In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description! Finished? Click here to close.
When a hapless babysitter in Alliance, Nebraska, scratches out her temporal lobe using nothing more than her Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails -- stylishly shellacked with Turquoise Glitter nail polish from Hot Topic, by the way, so I think it's safe to say Stephenie Meyer is down a fan -- Our Intrepid Heroes motor on over to Carhenge to figure out what's going on, and quickly find themselves in over their heads when other townspeople end up electrocuted by wind-up hand buzzers, shredding their own stomach linings thanks to heedless misapplications of Pop Rocks and Coke, and assaulted by a heavily bearded 350-pound transvestite Tooth Fairy. Fortunately, Sam's super-smarts kick in, and he realizes all of the bizarre incidents have been occurring within a two-mile radius of one little farmhouse, where they find some creepy little eleven-year-old latchkey kid named Anthony Freemont. Or something like that. Turns out Little Anthony honestly, genuinely believes that hand buzzers can kill you, and that mixing Pop Rocks and Coke will land you in the hospital, and that the Tooth Fairy is a heavily bearded 350-pound transvestite, and that prolonged exposure to Twilight forces you to rip your own brain out of your skull, and somehow, Little Anthony's beliefs have altered reality. Well, for everyone within a two-mile radius of his farmhouse, at least.
So, after Dean shaves the palm of his right hand (yes, you read that right), Our Dear Boys research Little Anthony's background and discover he'd been given up for adoption immediately after birth by a woman who neglected to list a father on the certificate. Uh oh. The boys track Birth Mom down to a hovel on the other side of the state and, long story short, learn her virginal self had been demonically enhanced for the full nine months preceding Little Anthony's arrival, though they can't figure out why a demon would want to possess a virgin just to get said virgin knocked up. Thank Heaven, then, for My Sweet Baboo, who flutters in with his angrily feathery hair to duuuuuh, "Half demon plus half human equals ANTICHRIST, MORONS!" and then the episode goes straight down the toilet when Our Intrepid Idiots decide that the best course of action in this situation would be to sit around for 87 hours debating the morality of offing an eleven-year-old. Who is THE ANTICHRIST, for God's sake.
And in the end, they stupidly allow Little Anthony to escape to Australia. Guess he's Russell Crowe's problem now.
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Rattle Rattle THEN! Our Intrepid Heroes loudly went their separate ways because Darling Sammy was having sex with a corpse for the better part of last season, but they quickly kissed and made up with each other -- after their own fashion, of course -- and are now ready to battle the multitudinous forces of Heaven and Hell together, or something like that. In other news, your faithful recapper is just loving these easily encapsulated THEN!s.
Slashy, Slashy NOW! The camera rises slowly over the back of a television as a location card reading "Alliance, Nebraska" appears at the bottom of the screen. A comely brunette who vaguely resembles Rose McGowan -- way back before Rose McGowan destroyed her face with a series of reckless plastic surgeries -- absolutely ruins her eyes by sitting on the floor all of six inches from the set, engrossed in what seems to be a cheap made-for-TV knockoff of Cujo. She absently reaches for a hairbrush and distractedly drags the thing through her dark tresses until she hears a series of thumping noises emanating from the closet at the far end of the night-darkened living room, and she rises to her feet to drift towards the source of the racket while calling out, "Jimmy?" The thumping continues as the camera lingers on her lovely Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails which, as I mentioned in the recaplet, have been shellacked with Turquoise Glitter polish from Hot Topic, which makes me wonder if she's Team Edward or Team Jacob, because only a brain-dead Twitard of the lowest order would even consider defacing a perfectly good set of Glamour Length Lee Press-On Nails with so loathsome a shade. "However!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon. "The unfortunate lass must be commended for her stylish French pedicure!" Raoul, your remarkable powers of observation have once again put mine to shame, for I completely missed that lingering shot of the imperiled maiden's bare feet. "Thanks!" Now would you hush up for a minute so I can get to the part where she claws out her own brain? "Oh, absolutely! It sounds tasty!" Perfect.
So, the imperiled maiden delicately steps towards the suspect closet and slides open the doors to find...a fat adolescent with a spear through his head! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul, foolishly writhing about atop his overstuffed armchair with misguided delight, for the fat adolescent has merely wrapped a wild-n-crazy fake arrow around his head. "Oh, I am ashamed!" Raoul blushes, burying his now crimson face in his exquisitely manicured paws. "How could I have fallen victim to so childish a prank?!" Don't worry too much about it, my scaly friend, because The Imperiled Maiden seems to have bought it, too. "Really!?" Well, no, actually -- I'm lying to you to make you feel better, because The Imperiled Maiden saw through the tubby little bastard's immature ruse immediately. "Rats!" Yep, she wastes not a moment on the stupid trick and instead hauls Fat Jimmy to his pudgy feet to chide him for ignoring her earlier order to go to bed. Fat Jimmy offers to head upstairs as previously instructed if The Imperiled Babysitter lets him cop a feel, and with that, Fat Jimmy has officially become the first of several children scattered throughout this evening's presentation who need to die, and die horribly at that. Unfortunately, rather than hacking his skull neatly in two with a meat cleaver for his disgusting advance, The Imperiled Babysitter merely shoos him upstairs before returning to her made-for-TV Cujo knockoff. As the rabid dog on the screen shoves its frantically yapping muzzle into the driver-side window, The Imperiled Babysitter suddenly hears an equally rabid dog frantically yapping its muzzle on the lawn below the house. She mutes the set's volume and warily rises once more to peer out the front window, but of course sees nothing.
Some lengthy period of time later, the television screen's filled with snow as the master and mistress of the manor return from their wild night out doing whatever the hell it is that yokels do for fun in the middle of an 1100-square-mile wasteland on the ass end of Nebraska. "Key parties?!" shrieks Raoul, trying to be helpful, and for once, I think you might be on to something there, friend of friends, though I'm not going to Google "Nebraska Panhandle Swingers Clubs" to confirm it. "Wise decision!" In any event, when the just-arriving lecherous rednecks spot The Imperiled Babysitter passed out on the living room sofa, the husband sends his bone-tired wife upstairs while he prepares to rouse "Amber" and drive her home. Hubby first whispers Imperiled Amber's name, then gently shakes her shoulder, but he receives no response, so he reaches down to, um, cop a feel, maybe? Beats the crap out of me, but like father, like son, I suppose. In any event, he reaches down and...shoves his fingers into a puddle of blood! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul, this time rightly writhing about upon his overstuffed armchair with justified delight, for when the increasingly horrified hubby pushes Formerly Imperiled And Now Dead Amber onto her back, her rapidly cooling ass leaves half its brain behind on the tasteful leather upholstery because something's clawed open the right side of her skull! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Screeching for his bone-tired wife, Horrified Hubby lets loose with an amusingly girly "FRAN-CEEEEEEEEN!" right before we hit the...
...SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul, still as taken with the fifth season's exploding bloodbag of a title card as he was when first he saw it back in September. Have you anything to add at this customary juncture, my impressively fanged companion? "I do not!" Excellent. Then I may continue with the recap? "Please do!"
The LYING LIARS WHO LIE introduce themselves as FBI Agents Page and Plant to the befuddled Box Butte County coroner, who's surprised they hauled their cookies all the way across the state into the middle of nowhere to view Amber Greer's corpse after her went through all the trouble of e-mailing a revised autopsy report that morning to the Omaha field office. "We, um, had server issues," the dapper Ginormotron LIES, so the befuddled coroner leads them over to the cooler where he rolls out Amber Greer's corpsicle and... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Oh, my. Those are some rather vivid head wounds, don't you think, Raoul? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" The largest is a gaping hole straddling what had been the hairline above her right eye... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" ...but there are at least three deep chevrons of grue... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" ...trailing down the side of her head and neck past her ear, along with several more superficial wounds dagged... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" ...through her skin at various points between the major gaps. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Enjoy it while you can, Raoul, because it's the last you'll be getting of the good stuff for quite some time this evening. "EEEEEEE--wait! What!? WHY?!" Hey, don't ask me. I just report, here. "Well, poop, I say! Poop!" Thank you for your considered opinion on the matter, friend of friends. "You're welcome!" May I continue? "Please do!" Fine.
Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yes: When the corpse first arrived at the morgue, the coroner's office was under the impression Unfortunate Amber had been mauled by some sort of wild dog, but upon closer inspection, they found one of Unfortunate Amber's unfortunately shellacked Glamour Length Lee Press-Ons embedded in her temporal lobe. Super-Smart Sammy immediately understands the implication, and squints, "Is that even possible?" Dim El Deano, far slower on the uptake, furrows his brow and guhs, "Wait. You're saying she did this to herself?" "Uh-huh!" the coroner nods, adding for good measure, "She scratched her brains out." Would that all Twitards did the same. Ignoring me, as is the wont of the tiny little people on the television set, the coroner explains, "It'd take hours, and it'd hurt like hell, but sure, it's possible." "How?" Dean blurts, still not believing it. "Pick your acronym," the coroner replies. "OCD, PCP, it all spells crazy." The coroner's best guess involves Unfortunate Amber suffering from a phantom itch of some sort and, in an amusing bit of business, once he describes the phenomenon and leaves, both of Our Intrepid Heroes start scratching at themselves uncontrollably. Far less amusing? I'm scratching at myself now, too. As is Raoul. "It won't go away!" he shrieks. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
An abrupt change of venue helps both of us immensely, as the camera leaps over to the scene of Unfortunate Amber's recent demise. "Speak for yourself! I can't stop scratching!" Okay, you need to stop raking your perfectly honed claws across your ass right in front of me, Raoul. Why don't you go fix yourself a nice flagon or ten? I'm sure their soothing effects will soon take care of your regrettable psychosomatic symptoms. "Good idea!" And while Raoul toddles his alcoholic behind back into his den, let's listen in as the LYING LIARS WHO LIE pepper the freaked-out yokels with questions regarding cold spots and sulphuric smells and such. Actually, on second thought, let's ignore all of those questions that Dapper Sam's asking and follow Dean as he snoops through the manor's first floor, as he soon stumbles across that tubby bag of putrescent adolescence from the evening, and although I still maintain last night's vile transgression against Unfortunate Amber should have resulted in a broken-off meat cleaver blade embedded in the vile child's head, the fat brat does offer us all a clue, and oh, gross. You'll have to excuse me for a moment while I vomit, for I've just noticed the slogan on lardbutt's t-shirt, here: "Take It Out & Play With It." "DEATH!" roars Raoul from the depths of his den, the various flagons clattering in their rack thanks to the vehemence of his outrage. "DEATH TO HIM WHO WOULD PURCHASE HIS T-SHIRTS FROM SPENCER'S GIFTS!" I can't say I disagree with Raoul's sentiment, but I really should push past our shared disgust to note the following: In addition to sexually harassing Unfortunate Amber, Jimmy The Hutt sprinkled itching powder on Unfortunate Amber's hairbrush. DUN!
"There is no way itching powder made that girl scratch her brains out!" Dapper Sammy insists as the boys head back to the Impala. "It's just ground-up maple seeds!" Dean's about to unleash a witty retort, I'm sure, but they're interrupted by the chirping of Sam's cell phone. His eyes widen a bit as he listens to the never-heard voice on the other end, and he quickly agrees, "We'll be right there!" Our Intrepid Heroes embark, and Metallicar grumbles off to...
...Box Butte General Hospital, where orderlies are just now zipping a body bag shut over the crispy corpse of yet another unfortunate yokel under the watchful eye of the county coroner. The LYING LIARS WHO LIE arrive to wonder what gives, and the coroner explains, "Guy got electrocuted." So far, they haven't found the bit of electrical equipment responsible for the fatal zapping, but there is a witness. Unfortunately, Old Mr. Stanley here is just a tad senile, so "He's not making a lick of sense," and you'll pardon me for halting the action yet again, but this needs to be said: Only Bobby Singer is allowed to deploy that particular locution, Kripke. You start having everyone on this goddamned show muttering about "licks" of this and "licks" of that, and they'll all sound like mouthbreathing morons. ANY-way, The Dapper Ginormotron Antichrist and The Stumpy Little Bow-Legged Lamb Of God shrug off the coroner's warning and sidle on over to the muddled old coot to beat a confession out of him, or something like that, but surprisingly enough, Old Mr. Stanley starts tattling on himself with no need for prompting on the part of Our Intrepid Heroes. "It was just a joke," he protests weakly, "I didn't know it would really work." "All I did was shake his hand!" he explains, opening his palm to reveal...a joy buzzer? Our Intrepid Heroes are as puzzled as I, and quickly repair to...
...this week's motel room, where they suit up with welding goggles and enormous non-conductive rubber gloves to test the evil joy buzzer on a giant ham. Heh. Dean jams the buzzer's business end into the raw meat, and within seven seconds, he's got himself a tasty roast. "What the hell?" Sam breathes, pulling off his goggles. "That stuff isn't supposed to work!" "This thing doesn't even have batteries," Dean officially reminds Sam, but he's actually really reminding everyone in the audience, because let's face it: When's the last time any of you saw a joy buzzer? While Dean proceeds to shovel slices of freshly cooked ham into his mouth, the boys bang their heads together and suppose they're dealing with objects cursed by "some powerful witch in town." Fortunately for the purposes of their investigation, both the fatal itching powder and the evil joy buzzer were purchased at the same store, so after Dean packs his pockets with delicious ham, Our Intrepid Heroes head on over to...
...The Conjurarium, which carries the impressive-looking motto "Validus Veneficus Hic," which roughly translates as "MY MAGICK ROOOLZ UR MAGICK DROOOLZ!!!!!!1!!!!11!" Dean's overjoyed to find whoopee cushions in stock, because he is twelve, and because that fact will become important later in the episode. In the meantime, The Conjurarium's somewhat pompously mannered and Canadian-accented owner emerges from the back of the shop to introduce himself. He's sporting high-waisted dad jeans under a carefully tucked Siegfried And Roy t-shirt, and while the existence of each item of clothing can certainly be attributed to the demonically foul influence of Satan himself upon the earth, the overall effect tends more to indicate extreme dweebishness in their owner rather than the extreme wickedness Sam and Dean are looking for, so it's little surprise when we discover he's not the powerful witch the boys suspect him to be, which occurs when Dashing El Deano electrocutes a rubber chicken on the shop's counter with the evil joy buzzer. The Conjurarium's owner emits a terrified squawk and collapses to the floor in a comically exaggerated swoon over the sight of so much melted chicken, so Our Intrepid Heroes splutter profuse apologies before beating a hasty retreat, and that poor schmuck's never going to get that damn rubber off his counter, ever. Sam and Dean can be real assholes sometimes. "I agree!"
Raoul! You've got to stop sneaking up on me like that! "My apologies, I'm sure! [Slurp!] Flagon?!" Not just yet, thanks, but I do believe you chose an excellent moment to return. "My timing is propitious!?" We'll go with that. "How so?! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] Do tell!" Well, if you'd shut that gaping maw of yours for one second, I'd oblige you. "Thanks most sincerely, I'm sure! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]" Rrrrgh. So, we've cut to a pricey-looking low-slung late-model suburban home much later that evening, and once the camera's scuttled inside, we join a thirtysomething Canadian-accented gentleman as he states, "I'll just slip this tooth under your pillow, and while you're asleep, The Tooth Fairy will float down and swap it out for a quarter!" "Eeeek!" shrieks Raoul, nearly bobbling his flagon all over the carpet as he leaps up in his overstuffed armchair, afflicted with a sudden and severe case of fright, for the thirtysomething Canadian-accented gentleman has actually been addressing his preadolescent nightmare of a little girl. "I can't bear to watch! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!] Why must they do this to me?!" Buck up, friend of friends, for her scene is brief. "Oh, thank heavens! [ Slurp! Skritchy-Skritchy! Slurp! Slurp!]" In any event, the demon child is less than enthused with her father's proposed course of action. "So some freak is gonna come in my room while I'm sleeping and take my tooth? Sounds scary. No, thank you!" Precocious little snotrag. "Eeeek!" The father places the tooth beneath her pillow anyway, tucks her in, shuts off the light, and leaves. The foul little precocious snotrag flops around beneath the covers to stare at the creepy fairy mobile dangling above her bed for a very long moment, and the thing we know, the Hell-sent wretch is tippy-toeing into her slumbering father's bedroom, where she surreptitiously places the tooth beneath his pillow, and there is no way this situation is going to end well for anyone involved. "You mean!?" I do. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Later that night, the thirtysomething Canadian-accented gentleman rolls onto his back, making it easier for...a thick, wrinkly hand to clap itself over his mouth! DUN! The shot reverses to give us the thirtysomething Canadian-accented gentleman's perspective of things, and he's staring up in shock at some middle-aged meathead who looks exactly like the late, great Captain Lou Albano, if the late, great Captain Lou Albano had had a thing for frilly pink tutus, gigantic sparkly fairy wings, and dainty little tiaras. Hee. Not as good as the suicidal teddy bear, but it'll do. "Hold still," The Hairy Fairy rasps, pulling an enormous pair of pliers from the folds of his frilly pink tutu before warning, "You might feel just a little pinch!" "VIOLENCE!" howls Raoul, having long overcome his earlier scare. "WANTON ACTS OF UNREPENTANT DENTALLY INCORRECT VIOLENCE AND GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" And with that, The Hairy Fairy twists and tugs and swivels and yanks the first of the by-now-screaming thirtysomething Canadian-accented gentleman's teeth right into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!
Box Butte General Hospital, the following morning. Sam's just finishing up interviewing last night's dad, who's lying in bed with his jaws swollen out to Jesus. Out in the hall, Dean's just finishing up an interview of his own with perky young Nurse Fremont, and the two boys gather together for a processing summit. With regard to the case of last night's dad, whatever it was that attacked him made it through bolted doors and windows without triggering the house's alarm system, and furthermore, "it left 32 quarters underneath his pillow, one for each tooth." Dean will see Sam's Hairy Fairy and raise him a couple of urban legends: There are two kids up in the pediatrics unit with stomach ulcers they claim they developed after mixing Pop Rocks and Coke, plus another guy whose "face froze that way." Sam's all, "What way?" so Dean demonstrates thusly: GLAAARRARAAAGH. Yes, I'm cheating by using a screencap, but seriously, how the hell am I supposed to describe that face? "As asinine, perhaps?!" Drink your juice, Raoul. "Thanks! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Dean puts a halt to the torture of The Ducky Lips and allows his eyes to settle back into place before elaborating, "He, uh, held it too long, and it stuck. They're flying out a plastic surgeon." Hee. Sam looks adorably freaked out and perplexed by Dean's entire explanation, then shakes himself out to apply some of his super-smarts to the situation. Unfortunately, his super-smarts fail him, so the two are left to wander through the hospital hallways, with Dean off-handedly remembering he believed in Sea-Monkeys back when he was six years old, and proposing that recent events in Alliance appear to have similar roots: "The Tooth Fairy, the Pop Rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you -- they're all lies that kids believe." Sam rolls his eyes when he realizes that anything that could warp reality in such a fashion must have the powers of a god, specifically The Trickster. "With the sense of humor of a nine-year-old," Dean adds. "Or you," Sam bitchfaces. Heh.
Back at this week's motel room, Sam enters from a bout of frenetic research to find Dean sloppily stuffing yet another ham sandwich into his gob with his left hand, and from the looks of what's still on the bone, he's inhaled at least ten pounds of meat in less than twenty-four hours. "Dirty!" Oh, knock it off, Raoul. "Hee! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]" In any event, when Sam protests, "Dude, seriously, still with the ham?" Dean counters by mumbling with his mouth full, "We don't have a fridge!" Ha! Sam slaps a heavily modified map of Alliance down on the table so The Kripkeeper doesn't get sued by actual unsuspecting local residents who would otherwise awake tomorrow morning to find batshit Supernatural fangirls camping on their front lawns, and notes that all of the recent bizarre incidents occurred within a two-mile radius of a nonexistent farmhouse just east of Alliance proper, and seriously, do not drive out there to see it, because the spot on Sam's map is just a boring little dreary wheat field in the real world, and besides: Carhenge. Depraved El Deano considers the results of Darling Sammy's most fruitful research and asks, "Our motel isn't in that [two-mile] circle, by any chance?" Sam's all, "Yeah. Why?" Dean silently raises his right palm, which is covered in hair. "FILTHY!" shrieks Raoul, and for once, I'm not arguing with the dizzy lizard. "You know you can go blind from that, too!" Sam prisses, and don't go getting all judgy there, Mr. Casa Erotica IV. Dean heads off to the bathroom to -- let me make sure you understand this -- SHAVE THE PALM OF HIS HAND, and at the last moment, Sam's super-smarts kick in and he yells, "Hey! Do not use my razor!" The smirk on Depraved El Deano's face indicates he's going to be using Darling Sammy's razor anyway.
Farmhouse Of The Damned. Ooops! Spoiler! "Hee! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] You naughty boy!" Metallicar grumbles on up to the front of the house, and Our Intrepid Perverts disembark to climb the front steps, with Dean pointedly adjusting Princess Sparkle's Knife That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't in his belt. Sam bends down, and down, and down, and down and down and down and down and down and down and down to pick the lock, and is quite surprised when this evening's third Satanic child casually opens the door in front of him. The LYING LIARS WHO LIE, again masquerading as FBI agents, attempt to sweet-talk the brat, but this "Jesse" person's surprisingly cagey, so they flash their badges and formally request entry. After a moment, Jesse allows them in, and leads them back to the kitchen, where he'd been heating up some soup for himself as an after-school snack, as both of his parents work. Only, you know, Jesse's incredibly snotty about explaining the entire situation, so he can drop fucking dead anytime he feels like it. "I concur! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]" Thanks for backing me up, there, Raoul. "Not a problem, I'm sure! Please continue!" As you wish. So, Dean notices a bit of childish so-called "art" affixed to the refrigerator, and it is of course a depiction of Captain Lou Albano as The Hairy Fairy, whom Jesse still believes in despite his peevish claim that he's not a kid anymore, so Dean wisely thinks to ask, "What do you know about itching powder?" "That stuff'll make you scratch your brains out!" Jesse promptly replies. Pop Rocks and Coke? "Mix 'em, and you'll end up in the hospital!" Dean draws the evil joy buzzer from his pants, and it's really not as filthy as it sounds, but the foul latchkey urchin's response is relatively violent nonetheless. "You shouldn't have that!" Jesse whines. "It can electrocute you!" Dean patiently explains that joy buzzers cannot, in fact, electrocute people, because they're just cheaply made, harmless wind-up toys. "Oh," Jesse replies, staring at the thing. "Okay." "All it does is shake in your hand," Dean continues. "See?" And with that, he drives the business end of the thing into Darling Sammy's remarkably healthy chest. Sam leaps about eight feet into the air and hangs there, flailing around a bit before realizing the evil joy buzzer's now as harmless as Dean promised it would be, so he settles down into a bitchface of absolutely epic proportions. Hee. Dean reintroduces himself to the scrappy little delinquent, and we enter the second commercial break of the episode most woefully CHOMP!-less.
Out on the farmhouse's walk, Darling Sammy bitches Dashing El Deano out for almost possibly potentially frying his otherwise remarkably healthy ass, and then the two explicitly spell out what we all just learned about Jesse for the benefit of the stupid in the audience. They wave goodbye to the petulant urchin, who's watching them go from the second-floor window, then motor off to figure out what the hell is going on in Western Nebraska.
A bit later, Sam interrupts Dean's research back at this week's motel room to share the following information: Jesse Turner was adopted, and though the urchin's birth records are sealed, Sly Sammy was able to determine that his biological mother is a certain Julia Wright, who now lives in Elk Creek on the opposite end of the state. The boys step outside to climb into the Impala, and Dean steers Metallicar directly into The Jesus Wormhole in order to emerge mere seconds later...
...on the other side of Nebraska, where they hack their way through some wild underbrush in order to reach the porch of a poorly maintained farmhouse that features at least four deadbolts on the front door. The LYING LIARS WHO LIE ring the bell, introduce themselves via the peephole, then oblige the paranoid lunatic inside by passing their fake FBI badges through the mail slot upon her request. Apparently satisfied with the IDs, the paranoid lunatic takes a lengthy period of time to unlock the door, then cracks it open to reveal herself to be a tired-looking thirtysomething with limp bleach-blonde hair and an absolutely tragic sense of fashion. "It's depressing!" Raoul agrees. "[Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" This would be Julia Wright, who at first flat-out denies having ever given birth to anyone when the LYING LIARS press that line of inquiry, but as Darling Sammy will not be deterred, and as he unleashes The Super-Special Puppy-Dog Eyes Of Compassionate Commiseration And Doom, Julia Wright has little choice but to admit she did, indeed, give birth to a baby boy on March 29, 1998, in Omaha. However, when the LYING LIARS ask if there was anything unusual about the pregnancy, Crazy Julia freaks out and barrels towards the back of her house, with Our Intrepid Heroes hot on her heels. She tries to lock herself in the pantry, but the boys are too fast for her, and they barge in just in time to...get sprinkled with table salt? "You're not demons?" Crazy Julia gasps. "How do you know about demons?" Dean growls.
A few minutes later, Our Intrepid Heroes plus Crazy Julia have arranged themselves around the kitchen table for several small cups of soothing herbal tea and one massive tale of misery and woe. There follows an effectively creepy sequence that keeps cross-cutting between Crazy Julia and her wildly darting eyes in the present as she offers the boys what she has to say and flashbacks to the night in question eleven and a half years ago. I must note I do like the way Ever Carradine's playing both Present Crazy Julia and Past Possessed Julia, but what it all boils down to is this: Suddenly, in 1997, she found herself both demonically enhanced and knocked up even though she'd been a virgin up until the very instant of her possession, and nine months later, she gave birth to Jesse in a squalid hardware store basement. Fortunately, her human self, despite being buried deep within her demonically enhanced body, had managed to pick up a few tricks of the hunters' trade, and the moment her body expelled the Satanic infant from its uterus, she somehow -- likely thanks to the searing pain of unmedicated childbirth, I'm guessing -- regained control of herself long enough to shovel handfuls of road salt into her mouth. The Hell-sent minion instantly vacated the premises, borne aloft upon a cloud of bitterly black demonic goo, and while her initial impulse was to slaughter the Satanic infant, she totally wimped the fuck out and gave the hateful little thing up for adoption. By the way, just to make sure everyone understands, the reason she neglected to include a father's name on the birth certificate is because there was no father, which makes her, like, quintuply stupid for not slaughtering the fiendish imp when she had the chance, because, I mean, come on! A Virgin Birth while demonically enhanced? How can that be anything but awful, you idiot? "I must admit!" admits Raoul. "It does seem just a tad foolish on her part, indeed!" Have another flagon, Raoul. "Thanks! I believe I shall! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]"
The boys exit, and on their way down the front steps, Sam sighs, "Now what?' Well, I'm no expert in these things, but I believe the first thing you should do is slaughter the goddamned demonic latchkey urchin, GENIUS. Dim Dean, however, because he is dumb, suggests they call for backup, so by the time Our Intrepid Nimrods arrive back in Alliance...
...My Sweet Baboo is waiting for them in this week's motel room. "Hel-loooooo, Castiel!" Raoul shrieks, waving madly at the television screen. "Spiffy haircut, I must say! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" "It's lucky you found the boy," My Sweet Baboo opens, rudely ignoring Raoul's generous compliment. "Real lucky," Dean harrumphs before wondering, "What do we do with him?" "Kill him," Castiel immediately replies, which is why I love him so much. Our Intrepid Nitwits attempt to argue, but Castiel shuts them down with, "This child is half-human and half-demon, but it's far more powerful than either," and I wasn't aware that humans had any kind of special powers, but like I said above, I'm no expert in these things, so whatever. Just kill him already. My Sweet Baboo explains that "other cultures" have a variety of names for creatures as foul as the demonic latchkey urchin, including "Cambion" and some other word I don't feel like looking up, but we all know the thing as "The Antichrist," and there goes one of my nicknames for The Ginormotron. And then? Castiel sits on a whoopee cushion. And the unpleasant sound effects drag on for a full ten seconds of screentime, after which My Majestic Baboo regally states, "That wasn't me," before getting back to the business at hand, and as I've never been the biggest fan of fart jokes, I'll keep this recap moving, shall I? "[Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!] You shall! [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Raoul, you're going to scratch your damn ass off if you keep that up. Did you not watch the opening scene? "I can't help it! It's driving me absolutely mental! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Oh, whatever. In any event, My Sweet Baboo dumps a load of expository blather into our collective lap at this point, so let me see if I can keep it all straight: The Demonic Urchin, despite what our all-too-frequently incorrect Bible would have us believe, is not, in fact, Satan's child. He's merely the offspring of a demon and a human, but as such, he's the most powerful weapon in Lucifer's arsenal. He's cooling his heels in Western Nebraska at the moment only because Lucifer's minions lost track of him when Crazy Julia expelled her demonic impregnator shortly after the fiend's birth, and The Demonic Urchin's natural powers keep him cloaked from both hosts, Heavenly and Hellish. Those natural powers, for the most part, remained dormant while Lucifer was still in chains, but now that he's risen -- thanks, boys! -- The Demonic Urchin increases in strength with each passing day, which is why Alliance hasn't been experiencing mind-warping events every day for the last eleven and a half years, and also why the current plague is restricted to a two-mile radius around Jesse's house. However, as he gets stronger, The Demonic Urchin's exploits will eventually override the cloaking, and it's at that moment that Lucifer's minions will pounce on him. Once that happens, and once The Demonic Urchin has been "twisted" to Lucifer's purpose, the thing'll be able to vanquish The Host Of Heaven with one word. Needless to say, this prospect troubles My Sweet Baboo, and so... "DEATH!" Raoul rather agreeably howls. "DEATH TO HIM WHO WOULD HARM THE SPIFFY HAIRCUT! Hee! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]"
Of course, Our Intrepid Blockheads protest that they can't kill children on primetime TV and still remain sympathetic protagonists to the women who make up the overwhelming bulk of this show's mouthiest audience segment online, so My Sweet Baboo gets all adorably smitey. Well, loud, at least, most awesomely so when Stupid Sammy suggests they lay it all out for the kid -- Lucifer, The Apocalypse, the fiend's own status as The Antichrist -- and trust that the kid "might make the right choice." Castiel growls, "You didn't!" FACE! IN YOUR FACE, YOU BLOODSUCKING CORPSE FUCKER! A-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAAAAAA! "Demian!" KILL THE ANTICHRIST! KILL HIM! KILL HIM DEAD! "Demian!" WHAT? "I do apologize, I'm sure! But you seem most unhinged at the moment! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] Flagon?!" No, no, I'll be fine -- it's just that they've established what a threat to the world that stupid little brat is with fourteen and a half minutes of show time left in the episode, and we know these two idiots won't actually kill the stupid little brat because You Can't Kill Children On Primetime Television, so it means we've got to slog through fourteen and a half GODDAMNED minutes of these two IDIOTS moping around while NOT KILLING THE ANTICHRIST LIKE THEY SHOULD BECAUSE FOR CHRIST'S SAKE IT'S THE GODDAMNED ANTICHRIST AND KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL THE ANTICHRIST KILL THE ANTICHRIST DEAD.
On second thought, maybe you better hold a flagon in reserve for me. I might need it. "Done! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]"
Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: My Sweet Baboo and his angrily feathery hair flutter away off screen, leaving Totally FACED! Sammy to seethe, "Dammit." !
Crazy Julia's House Of Crazy. The lady of the manor exits after night has fallen, and starts when her friendly neighborhood nighttime mailman pops up to ask how she's doing. Crazy Julia, because she is as stupid as everyone else on this show at the moment -- except for Castiel, of course -- does not fly screaming back into her House Of Crazy at the sight of a nighttime mailman, but instead engages him in conversation until...his eyes flip beetle black! Dun-dun-DUUUUUH! Seems the friendly neighborhood nighttime mailman's been demonically enhanced by the same Satanic minion who knocked her up over the July 4th holiday weekend twelve years ago, and has been hiding near her home ever since, waiting for the day when someone would drop by with news of their bastard Satanic lovechild. Crazy Julia opens her mouth to scream, but that of course simply makes it easier for the thing within the friendly neighborhood nighttime mailman to transfer from his body to hers, and once Crazy Julia's been demonically reenhanced, the friendly neighborhood nighttime mailman keels over dead, Crazy Julia's eyes flip beetle black, and we head...
...back to Alliance, where the well water apparently sucks, because The Antichrist's family uses an Oasis® Brand Bottled Water Cooler. Buy or lease one today! The Antichrist totes Its glass of Oasis® Brand Bottled Water Cooler water into the living room, where It finds...My Sweet Baboo, ready to kill It! HOORAY! The Antichrist drops Its glass of Oasis® Brand Bottled Water Cooler water to the floor, where the thing shatters against the boards as The Antichrist backs slowly away from Castiel, who advances just as slowly upon It with soothing words and phrases like, "Don't be afraid!" and "I won't hurt you!" and "Your parents will be asleep for a very long time!" and "Ignore The Knife That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't that I've got behind my back!" and "DIE!" Castiel lunges, but the camera cuts away at the last instant to the front door, where Our Intrepid Fatheads are just now booting their way through the wood, asking if anyone's seen a smoldering gentleman in a trenchcoat. The Antichrist looks down. Our Intrepid Imbeciles follow The Antichrist's eyes to the floor where they find...My Sweet Baboo transformed into a Knife-wielding plastic action figure! D'OH! Our Intrepid Ninnies gape in horror and dismay for a lengthy period of time until the METAL TEETH CHOMP! bites their damn fool heads off. Meanwhile, the entire audience wonders why Knife-wielding Castiel action figures are not on sale right this very instant. "I'd buy one! [Slurp!] [Hic!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] Oh, my!"
Lair Of The Antichrist. Aftermath. Dean carefully places the enviable Castiel® Brand Celestial Sweetheart Action Figure With Super-Special Glow-In-The-Dark Knife That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't Stabby Hands on The Lair's mantel while The Antichrist s-l-o-w-l-y realizes It turned My Sweet Baboo into a toy. An awesome toy, but a toy nonetheless. Dean LIES that this obviously means The Antichrist is a superhero, like Superman or one of The X-People. The Antichrist, despite being all-powerful, is a dumbass, so It buys it. Dean further LIES that he and Sam are Extra-Special Agents with the FBI, tasked with finding dumbasses like The Antichrist to assist in The War On Terror, or some such bullshit, so it's very fortunate indeed that Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia invades The Lair Of The Antichrist at this very moment to pin both of Our Intrepid Halfwits to the wall with a burst of telekinetic mojo, and oh, crap! Now we have to listen to Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia speechify for the three thousand years. JUST KILL IT ALREADY. KILL THE ANTICHRIST. "Flagon?!" Not yet, friend of friends. I'm almost done. "Okay! [Hic!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!] Whee!"
In any event, the only awesome bit is the fact that we learn Lucifer's minions are under strict orders not to damage Darling Sammy, but the stumpy little bow-legged midget? Totally fair game. So, Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia keeps biffing Increasingly Damaged El Deano back and forth and back and forth between the walls on either side of the room until The Buzzkill Antichrist orders her to stop. Of course, because The Buzzkill Antichrist is all-powerful and shit, she does, and then it gets talky up in here, with Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia telling Buzzkill that everyone It knows is a LYING LIAR WHO LIES, most especially Its parents, who LIED about, um, being Its parents, I guess, and most especially especially Our Intrepid Dolts, who LIED about, oh, everything else. Then The Antichrist mentally Hulks out and goes all Carrie and Firestarter at the same time. Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia cackles with glee as The Lair Of The Antichrist threatens to crumble around the quartet's ears, and just as everything's about to go to hell, Stupid Sammy calls out to confess that yes, he and his brother did lie to The Antichrist, but now he wants to tell It the truth. Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia violates her boss's direct orders by twisting a telekinetic fist around in the air and joy! O Rapture! We have entered the weekly If It's Thursday, Then Sam's Getting Choked portion of this evening's festivities! "Wheeeeeee! [Hic!] [ Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Of course, The Buzzkill Antichrist quickly calls a halt to all of that, because The Buzzkill Antichrist hates the entire world. Stupid Sammy drops to the floor and starts in with his psychobabble truth-telling bullshit that My Sweet Baboo already called him on earlier in the episode, so I'll be keeping this brief: Sam tells The Antichrist the truth, and The Antichrist orders the demon out of Its birth mother. Once the demon's gone, Dean drops to the floor as well, and through his gasping and panting and spluttering and whatnot, he manages to enthuse, "Kid, you're awesome!" at The Antichrist, because Dean apparently suffered from severe lack of oxygen during his late ordeal, and he's now even stupider than ever before thanks to the billions of brain cells Demonically Reenhanced Crazy Julia managed to destroy inside his skull. And then they all vanish into the final commercial break with nary a METAL TEETH CHOMP! in sight, because even The Kripkeeper hates the entire world, too.
The Lair Of The Antichrist. Aftermath. Again. Some more. Crazy Julia's alive and unconscious, but nobody gives a rat's ass about her, so let's talk about the enviable Castiel® Brand Celestial Sweetheart Action Figure With Super-Special Glow-In-The-Dark Knife That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't Stabby Hands which, although it dropped to the floor during the late telekinetic scuffle, is entirely intact. Thank God. Dean tries to convince The Antichrist to restore his angelic boyfriend to Castiel's regular size and flexibility, but The Buzzkill Antichrist nixes that idea in favor of some more speechifying, or something like that. WHY ISN'T IT DEAD YET? WHYYYYYYYYYYY? Long story short, Our Intrepid Pinheads DO NOT KILL THE ANTICHRIST ALREADY and instead warn that should The Buzzkill Antichrist choose fight on their side, Its life will suck and Its parents will die. The Antichrist considers this for a moment, then asks if It can go say goodbye to Its adoptive mother and father. Our Intrepid Shitheads DO NOT KILL THE ANTICHRIST ALREADY and instead send It upstairs where...
...The Antichrist stares at Its sleeping adoptive parents for a very long period of time before turning to scamper into Its room, where It crawls upon Its bed to stare at a poster of some surfer dude in Australia for another very long period of time. "I'm [Hic!] booooooooooooored! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]" You and me both, Raoul. You and me both.
"He's been up there a long time," Dim Dean finally -- finally -- realizes downstairs, so The Idiots race to the second floor where they find...absolutely nothing at all! DUN! "He's gone," My Gloriously Restored Baboo announces from the hall. He doesn't know where The Antichrist went, but Castiel somehow can sense that before It left, It put all the good folk of Alliance back to normal again -- except, of course, for the ones who were already dead. Ooops. Sam finds a note in which It apologizes for everything It did, but you know what? The Antichrist can roll Its little apologetic note up real tight and cram it, because if I were in charge of things, THE ANTICHRIST WOULD BE DEAD NOW, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DEAD. D-E-A-D, DEAD! As things stand, however, It's apparently Australia's problem now, so fuck it.
And in the end, The Morons try to convince themselves that their worthless bastard of a so-called father wasn't so bad after all. Or maybe they tried to convince themselves that their worthless bastard of a so-called father was even worse than they remembered. I can't remember. And you know what? I don't care, because I do not care about Sucky John now, more than three years after he met his glorious demise, and I especially do not care about Sucky John now, more than three years after he met his glorious demise, after HIS IDIOT SPAWN DID NOT KILL THE GODDAMNED ANTICHRIST. JESUS!
Supernatural's taking Thursday, October 22nd, off for some bizarre reason, and they'll be reairing "Sympathy For The Devil" that evening. The new episode hits on October 29th, and I believe it involves an Elderly El Deano who's not one-twentieth as attractive as the Youthful El Deano we all know and love. So, you know. Interesting! Raoul? "[Hic!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] Yes?! [ Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [Hic!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Flagon! "Wheeeeee!" And, Raoul? "[Hic!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!] Yes!? [ Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" STOP SCRATCHING YOUR ASS. "Hee!"
Demian is certain you make the worst possible decisions, always. Raoul is scratching his ass. You may reach the former at demian_twop@yahoo.com. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon currently under house arrest on the Internet.