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When a high-end camper meets a gruesome end in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, Our Intrepid Heroes plus Bobby make the trek to Atlantic County to investigate. They're hobbled at first by Bobby's insistence that they remain entirely off the grid for the duration of the investigation, and the fetid squalor they find themselves living in once they set up shop in a long-abandoned farmhouse sends Dreary El Deano spiraling into depression, but once they don their FBI drag and head to the nearest Biggerson's to interrogate the chief ranger assigned to Wharton State Forest, Dean perks up considerably -- especially after he inhales one of Biggerson's new, limited-time-only Pepperjack Turducken Slammers.
But first things first: Ranger Rick, as he likes to call himself, ends up being of little use to their investigation, partly because the guy just doesn't have that much information to offer the boys, but mainly because he seems to be perpetually stoned. Sam, Dean, and Bobby nevertheless trek out into the woods, where they quickly find the drippy remains of one of Ranger Rick's colleagues. Ranger Rick himself gets chomped on by the first commercial break, but luckily enough, Bobby manages to shoot Ranger Rick's attacker and, after they've dragged the corpse back to that long-abandoned farmhouse, the low-rent autopsy they perform on the remains reveals the creature's not the Jersey Devil at all, but rather a radically altered local who went missing shortly before all of the subsequent attacks and disappearances started hitting the papers.
The three head back to Biggerson's, where it soon becomes apparent that there's something in the chain's new, limited-time-only Pepperjack Turducken Slammers that's turning a few rare customers into flesh-eating psycho zombies while rendering the majority of the restaurant's remaining patrons a little sluggish. Stoned, you might say. Like Doped-Up El Deano, in fact. So, after a quick Dean detox that seems to involve little more than copious amounts of caffeine, Our Intrepid Heroes plus Bobby stake out Biggerson's loading dock, follow a supply truck back to its source, and uncover a vast Leviathan conspiracy to drug the United States population into complacency via fast food. Yeah, you can tell it's a Ben Edlund episode right there. Hippie weirdo.
Anyway, this of course means the return of Leviathan Dick, who with his minions quickly captures Bobby thanks in large part to the latter's stupidity while casing the headquarters of Richard Roman Enterprises -- a huge multinational that happens to have its base in middle-of-nowhere Hammonton, because of course. In any event, Bobby doesn't learn much during his brief stay in captivity, and when Sam and Dean bust in to hose everything down with borax, it looks like the three might make a clean getaway. You know, so to speak. Unfortunately, it turns out Dick's quite tricky with a revolver, and the episode ends with a bullet in Bobby's brain. DUN!
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN! Lemme see: The Leviathans, led by one of their own currently in the form of a gentleman named Dick Roman, are unkillable. Oh, and Our Intrepid Heroes have Issues. Did I get everything? "I believe you did!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, who appears to be wide awake for this evening's impending festivities. You think you're gonna stay that way, my scaly friend? "Hee!" titters Raoul, bringing a coy yet impeccably manicured paw up to his impressively fanged maw. "We shall see! [Giggle!] It's a mystery!" That's one thing you can call it, I guess. "Onwards!" As you wish.
Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! Things get all Animal Cam up in here the instant the dripping is done, as we tag along through the underbrush with some feral-sounding, hyperventilating beastie who stops just on the edge of a clearing, within which it spies a late-model hatchback parked to a white tent. We then abandon the beastie and his Animal Cam for the moment in favor of examining the campsite's noisily chugging generator, and as we inch along the ground, following the power cord from generator to tent, the just-appearing location card informs us we've landed in "Wharton State Forest, The Pine Barrens, New Jersey." "Eeeek! What was that?!" Oh, I'm sorry, Raoul -- I should have warned you about that last link. "Apology accepted! But I repeat: What was that!?" You don't want to know. "Okay!" Well, that was easy. So, should I continue? "Please do!" Excellent.
We eventually creep up to the tent's windows, and the place is not so much a simple camping tent as it is a portable cabin, complete with night tables, lamps, a TV with what appears to be a small stereo system, and a pair of leathery-faced fortysomethings in matching track suits sprawled across the top of a king-size sleigh bed, each tightly wrapped in a silvery, cocoon-like sleeping bag. The female of the pair switches off the television set via her remote, and after the male of the pair kisses her goodnight, we...
...get another brief burst of the Animal Cam before...
...rejoining the gentleman as he stretches to switch off his bedside light, after which he activates his iPod, encases himself further within the depths of his silvery cocoon, and closes his eyes to drift off to Volume Four of Nature Sounds' Sounds Of Nature, which the mellow narrator informs us is entitled "Soothing Seas." Seagulls erupt on the soundtrack as everything slowly fades to black.
And then everything just as slowly fades back into focus so the camera might pan up the slumbering gentleman's sleeping bag to land on his face, after which it gently rotates to reveal he's been suspended upside-down in a tree. D'OH! "What the hell?" the gentleman of course grunts upon awakening, and as he tries to squirm his way out of his tight cocoon, forest noises erupt from the treetop high above his bound feet. "Leanne!" this evening's first bit of Monster Chow bellows, presumably calling for his wife, but he shouldn't have bothered, for the Animal Cam is now upon him, slowly devouring downwards. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Don't get too excited, hon. "Really?!" Really, 'cause just when we think we're going to get treated to some of the good stuff, the shot discreetly hops down to the ground below, where it captures only a few stray, shredded scraps of bloodstained sleeping bag as they drift down into the dirt. "Oh, poop!" I sympathize with your disappointment, my scaly friend, but...wait a minute! "What!?" Could it be? "What?!" It is! "WHAT!?" At the last instant, the iPod drops into view with one of the buds still attached to the guy's ear! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Oh, I'm so happy they managed to come through for you, Raoul. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" And as Raoul writhes about atop his overstuffed armchair, shrieking with delight, the lovely scene vanishes amid the onslaught of this evening's...
...SNOT ROCKET! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I don't think Raoul has anything to add at this juncture. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" So, I'll just keep going? "EEEEEEEEEEEEEAR!" All-righty, then:
A pair of jumper cables tumble down into view as yet another just-appearing location card informs us we've arrived in Hammonton, New Jersey, which is apparently The Blueberry Capital Of The World. Just so you know. In any event, those jumper cables are dangling in an obviously long-disused stairwell, and Darling Sammy presently appears to snatch at them while calling out, "You strip enough wire?" Elsewhere in the abandoned farmhouse Our Intrepid Heroes are currently calling home, Dashing El Deano testily replies, "Yes, I stripped enough wire!" He's standing in front of a fuse box, and when Sam attaches the crocodile clips to the appropriate bits of the thing, sparks flash, and the lights around them blink on. Bobby joins them from outdoors with a cooler and some additional equipment, and as they settle themselves around a decrepit dinner table in front of a blazing fire, Dean proceeds to bitch about their current shelter situation. "Weeks!" he moans. "Weeks, we've been living with cold showers, cold Hot Pockets, cold freaking everything!" "This is the bottom," he emphasizes. "You guys get that, right?" Bobby does indeed get that, thank you very much, but as "the big mouths are out there, running card traces," he's determined to take "a page out of Frank Devereaux's bible" and remain off the grid for as long as possible.
Naturally, it's at this point that the fuse box blows, plunging them all into darkness for a moment until Sam fires up the handy Coleman lantern they've brought along for just such a contingency, and allowing Dean to ramp up his bitchery like so: "This is stupid!" No comment. "Our quality of life is crap!" he continues. "We got Purgatory's Least Wanted everywhere, and we're on our third 'The World's Screwed' issue in, what, three years? We steered the bus away from the cliff twice already!" Which is why you all should have called it quits after Season Five, hon. Dude, seriously: Do not come looking to me for sympathy on this one. Idiots. Darling Sammy ignores me, as is his depressing wont, to primly point out, "Someone's got to do it." "What if the bus wants to go over the cliff?" Dean snaps back. "You think the world wants to end?" Sam eyebrows by way of response. "I think," Dean growls, "that if we didn't take its belt and all its pins away each year that, yeah, the whole enchilada would've offed itself already." Bobby warns him against attempting to "wrestle with the big picture" lest Disheartened El Deano break his brain, or something like that, and with Dean having thus established his Issue Of The Week, we head into this evening's first round of exposition.
Long story short, there has been a rash of sightings as of late across the southern Pine Barrens of a "strange, fast-moving, human-like creature." Quite reasonably, the locals seem to believe it's the latest manifestation of the centuries-old Jersey Devil. As Diligent Sammy notes, however, this time around, the thing "might just have a body count." With that, he passes Bobby a news clipping whose headline reads, "Camping High Season Harshed by Human Burrito." The article details, of course, the untimely death of this evening's first bit of Monster Chow, whose actual name was "Mitchell Rayburn." Sam further notes that, in addition to Dead Mitchell, "there have been four other missing persons reported in the last three weeks." Bobby's way stoked, because they're apparently in for some "honest-to-goodness wilderness hunting," and he hasn't used his .30-30 in a while. "Ooo-kay, Davy Crockett," Dean snarks, "safari's gonna have to wait until tomorrow, and after we do our suit-and-tie dance -- we gotta make sure this isn't just some backwoods crackhead who likes to roll glampers." "'Glampers'?" Bobby buhs. "High-end campers," Sam explains with a slight, sardonic smile on his face. "TV, AC, Wi-Fi -- back to nature, zero inconvenience." "That's idiotic," Bobby frowns, suddenly deciding to get all judgmental for some reason. Sam briefly darts his eyes around their squalid surroundings and sighs, "Yeah, some people just don't know how to live."
Um. Raoul? "Yes?!" Oh, okay -- never mind. Just, you know, checking. "Why!?" Well, I was pretty sure you'd have something to add to all of that nonsense above. "Which nonsense?!" Ah, excellent point, my scaly friend. "Thanks!" I was attempting to elicit your illustrious opinion on the concept of "glamorous camping." "Oxymoron!" And now I have it. "I simply detest camping!" Good to know. "No problem!" So, I guess I should continue, then? "By all means! Please do!" Excellent.
Biggerson's, the following morning. After lingering on the façade for a moment, the camera leaps inside to focus in on a poster advertising the chain's "NEW!" "Limited time only!" "Pepperjack Turducken Slammer!" which I mention only because that particular special menu item will become important later. Our Intrepid Heroes, once again masquerading as FBI agents, are seated at a booth with "Rick Evans," the chief ranger at Wharton State Forest, and it quickly becomes apparent that Ranger Rick is...how shall we put this? "'Effervescent'?!" Raoul shriekingly suggests, ever the helpful little thing, and I think I was actually looking for "stoned out of his fucking gourd," doll, but we can go with "effervescent" if you like. "Hooray!" So, Sam and Dean interview the effervescent ranger, and he's really not much help, partly because he quite honestly doesn't seem to know much, but mainly because he is, as we've already noted, stoned out of his fucking gourd. He is also determinedly chowing down on one of Biggerson's limited-time-only Pepperjack Turducken Slammers, which is recognizable from that distinctive, strange, eight-spoked wagon-wheel pattern it's got on its top bun. Just so you know. And despite the otherwise general uselessness of this entire exchange, we do learn that Ranger Rick's partner, Phil, has also apparently gone missing at some point during the last few days, though it hadn't occurred to Rick to report Phil's disappearance until just now. Got all that? "I do!"
Good, because Bobby's just arrived from his trip to the Atlantic County Morgue, where he'd been examining what little remains of Dead Mitchell. The boys excuse themselves from Ranger Rick's table to listen in as Bobby explains that the bite radius on the corpse's wounds was too small for a Leviathan. Also, pieces of the heart were found, so they're probably not looking at a werewolf attack, either, and as "a Wendigo don't leave no scraps," Bobby's finally willing to entertain the notion that they're actually dealing with the Jersey Devil, here. Dean decides this would be an excellent moment to order lunch, and he hails a passing waiter like so: "Hey! Uh, Brandon -- we grab a booth?" Brandon, who's popped the collar on his Biggerson's-issued polo shirt because that's just the way Brandon rolls, responds in kind like so: "Hey! Uh, douchewad -- a hostess will seat you." "Do I look like a freaking hostess?" Brandon adds, all surly with the attitude and the gum-chewing and such. "Do you want to look like a hostess?" Dean weakly retorts. Surly Brandon gifts Dean with a brief Glare Of Death before vanishing kitchenwards, and ever-helpful Sam takes this opportunity to point out that Dean's witty comeback was, in fact, neither.
Of course, this means the three wind up in Surly Brandon's section, and sure enough, the snippy waiter does not hesitate to offer several appropriate insults with their food. "Sidewinder Soup-And-Salad Combo goes to Big Bird," he announces, slamming a plate down in front of Sam. "TDK Slammer for Ken Doll," he adds, whipping another plate at Dean. "And a little Heart-Smart for Creepy Uncle!" he finishes, launching the final plate across the table in Bobby's general direction. "What is your problem?" Dean grumps. "YOU ARE MY PROBLEM!" Surly Brandon howls and, after gifting Dean with yet another brief Glare Of Death, he stomps back into the bowels of the restaurant. And with that bit of hilarity over, the boys plus Bobby settle down to process recent events. Unfortunately, Dean is immediately distracted by the unusual amounts of awesome deliciousness contained in his humble Pepperjack Turducken Slammer, and his audible paroxysms of poultry-induced ecstasy completely derail the conversation. Meanwhile, Surly Brandon screams that yet another customer is actually a great big fat person, and he quits on the spot.
Cut to The Lush Coastal Rainforests Of Southeastern New Jersey. The boys plus Bobby have ditched their FBI drag and now clomp through the forest in search of clues. It is astonishingly boring. "Yawn!" Thanks for backing me up on that, Raoul. "No problem!" And as they meander amongst the remarkably large ferns down there in the Pine Barrens, the three wax nostalgic for the halcyon days of their youth, or some such bullshit, until they stumble across...a mangled and bloody arm, dangling from a tree! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" "Looks like we found Phil," Dean sighs. Well, you know. What's left of him, at any rate. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Are we enjoying ourselves? "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Good. And with that, we skip forward to...
...a little later in the day, by which time dusk has descended upon The Lush Coastal Rainforests Of Southeastern New Jersey. Ranger Rick pulls up in his truck and effervescently staggers over to the spot Our Intrepid Heroes are currently occupying to gaze up at what little remains of his erstwhile colleague. The arm, you'll be pleased to know, is still dripping. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Ranger Rick, with an almost preternatural lack of concern, effervescently ambles back to his truck to call it all in to his superiors, and that's a very bad move on Ranger Rick's part, indeed, for we've suddenly gone all Animal Cam up in here again. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Becalm yourself, lizard -- the as-yet-unseen beastie simply snatches Ranger Rick backwards into this evening's first METAL TEETH CHOMP!, so there's none of the good stuff to be had here. "Rats!" Yet. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The Lush Coastal Rainforests Of Southeastern New Jersey. Aftermath. Our Intrepid Heroes plus Bobby make with the Tough Guy Jazz Hands through the underbrush until forest noises erupt in the tree canopy far above their heads. For some ridiculous reason, Bobby suddenly decides to go all Shotgun Sensei on everybody's ass, and he shuts his eyes to let the sound of the beastie above guide his bullets. For some even more ridiculous reason, it works, and the canopy expels a dead, blood-streaked ghoul who's still clinging to what's left of Ranger Rick's forearm. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" The boys plus Bobby quickly decide to leave retrieval of Ranger Rick's remains to the New Jersey State Police -- a decision for which I'm certain my cousin Neil will be eternally grateful -- and they waste little time busily bundling what's left of the ghoul back to their...
...squalid little abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of Hammonton. They stretch the ghoul out on that crapped-out dining room table in front of the cheery fire that's still mysteriously blazing away in the hearth and proceed to remark on the corpse's particulars until...the ghoul leaps to its bare feet atop the table to snarl at them! D'OH! Sam, Dean, and Bobby immediately whip out their respective automatics and blast the briefly reanimated ghoul full of lead. "VIOLENCE!" And when the shooting is done and the ghoul has dropped back down onto the table, by now most thoroughly dead, Our Intrepid Heroes plus Bobby proceed with their investigation, with Dean searching the ghoul's tattered jeans for some ID. Turns out the ghoul had once been a certain "Gerald Browder," a Hammonton local whose driver's license lists him as weighing in at 235 pounds. Bobby eyes the emaciated thing on the table and decides, "He's lost a little pudge!" "Maybe it's a lap-band side-effect!" Dean goofily grins. Sam tosses his brother the tiniest of bitchfaces as Bobby retrieves a handy dowel to probe one of the fresh bullet wounds in the late Gerald Browder's torso. The wood emerges from the wound coated with some sort of viscous grey goo, so Bobby decides it's long past time for an impromptu...
...autopsy! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Shriek away, my scaly friend, for this sequence is nothing if not delightfully gruesome. "Okay! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Bobby and Sam crack open the corpse's chest to find the organs inside literally swimming in more of that viscous grey goo, and as they probe further into the stomach, Dean -- how shall I put this? -- effervescently ambles in from elsewhere to wonder, "You guys getting hungry? I'm hungry." This time, Sam's bitchface is a bit more pronounced, but as he's elbow-deep in ghoul guts, he has little choice but to refocus his attention on the inventory of partially digested human and animal remains Bobby is now drawing from the corpse's entrails. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Let's see, we've got some "fresh Rick," followed by smaller bits of Ranger Phil and the late, unlamented Mitchell Rayburn, and what's that? "Yeah, that's a cat's head," Darling Sammy replies, almost as if he's answering me directly, and with that, he pulls the furry, gloopy mess out of the dead ghoul's stomach to hold it up in front of the camera, the better for Raoul to go absolutely apeshit at the sight of the thing. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" "You gotta be damn hungry to eat a cat's head," Bobby opines. "Au contraire!" Raoul knowingly shrieks. "They're delicious! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I've been wondering why there are so few strays in this part of Brooklyn. "Oh, I'm just joshing with you, you silly little man!" Well, that's disappointing. I frigging hate cats. "Hee!"
In any event, Bobby eventually unearths the corpse's brick-sized, blackened adrenal glands, which finally clue Sam in to the fact that they're not actually dealing with the Jersey Devil this evening. "Whatever this thing is," he sighs, stating the obvious, "it sure as hell ain't Gerald Browder anymore." At this point, the increasingly effervescent Dean interrupts the proceedings to plead, "Okay, guys, seriously -- is it time for dinner?"
Cut to Biggerson's. Dean tears into yet another Pepperjack Turducken Slammer while Super-Smart Sammy deploys his mad Googling skillz to unearth a veritable cache of details on the life of the late, unlamented Gerald Browder that nobody cares about at this point. Suddenly, both Sam and Bobby make note of the audibly vehement abandon with which Dean is attacking his awesomely delicious sandwich, and Sam hesitantly asks, "Uh, so, what do you think?" "I'm not that worried about it," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of meat. "Excuse me?" Bobby squints. "'Funny, right?" the remarkably effervescent Dean slurs, another broad, goofy grin spreading across his face. "I could give two shakes of a rat's ass," he continues. "Is that right?" he wonders, by now babbling. "Do rats shake their ass, or is it something else?" Bobby and Sam exchange A Look Fraught With Significance, then glance around the dining room to discover that every single other patron in the joint is just as engrossed in his or her awesomely delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer as Dean is. Super-Smart Sammy instantly understands something deeply nefarious is afoot at the Biggerson's, and he snatches Dean's sandwich right out of his brother's mouth. "There's some funky chicken in the TDK Slammer, ain't there?" Bobby correctly guesses. "Uh, duuuuuuh," Sam may or may not reply as he takes a tentative whiff of the thing. He blanches at the stench, and with that, we shoot back to...
...that squalid little abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of Hammonton. "This is stupid!" the exceedingly effervescent Dean pouts. "My sandwich didn't do anything!" "There's something wrong with you, dumbass!" Bobby more-or-less snaps as he and Sam free what remains of Dean's awesomely delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer from its swan-shaped foil prison. "Are you kidding?" excessively effervescent Dean counters. "I'm fine!" he insists. "Best I've felt in a couple of months," he continues, hopping up to perch on the squalid little abandoned farmhouse's rickety-looking counter. "[My Sweet Baboo]? Black goo? I don't even care anymore -- and you know what's better? I don't care that I don't care!" "Atta girl!" You took the words right out of my mouth, Raoul. "Hee!" Sam impatiently informs Dean that he's as stoned as Ranger Rick and everybody else back at Biggerson's at the moment, and in a cleansing burst of synchronicity, Dean's awesomely delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer chooses this very instant to show them all why. As Dean gazes on with open-mouthed dismay, his formerly delicious sandwich belches out a thick stream of viscous grey foulness that slowly oozes down onto the plate. "That...that's in me?" Dean stammers. "Only half of it," Sam rather amusingly shrugs before he begins the following obvious conclusion: "So, whatever turned Gerry Browder into a Pumpkinhead, and is currently turning Dean into an idiot..." "...is in the Turducken Slammer at Biggerson's," Bobby finishes for him. "If I wasn't so chilled right now," and exceptionally effervescent Dean offers, "I would puke." Heh.
Cut to the expected stakeout of Biggerson's loading dock, already in progress. Bobby and Sam companionably sit side-by-side in the front seats of a nondescript van while Dean loudly sleeps off the effects of his formerly delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer in the back, and oh, Christ. Here they go with the endless yammering about their goddamned feelings again. "Really?!" Really. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Sigh. I knew this episode was gonna start sucking sooner or later. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" So, Sam frets about Dean's current state of mind, what with Sam's broken head and the recent loss of My Sweet Baboo weighing so heavily on his conscience, or whatever, and Bobby offers a few sage words of advice I'll not be bothering to transcribe, and just when I'm about to join dear Raoul in his Coma Of Boredom, a delivery truck prominently labeled "MIDWEST MEAT & POULTRY" pulls up to the Biggerson's loading dock. A white-haired gentleman emerges from the cab to cart a stack of boxes into the restaurant proper, then climbs back behind the wheel to drive off into the night. "I guess we follow him," Bobby sighs. You think?
Elsewhere, a magenta-haired lass emerges from a late evening at the office park to clatter over to her car, and should I bother waking Raoul for this bit? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, didn't think so. We get a brief bit of Animal Cam as something in the bushes tracks her progress, and just when the lass reaches her SUV...that surly waiter from a thousand scenes ago pounces on her! "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" I agree, my scaly friend, so I'll be skipping ahead to the bit where some as-yet-unidentified gentleman steps forward to pimp-slap the ghoulish waitron into month, and when that's all over and done with, we head back to...
...the stakeout, which has by now migrated to a very large and very anonymous warehouse somewhere else. Dean woke up from his little nap at some point during the drive over, and he now sips from a Thermos of coffee while Sam trains a pair of binoculars on the action now unfolding below their vantage point atop an adjacent hill. As the delivery driver disembarks to vanish into the vast warehouse complex, a sedan pulls up to the door, and it's Leviathan Edgar, and because we few who remain in this tiresome wreck of a show's rapidly dwindling audience are apparently incapable of remembering who Leviathan Edgar is, the darling little idiots responsible for this mess have chosen to insert a brief flashback to this scene to help us along. Shut up, flashback. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" That, too. In any event, once we return, Leviathan Edgar pulls the ghoulish and now-hooded waitron from the trunk of his car, for yes, it was Leviathan Edgar who pimp-slapped the altered Brendan or Brandon or Braedynn or whatever the hell his name is into month. "What the hell is going on?" Bobby gripes, and I'm sure you'll be finding out soon enough, hairball, but first we must bid you a momentary farewell as we watch you vanish into this evening's METAL TEETH CHOMP!
Warehouse. Aftermath. Edgar hands the greatly altered waitron off to an underling, then joins Sheriff Jody's Leviathanically enhanced doctor for a stroll through the warehouse floor, where they chat about "the experiment" and "adverse reactions" and "refining the formula" until they reach a set of cages, where the underling deposits the greatly altered waitron among a group of similarly altered humans, all of whom are now banging on the bars. Edgar stares at the caged ghouls for a bit, then turns back to the doctor with the following simple order: "Burn them." "But they represent crucial test data!" the doctor protests. "Where the additive formula went wrong," he explains. "Where my initial projections failed!" Edgar waits until the doctor has finished with his outraged spluttering, then intones, "Dick is coming." "ZZZZZZ -- dirty! -- ZZZZZZZ!" The good doctor's eyes widen at the filthy news, and he wastes not an instant in relaying Edgar's burn order to his underling.
Meanwhile, out in the van, it's Dean's turn for a goddamned pep talk from Bobby, and I just can't with this bullshit anymore, so we'll be skipping ahead to the bit where Sam returns from his little reconnaissance mission around the warehouse just in time to join the others as they watch Dick Roman's caravan arriving at the warehouse's main entrance. "Well, I'll be a squirrel in a skirt," Bobby breathes. "It's Dick Frigging Roman!" "Who the hell is Dick Frigging Roman?" Dean quite rightly wonders, and we're so glad you asked, Dean, for it allows us to segue seamlessly -- snort -- into...
...a television news report cunningly entitled "THE RISE OF DICK." "ZZZZZZ -- now they're just trying too hard! -- ZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, you might want to find a way to rephrase that objection, there, lizard. "ZZZZZZ -- oops! hee! -- ZZZZZZZ!" In any event, the clip that follows gives us more Dick-centric information than I think any of us ever really wanted, and now they've got me doing it. Fuck you, Supernatural. Long story short -- GOD, I'm doing it AGAIN -- Dick Roman is a billionaire corporate raider with a rather lucrative sideline in motivational speaking whose heavy involvement in various right-wing causes has made him an obvious candidate for national office, even though he's repeatedly insisted he holds no political aspirations whatsoever.
And when it's over, the camera pulls back to reveal we've actually been watching the entire Dick profile on Sam's trusty laptop. "It's all making sense," Dean muses as he shuts the laptop lid. "Remember when Crowley kept going on about hating Dick?" he reminds the others. "I thought he was just being general." Okay, that one was kind of funny. Anyway, Bobby jumps in to state something obvious about The Leviathans "playing on a much bigger board" now, and Sam frets about Our Intrepid Heroes' general inability to do anything about anything at the moment. It's almost as dull as watching them wander through The Lush Coastal Rainforests Of Southeastern New Jersey. Eventually, Bobby pulls out a massive piece of surveillance equipment he borrowed from that paranoid Frank person, and he announces, "It's time to find out what these ugly bastards are up to."
Not much, as the sequence proves. Back inside the warehouse, Mr. Roman -- and no, I'll no longer be referring to him as "Dick," thank you very much -- joins his assistant, "Susan," along with The Good Doctor to stand on an observation platform, from which the trio gazes down upon a family of great big fat persons, each of whom munches almost automatically on a Pepperjack Turducken Slammer while staring dully at a television set in a study pen done up to resemble a suburban living room. The Good Doctor explains at length regarding the particulars of his little experiment, and what you need to know about it all is this: The additive they've "introduced" into the Pepperjack Turducken Slammers has thus far exhibited a "near-one-hundred-percent rate of effectiveness," with that vast majority of The Leviathans' unwitting subjects experiencing an immediate deceleration of metabolism along with a "dampening" of their "emotional range," "which makes them perfectly complacent." Just why The Leviathans would want to turn all of humanity into great big emotionally stunted fat persons remains unsaid, though I think it's pretty obvious. Dick Roman offers The Good Doctor his unctuous congratulations, then pointedly asks, "Now, what can you tell me about your failures?" "The ones that went off the rails after they ate your little treats," he prompts when The Good Doctor does not immediately respond. "They've been very instructive!" The Good Doctor eventually claims. "No," Mr. Roman shakes his head, "I asked for complacency, not complacency and a point-oh-three-percent margin of hyper-adrenalized cannibalism." "I will have this under control," The Good Doctor hastens to assure him, but sly Susan's already brandishing that "Human Burrito" headline from earlier, and we all know how much Mr. Roman hates to see The Leviathans' "little forays making the newspapers." "I want to turn this little mistake into a big, fat teachable moment," Mr. Roman declares. "Will you help me with that?" The Good Doctor couldn't be happier to oblige his boss, and Mr. Roman offers his minion yet another of those toothy smiles of his that never quite reach his eyes, if you know what I mean. I've never seen James Patrick Stuart in anything else that he's done, but he makes for a terrific sociopath here. Pity the second half of this episode's so goddamned chatty, though. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Exactly.
Meanwhile, back at the van, Dean informs Bobby via speakerphone that their side of the building continues to be quiet. And why, you ask, is Dean chatting with the hairball via his cell? Because Bobby's set up shop on a nearby roof, of course, the better to peer down at the corporate offices on the other side of the building. Things have been quiet on Bobby's end, as well, but no sooner has the camera joined him up there on his perch when Mr. Roman, Sly Sue, The Good Doctor and Edgar enter Mr. Roman's suite on the second floor. There's some preliminary nattering about Mr. Roman's busy schedule for the rest of the week before Mr. Roman bluntly informs The Good Doctor that his experiment is being shut down, effective immediately. Furthermore, The Good Doctor will now devour himself, the better to serve as a lesson to his "coworkers" regarding the dangers of exposing themselves to the world media. "ZZZZZZ -- what?! -- ZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, that's what I said, but feel free remain in your Coma Of Boredom, doll, because it's just a bunch of crappy CGI teeth with absolutely no comforting gore whatsoever. "ZZZZZZ -- phooey! -- ZZZZZZZ!"
Back atop the nearby roof, Bobby gapes and gasps and goggles and such until one of Mr. Roman's underlings materializes to punch him into this evening's METAL TEETH CHOMP!
Roof. Aftermath. Our Intrepid Heroes survey the broken remains of Bobby's expensive surveillance equipment and sigh. "There are at least four Leviathans out there," Darling Sammy glooms, "and we don't even know how to kill one." Eagle-Eyed El Deano spots a van labeled "ACME INDUSTRIAL CLEANING" rounding the corner below, and he smiles, "Well, it'll be quite a shock when we walk in through the front door, won't it?" DUN!
Lair Of The Dick. Bobby groggily comes to in one of the leather armchairs while Mr. Roman and Sly Sue continue to review his busy schedule for the rest of the week, after which Sly Sue presents Mr. Roman with a case that arrived that afternoon from Sotheby's. Sly Sue then exits, and there follows an inordinately lengthy conversation between Mr. Roman and Bobby that's just marking time until we finally arrive at Our Intrepid Heroes' borax attack, so I'll simply note that the case from Sotheby's contains a pair of pearl-handled dueling pistols complete with ammunition and skip ahead to...
...Our Intrepid Heroes' borax attack! Down on the warehouse's main floor, Edgar and an anonymous underling approach two of Mr. Roman's Leviathanically enhanced bodyguards for a chat, only to find their little confab rudely interrupted by the sudden and unexpected arrival of Sam and Dean, who burst in through a side door toting two gigantic spray canisters of industrial-strength cleaning solvent. And then? Our Intrepid Heroes hose Edgar and the minions straight into this evening's final METAL TEETH CHOMP!, of course! "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, yeah -- we're almost at the end.
Lair Of The Dick. The agonized screams of his sparkling-clean minions finally reach Mr. Roman's ears from the warehouse floor below, and he snatches up one of the loaded dueling pistols to investigate, presenting Bobby with the perfect opportunity to rifle through all of those papers on Mr. Roman's desk. Unfortunately, none of those papers seem to contain any useful information whatsoever, so Bobby grabs for the remaining pistol and hastily chambers round after round before lumbering off to make his escape. Alas, Sly Sue's been lurking in the antechamber, and she now bursts through the doors of The Lair to backhand Bobby halfway across the floor, but the old coot somehow manages to get the jump on her, anyway, and he aerates her skull with one of the dueling pistol's bullets. Of course, Sly Sue takes all of two seconds to recover from her injury, but by that time, Bobby's gone.
Meanwhile, Darling Sammy's found himself running short on industrial-strength cleaning solvent just as Mr. Roman arrives on the main floor to find out what gives. There's one all-too-brief effects shot of the last of Sam's borax chewing through Mr. Roman's eye socket, but he, too, quickly recovers from that particular injury to commence with the chatty menacing, so it's really quite fortunate that Bobby's chosen this moment to materialize with his stolen gun. Bobby promptly blows a couple of holes through Mr. Roman's back, and for good measure, Dean races in from out of nowhere to douse Mr. Roman's face with what little remains of his own stash of borax. And while Mr. Roman sizzles and steams and howls and screams, Our Intrepid Heroes dart out into the parking lot to retrieve the van.
For some stupid reason, though, Bobby lingers behind just a moment too long, so when Sam and Dean screech up outside, he's still stuck in the warehouse, braining yet another Leviathanically enhanced bodyguard with a crowbar. On top of that, by the time Bobby finally does make it through the exit, Mr. Roman's healed himself, so Bobby's got to start dodging bullets along with everything else. Finally, the hairy old bastard makes it to the back of the van, and as Mr. Roman squeezes off a final two or three rounds, Dean tears the hell out of the warehouse parking lot and into the night.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean hoots the instant they've made it out onto the main road. "I'm glad you got in," he calls back to Bobby. "He almost took your freaking head off!" And while Dean is thus occupied with his shouting, Sam finds Bobby's trucker hat wedged between the front seats. He picks the thing up to pass it back to its owner, and it's only when he receives no reply from the hairball that he notices the bullet hole torn through the cap. Dun-dun-DUN! The screen cuts to black, and in the darkness we can hear Dean cry out, "Bobby? Bobby!"
"ZZZZZZ -- is it over?! -- ZZZZZZZ!" Yes, Raoul, so you can stop pretending to be asleep. "Hooray! Shall I fetch you a festive holiday flagon!?" Why, that would be lovely. "Whee!"
week is Thanksgiving, so we won't be finding out if Bobby lives or dies until the midseason finale on December 2nd. I realize it'll be difficult, but do try to contain yourselves until then.
Demian's pretty sure Raoul really does eat cats. You may reach the former at demian_twop@yahoo.com. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon on the Internet.