Suddenly, Will's paying complete attention. "She...told you about a guy?" Foolio's all, oh, so NOW you're interested. Before, with the flaming head guys, not so much, but now that Syd might be gettin' some, you're perking up. Toad. "Yeah," she says. "Somebody from work. Michael something. You know him?" Will covers well and answers in the negative. Foolio's all, no, of course you don't know him. Because those bank bastards won't let them date 'cuz it's against the rules. Fuckers. Will's all, oh, okay. So they're not dating? Foolio's all, no, actually, because he's dating someone else. Syd's just pining away, eating all the Ben & Jerry's in the house. Poor thing. Then Foolio hands Will a card from the mailman and says something about a package of his at the post office. Will just looks at the card and then gives her the high sign that the writers have, indeed, dunked their flaming heads in buckets of H2O.
Post Office Of Total Testosterone Tête-à-têtes. Will enters some postal storage area and finds Vaughn. They shake hands as Vaughn informs Will that his psych report came back. "You did well," he says. "I'm not a sociopath?" Will laughs. "Well, I didn't say that," says Vaughn, laughing himself. Will's all, okay, Chuckles. Do I have a job? Vaughn tells him that he does. Will's all, a PAYING job? Vaughn's all, no, dipshit. We want you to work for us for free. Because there's no cover like POVERTY. Vaughn tells Will that he'll be working as an analyst; he'll be asked to review classified documents and file reports. His cover will be that of a journalist. Will's all, a cover? Really? So, what? Does that mean I'm an agent? Vaughn just laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs. "Oh ho ho! That's funny! I mean, that's really funny! Can you shoot a gun? Do you know how to perform a wire tap? Can you fall in love with other agents even though you're not supposed to? An agent! HA HA HA!" Will's all, yeah, that's really fucking funny, Captain Clueless. How's Alice, by the way? I miss her so. Vaughn stops slapping his knee long enough to tell Will that he's not an agent because he's not field-trained. "You're an analyst. You're desk-trained. You sit at a desk." Okay, "desk-trained" doesn't even make sense. What, he has to go through seven weeks of intensive education on how to cross his leg without banging his shin into the underside of the desk? But Will doesn't care. Just as long as he has a steady paycheck and health insurance. Amen, brother. I'd sell my soul for a job shilling feminine hygiene products just as long as it came with dental benefits.