Previously on Alias: A bunch of qualified stunt professionals set themselves on fire and ran around in a church. But who cares? This episode has SpyRentSex! Whoop whoop!

We open on three men walking down a hallway, one short, one tall, and one roughly the size of a 1958 Edsel Ranchero. The short guy is chattering on a cell phone in Russian or Czech or Slavic or who really gives a shit? The other two guys are clearly Short Slav's Useless Henchmen of No Purpose. Hey, whatever ups the body count, right?

The three men approach a bank of elevators, and Short Slav enters, followed by the tall craggy Useless Henchman. Ranchero sees a woman and her daughters waiting for the elevator, and does this weird thing where he sort of asseses them and touches the girls on the shoulders and then kind of shoves them off, away from the elevator. Well. He certainly is polite for a Useless Henchman. So, Ranchero finally gets on the elevator and Tall Crag hits the button. For which floor, you ask? Why? Is that important? Well, the button he presses bears the number forty-seven. Is that significant? Is that weird? Is that a sign? Are those the four horsemen I hear? IS THIS THE APOCALYPSE?

Oh. No. It's just another errant usage of the number forty-seven. Pretty soon, everything's going to come back to this fucking number. Syd will be having a romantic dinner at Chez Louis and they'll order the Montrachet '47. Spy Mommy will do four hundred and forty-seven push-ups. In a row. Without assistance. Spy Daddy will purse his lips forty-seven times and blow forty-seven blood vessels in his forehead. I'll down forty-seven vats of grain alcohol in an effort not to pick up my television and force-feed it to the crazy woman who lives on the first floor and always buzzes me at seven in the morning when she's taken her dog out for a walk and has forgotten her key.

Back with the Eastern Bloc Boys, the Elevator To Nowhere suddenly stops on the forty-sixth floor and won't continue. Tall Crag mashes his paw against the button for the forty-seventh floor a couple of times, but all that happens is the elevator gears grind and I grab the nearest razor blade and start carving the number forty-seven all over my left thigh.

As the sterling sounds of Barry Manilow muzak drift over the elevator speakers, Short Slav grimaces and nods at Tall Crag that he should give that oh-so-successful button-mashing thing a try again. Yeah. Because that worked so well the first time around. That's like when you walk up to an elevator and press the button and stand there waiting and someone else walks up and you just KNOW they're going to push the button, even though you pushed it first and it's lit and PUSHING IT A DOZEN MORE TIMES ISN'T GOING TO MAKE IT COME ANY FASTER, PENISHEAD.

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