Satan Sloane's Silo Of Secrecy. Christian Slater's back, and this time he forgot to shave. He also apparently forgot to shower, shampoo, and give himself a facial because, dudes? He's looking VERY rough around the edges right about now. Irina enters and walks across the room as we get a totally useless and weird shot of her walking. Like, it goes on for five minutes. And she's wearing really tight pants and three-inch heels and she's walking like a show pony. She is. She's fucking PRANCING across the room. I'm sorry but, I don't care how hot Lena Olin is. This shot is just BIZARRE. She finally makes it over to Slater and says something about needing his help with this DNA database "We're looking for someone specific," she says. "A man. But it's encrypted. We need you to break it." Wait. Where in the hell did she get the damn database? At the end of the last episode, she'd dropped it. The hell? Oh, lord. It's going to be one of THOSE episodes. Owen? Bring another keg of Stoli Vanilla. And this time, spike it with a little angel dust. Your honey-bunny feels like FLYING.
Slater's all, yeah, uh, you've had me chained up for the past two months without WORD ONE on my family. Sure, I'll help you. If by "help" you mean "give you the finger and fart in your general direction." Irina's all, that's awful sweet of you, but you needn't worry about your family. We let them go. Because we're sweet that way. Go ahead. Phone home. Go on! She hands him a cell phone, and he calls his wife. She answers, and Slater tries to talk to her, but she can't hear him 'cuz Irina fucked with the phone. "Now you have something to live for, [Slater]," Irina purrs.
Ovary Electric. Hee. Hee hee. Syd and Vaughn are lolling around in bed, obviously just having enjoyed some of the most remarkably hot SpySex ever recorded with manmade machinery. Vaughn looks pleasantly spent, and Syd's using her post-orgasmic energy boost to go over Wife of Slater's phone records. Syd's flagellating herself for jumping the gun on Wife of Slater in the park, but Vaughn just lazes something about how no one's harder on themselves than Syd is. Oh, whatever, Shirtless Vaughn. Just shut up and look pretty. He tweaks her nose (aw!) and they kiss a couple of times. Syd returns to her phone record perusal, and we get a really decent shot of Michael Vartan's shoulder tattoo as he exits the bed. Speaking of decent shots, hello Mary! I have the VCR on pause right now and I am enjoying a nice, clean view of Michael Vartan's boxered butt! Yee haw! But a word on the boxers: what are they, size FIFTY? They're so damn baggy, they look like they belong to my late Uncle Seamus. Seriously. Syd could fit in there with him. I mean, unless Vaughn's housing a One-Eyed Snake of Biblical Proportions, there's just no reason for his shorts to be that damn big.
Right. Anyway, Vaughn picks up his backpack and pulls out a blue t-shirt. Syd watches him for a second and then goes, "Vaughn. Um, okay, the backpack's getting a little ridiculous. I mean, it's not nearly as ridiculous as your plaid clown pants over there, but it's pretty damn close." Vaughn's like, uh, well, don't really have a choice here, honey. Syd's all, middle drawer, dude. Yours. Vaughn's all, whuh? With the huh? On the where? Syd's all, dude. It's a drawer, not a PRIEST and a REHEARSAL DINNER. Vaughn's all, I know, but it's still cute. They gee and haw and come-hither at each other for a couple of seconds, and then Vaughn puts his other fat grandpa shorts in the middle drawer.