CSI
Bad To The Bone

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Pity The Nevada Traveler

The good news is, all of the casinos in Las Vegas remembered to pay their electric bills. Or so it would appear from the opening shots of the Strip. We quickly move from the establishing shots to the smoke-blurred air of a crowded, noisy casino. We see a rather formidable-looking fellow step into aisle along a bank of slot machines. By "formidable," I don't mean "he's able to wreck your credit rating with a single keystroke." I mean "he's able to wreck your cranium with a single blow." If this guy is not a bar bouncer, it's only because he got tired of the hours, or he's making better money as a freelancing leg-breaker.

There are some more shots of people going about their business in the casino as Mister Toughie stands around glowering and waiting for people to poke fun at either the gaudy gold rope chain he wears around his neck, or the proto-mullet he wears on his head. It's not really "business in front, party in the back" so much as it is "massive beat-down in the front, using your shattered front teeth to pop open the celebratory long-neck he will drink after he's worked up a thirst giving you contusions in the back." Have I painted a picture with words yet?

And now Big and Beefy goes barreling through the crowd and toward a discreetly-placed door. He appears to be stalking someone.

But whatever it is he's going after? I'm not really interested in seeing it, because I'm trying to imagine what laid this fellow low, and I keep flashing back to the nasty nightmare things in Hellboy. And while I would welcome the chance for this show to transcend formula and maybe introduce a few extra-dimensional visitors with minimal social skills, well...there remains the problematic introduction of some egghead spouting paranormal esoterica, the usual baroque and gratuitously convoluted creation myth surrounding whatever demon is lurking around killing people, and the unavoidable fact that the people who come up with the extra-dimensional beasties apparently do so from a place of deep seafood phobia, if the preponderance of tentacles is any indication. Plus I am prone to looking at giant tentacle-riddled wicked things and cackling, "Evil now comes coated in a tasty deep-fried batter! Evil tastes delicious with lemon aioli or marinara!" And I'd soon go nuts with the hoary clichés that demonic killers inspire, while you worked up an appetite following repeated calamari references. Nobody wins there.

So we'll just shelve the speculation and live in the now. Brass is thinking that maybe getting your face tenderized prior to your death by bludgeoning could hurt. Years of police observation backing that conjecture, no doubt. Brass notes the many casino chips in Scary Dead Guy's pockets, and concludes that robbery wasn't a motive. Gil observes that the man's eyes bore the brunt of the punishment. Brass replies, "You can't see, you can't fight back." Unless you're Matt Murdock. I don't dare invoke his crime-fighting name, or Ben Affleck might appear. Gil notes the blood and hair under Tony Sciarra's fingernails, as Brass tells us that Dead Guy is, in fact, named Tony Sciarra, of Philadelphia, PA. Gil quips, "So much for brotherly love."

And then The Who want to know who you are, so they can send some fraternal goodwill your way. I'm still stuck on Gil's quip. Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love. Vegas doesn't need to love you. So why would...eh. Trying to figure out the presumed wit behind this is like trying to figure out what Bob Dylan is doing pimping cheap lingerie.

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