's curse, but he promises to find out before this evening's presentation is done. Or something like that. As Bobby hangs up, Stupid Sammy foolishly stuffs the mangy fetish into the pocket of his jacket rather than the pocket of his jeans, because the script told him to do so. Dim Dean, completely unaware of their current predicament, flaps the lottery tickets around in the air and grins, "Dude! We're up fifteen grand!" Sam pouts.
Still pouting, Sam leads Dean into a nearby chain restaurant and mopily asks for a table. By way of response, the middle-aged manager shouts, "Congratulations!" while shoving one of those gigantic prize checks into their hands. Well, it's gigantic for Li'l Stumpy, there. The Ginormotron could probably just...you know what? You already know where I'm going with that, so let's keep this moving instead, shall we? Good. Seems Lucky Sammy's the Biggerson's Sizzlin' Grill & Bar's one millionth customer, and so is entitled to free food for one year. As balloons and glittery confetti drop from the ceiling to shower Our Intrepid Heroes, suddenly appearing waitstaff arrive to serenade them while snapping their photos. The shot they end up using features El Deano in full-on delighted glory with Sam making the most mightily pissypantsed bitchface I think we've ever seen him pull on this show. Hee.
Magic Eyes Jesus RV Park And Grill. Krazy Kubrick's canvassed his entire address book, but no one's seen Sam. Creedy suggests they break for a snack of tasty garlic knots at a place he knows just down the road. Krazy Kubrick hesitates, so Creedy makes to call up the restaurant's online menu on his laptop.
Back at Biggerson's, Sam's blathering on about slaughtering rabbits under a full moon in a graveyard on Friday The Thirteenth while Dean gets brain freeze from the sundae he's scarfing down. Heh. A shapely waitress saunters on over to freshen Sam's coffee, and oh, my holy God, that wig she's sporting on the top of her head is ass. It is, in fact, so horrifically bad, that I just sit here, staring at it, waiting for her to rip that shit off and show us the scar. It isn't even trying to match her eyebrows! How could the boys not notice this...this...this stoopid, crappy, hateful excuse for a disguise? "Demian, darling," Raoul sagely interjects. "They're not looking at her head!" Doy! You're right, my scaly friend, you're right. And look at that, while I was so distracted by the ass wig and Our Intrepid Heroes were distracted by whatever the hell it was they were looking at, the shapely waitress has managed to swipe the mangy fetish right from Sammy's pocket! D'oh! The boys quickly realize Sam's luck has run out when he dumps an entire cup of coffee into his lap, then biffs a busboy in the face with the guy's own tray. They storm out of the restaurant, but the shapely waitress is long gone, having discarded her Ass Wig in the Dumpsters out front after carefully folding the mangy fetish in a dishtowel to avoid touching the thing directly herself. Besides, The Ginormotron's not so skilled with the whole chasing thing now, anyway, as his unlucky feet get tangled up in themselves almost immediately, and he face-plants in the parking lot. "Wow, you suck," Dean opines as he shakes his head and hauls his freshly clumsy oaf of a brother to the latter's feet. "So, now your luck turns bad?" Dim Dean demands, because he has not been following this evening's plot points. Perhaps he is as bored with it all as we are. "I guess," Sam winces, examining the newly opened gashes in his knees. "Wonder how bad," Dean mutters to himself as he lopes off towards the Impala, and I am pleased to inform him that it's...
...this bad: Creedy's favorite restaurant? Biggerson's Sizzlin' Grill & Bar. And what has Biggerson's staggeringly efficient IT department already uploaded to the Black Rock location's website? That picture of Sam and Dean snapped mere minutes ago, of course! Creedy goggles in disbelief -- the heathen! -- while Krazy Kubrick offers up a silent bit of praise to Jeebus as we get pimp-slapped into a commercial break most woefully lacking in the METAL TEETH CHOMP! department. Stupid show.
Chez Dipshit, for there is only one left. As Mary Ford croons "Vaya Con Dios," Grossman mournfully stares at a picture of himself and Wayne in happier times while slugging back mouthfuls of tequila, and I'd interpret this all as proof of their domestic partnership status were their apartment not such a fucking pit, because that "Cleanliness Is To Sodomy" stereotype is one I'd like to keep, thanks. Sam and Dean of course barge in uninvited to pepper The Late Wayne's grieving close personal friend with questions regarding the badly bewigged waitress, whom they've correctly identified as the woman who hired Duo Dipshit to break into their worthless bastard of a so-called father's storage unit in the first place. Grossman protests, and when Sam steps forward with a counterargument, he of course inadvertently knots his feet up in a power cord on the floor and crashes over to one side, taking a lamp and part of a bookcase with him. Dean, his menacing façade shattered by the fall of the tremendous dork now flopping around on the carpet behind him, takes a moment to eyebrow, "Sam, you okay?" "Yeah, I'm good!" Sam perks, still flailing. Hee. Dean returns his attentions to Grossman and, long story short, guilts him into giving up the woman's name by delivering the following little heartfelt speech as the camera slowly tracks in on his abnormally photogenic face: "If you don't help us stop [the mangy fetish], then that puts all [its associated] deaths on your head. Now, I can read people, and I get it: You're a thief and a scumbag -- that's fine. But you're not a killer. Are you?" Grossman, on the verge of tears, folds.
Magic Eyes Jesus RV Park And Grill. The bumper stickers on Krazy Kubrick's RV, by the way, read "Bethlehem or Bust," "How Would Jesus Drive?" and "Don't Make Me Come Down There! --God." As, you know, befits his certainty that a higher power is now guiding him in his quest to slaughter Darling Sammy. And...are we done here? "Absolutely!" Excellent. !
Outside Chez Dipshit, Dean catches a call from Bobby while Sam steps right into an enormous wad of bubble gum in the gutter. And as I will never be able to do justice to everything that follows? Another long story short: While Dean and Bobby chat and natter at each other and eventually figure out that the woman they need to locate is a well-known broker of supernatural objects named Bela Talbot, Darling Sammy spends the entire scene attempting to scrape the gum off his shoe on a sewer grating. A broken sewer grating. A broken sewer grating with a hole just large enough to devour his entire ginormous shoe when the thing of course pops off his foot in the middle of a particularly vigorous gum-scraping swipe. We hear the shoe go "Sploosh!" in the water far below as Dean at long last snaps shut his phone, and when Dean turns to share what he's just learned, he finds all fifteen feet of his tremendously dejected brother slouched over in pouty despair. "What?" Dean snaps. "I lost my shoe," Sam sulks. Awwwww! Also: Hee!
Shortly afterwards, Dean wheels the Impala into a motor court while again snapping shut his cell after another call from Bobby, who's learned Bela Talbot lives in Queens. "It'll take me about two hours to get there," Dean reckons, and I'll be taking that as a shout-out, thank you very much, Ben Edlund, because it takes normal people eight hours to drive from Buffalo to Queens. In any event, and in the meantime, Sam will remain locked in a motel room in Black Rock so his bad luck doesn't end up getting both of them killed. Dean swings the Impala past Krazy Kubrick's darkened RV, and the thing we know, Dean's planting Sam in a chair in the middle of their motel room with orders not to do or touch anything -- anything -- lest The Laughing Gods Of The Final Destination Franchise Rube Goldberg him into an early grave.
Queens. In a tastefully appointed loft positively bursting with priceless antiques, Bela Talbot and her bizarre British accent negotiate a final price for the mangy fetish -- which Bela's handling with a lengthy pair of salad tongs, by the way, which I am finding unreasonably amusing. Meanwhile, sneaky El Deano almost completely dodges her private security system to break into her apartment, but Bela spots him at the last instant on her closed-circuit TV and retrieves a handy automatic from her wine refrigerator for the impending confrontation. Unluckily for her, though, sneaky El Deano's already made his way into the loft. The two train their guns on each other, making with the smirky remarks until both are sucked into the most woefully CHOMP!-less commercial break. Stupid, stupid show.
Motel. Bored Sam flops around in his undersized chair until the air conditioning unit wheezes on of its own accord and promptly starts belching smoke into the room. Sam -- adorable -- gets this immense sulky-lip on his face and pleads, "Oh, come on! I didn't...I wasn't...[sigh]." Hee. He warily rises to his full fifteen-foot height and just as warily approaches the belching air conditioner, uncertain what, exactly, he should be doing about it at the moment. That uncertainty flees when the unit erupts into flames, which Sam beats back with a comforter from one of the beds, only to discover he's set his own sleeve on fire in the process, and it all ends when Sam smothers the fire on his sleeve so emphatically with the room's drapes that he pulls the entire curtain rod down on his head, knocking himself senseless to the floor. Standing watch just outside the window while all this is going on? Krazy Kubrick and his BFF Creedy. Creedy -- again -- goggles in disbelief while Krazy Kubrick -- again -- offers up a silent bit of praise to Jeebus.
Queens, and oh, SHIT! "Demian, dear!" Raoul shrieks, concerned for my welfare. "Whatever could be the matter!?" HER, YOU PEABRAIN. "I do beg your pardon I'm sure, but WHAT did you just call me?!" Sorry! I'm sorry! But Bela here with her swanky loft and her priceless antiques and her wine refrigerator and her Siamese cat and her Posh Spice accent with its lyooo-kritive maaah-kits and her...and I...I...I FUCKING HATE HER. That hatred, yes, is based purely upon the entirely superficial attributes noted above, and yes, I know I should wait to see where there going with all of this, but still: HATE!
So. Anyway. Queens. Bela's a raaah-thah proficient broker of supernatural artifacts. Dean hates her almost as much as I do. !
Motel. Krazy Kubrick and his BFF Creedy have lashed Darling Sammy to an undersized chair with duct tape, and Krazy Kubrick confesses he believes he's now on a mission from God.
Queens. Dean and I are now about even with our levels of hatred for Bela, though I still despise her a little bit more than he does, despite the fact that he's got that whole bitch-gonna-kill-my-brother! thing going on at the moment because Bela refuses to release the mangy fetish unless Dean coughs up one million dollars, and Dean doesn't realize that Zombie Sam, Hell's Unnatural Master! is immortal. Bela does, however, get in a good one when she calls the hunting community "a bunch of obsessed, revenge-driven sociopaths trying to save a world that can't be saved." Insert your own joke about the similarities between hunters and SYCOTIC fangirls here. Long story short because I want her off my television screen, while Bela was carrying on, Dean swiped the mangy fetish back, and he now escapes as every single bullet she fires at his rapidly vanishing backside instead ricochets around her tastefully appointed loft. The Siamese is most displeased. Shut up, cat.
Motel, and I haven't much patience for this, either, as it amounts to nothing more than Kubrick The Krazy Jesus Freak yakking and speechifying about The Demonic War and Destiny while belting Sam -- repeatedly -- in his pretty, pretty face, so let's skip ahead to the point where he yanks a monstrous revolver out of the waistband of his jeans and presses the barrel against Darling Sammy's mightily furrowed brow so swift El Deano can arrive from his two-hour jaunt from Queens to save the day. Shall we? "Let's!" Excellent. So, Kubrick The Krazy Jesus Freak yanks a monstrous revolver out of the waistband of his jeans and presses the barrel against Darling Sammy's mightily furrowed brow just as swift El Deano arrives from his two-hour jaunt from Queens. Dean, confident of the mangy fetish's power, threatens The Krazy Jesus Freak with his pearl-handled revolver, but willingly and easily sets the weapon down on an end table at Kubrick's decidedly unkind request to retrieve a motel pen. Kubrick, you see, has now trained his revolver on Dean, and Dean knows that all he need do is flip that motel pen in Kubrick's general direction, and the pen will magically insert itself in the gun's barrel. And that's exactly what happens, much to The Krazy Jesus Freak's annoyance and befuddlement. Dean artfully dodges Creedy's lunging attack, and the dimwitted underling knocks himself senseless by slamming head-first into the wall. And finally, Dean latches onto the room's television remote, which he wings straight into Kubrick's forehead with enough luck-driven force to send The Krazy Jesus Freak crashing to the floor unconscious. "I'm amazing!" Dean beams. "I'm Batman!" Darling Sammy rolls his eyes all the way into the CHOMP!-less commercial break. Stupid, stupid, stupid show.
Graveyard. Darling Sammy, more than a little worse for the wear after his hours in the motel room with Krazy Kubrick, sprinkles some bone ash and cayenne pepper onto the tiny pyre of glowing coals they've constructed for the cleansing ritual while Dean hastily scratches away at one last fistful of lottery tickets. Once Dean deposits the winners -- and they're all winners, of course -- in his jacket pocket over on a nearby headstone, he returns to Sam's side to commence with the fetish immolation. One problem: Bela's just completed her two-hour jaunt up from Queens and now levels a gun at their heads. "I think you'll find that belongs to me," she unbearably smirks. "Or, you know," she adds with unbearable nonchalance, "whatever." "Put the foot down, honey," she unbearably continues, and is entirely and unbearably unperturbed when Dean flat-out refuses to do so. "You're not gonna shoot anybody," Dean asserts, ramping himself up into a word-for-word repeat recitation of the heartfelt little speech he offered the grieving Grossman oh, so many scenes ago. "See, I happen to be able to read people," he begins. "Okay, you're a thief -- that's fine." Bela cuts through the crap by shooting Darling Sammy in one of his remarkably broad shoulders. "KILL HER!" shrieks Raoul, temporarily awoken from his Coma Of Boredom by this most disgusting turn of events. "KILL THE ONE WHO WOULD HARM THE SHOULDERS!" I could not possibly agree with you more, my scaly friend, so let's get this despicable woman off the television screen as quickly as possible. Dean bellows something outraged, but Bela -- unbearably composed -- simply remarks that while she can't shoot Dean, given his current run of good luck, she also can't miss Sam, given the latter's current run of the opposite, so Dean had best place the mangy fetish on the ground, now. Sly El Deano moves to comply, but at the last minute hurls the thing at her, blurting, "Think fast!" Hateful Bela, Destroyer Of Shoulders, reflexively snaps up a hand to grab it, and immediately gets this "Oh, shit!" look on her face. Thus busted, she finally caves, and the thing we know, she's dropping the mangy fetish onto the tiny pyre of glowing coals herself. The three make with the snippy remarks at each other as she heads off towards her car -- with Bela taking a lengthy moment to lean against Dean's jacket on the headstone, I should note -- before she vanishes, at long last, into the night.
Of course, she swiped the lottery tickets. "SON of a BITCH!" Dean rages, while Jared Padalecki, lovable doofbag that he is, completely breaks character and cracks up. Raoul and I are happy somebody's having a good time. "KILL HER!"
Indiana State Penitentiary For Whackjob Gordons. The whackjob himself listens attentively as Kubrick The Krazy Jesus Freak assures him, "You were right about everything. Sam Winchester is more than a monster: He's The Adversary." And the heads of thousands of Deangirls across the planet just exploded at the exact same time. The Sambitches, however, find themselves immensely pleased with this development. Whackjob Gordon, meanwhile, chooses simply to prompt, "And what was it that convinced you?" "God led me to him," The Krazy Jesus Freak breathily exults, "and His will is clear!" "Oooo-kay!" Whackjob Gordon hilariously replies, obviously surprised he's allied himself with someone even more patently batshit than he is himself. "That's great," Gordon adds, regaining some of his composure, "and it's good to have you on board, but first things first: We gotta get me the hell outta here." The Krazy Jesus Freak nods at this with the conviction of the dangerously insane. "'Cause like I told you before," the whackjob concludes as the camera zooms in on his face, "Sam Winchester must die!" Muah ha ha ha METAL TEETH CHOMP!
week: Booze! Gambling! Usury! Whores! Plus "a rash of violent deaths." "VIOLENCE! WANTON ACTS OF UNREPENTANT VIOLENCE AND GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul, squirming around with anticipatory delight upon his overstuffed armchair, for he received so little of the good stuff in this week's depressing installment. "They better pick up the pace! I don't know how many more boredom-induced comas my poor brain can take!" See you week!