"At least now we all understand each other," Jesse continues, pantomiming his knife across his throat for added effect. He's right, too. In the last 48 hours -- or however long ago Walt murdered the two dealers before they could kill Jesse -- each of these three men have killed in order to preserve their little fucked-up business arrangement. "We're all on the same page," Jesse says, darkly. "The one that says, 'If I can't kill you, you'll sure as shit wish you were dead." He laughs a mirthless laugh and takes a big ol' bite of pancake. Looks like another season in hell for Jesse Pinkman.
A cab drops Walt off at home -- Skyler's home, not condo home -- and within like 2.5 second, Skyler's out on the driveway. She explains parking the car three blocks away, notes his weirdo new clothes, and peels off the size sticker that's been on his shoulder this whole time. No questions about where he's been, just a quiet, "You okay?" "Right as rain" is Walt's unconvincing reply. Walt begins his three-block trek to find his car, holding up his ill-fitting pants as he walks.
Meanwhile, the police have set up quite a crime-scene operation at Gale's place. Crawling with cops. Every speck of blood is being cataloged, every tchotchke inventoried. The useless cell phone that Mike tried to call him on. The bullet-punctured tea kettle is being measured for trajectory paths. This one's going to be examined inside and out. Which means it's not great news that, not two feet from Gale's corpse, lies a notebook -- with a nerdy, couldn't-be-more-Gale lightning-storm cover -- that is labeled "LAB NOTES." Gulp.
Joe R will probably have to go a few months before pancakes -- much less French fries and ketchup -- seem as benign as they used to. He can be reached for lavish praise and nothing but at firstname.lastname@example.org.