Props to Cate, Estrones, Glark and Sars.

Previously on Dawson's Creek: $38 came out of Joey's paycheque because she rejected Sleazy Rob the DockDude; Jen's very name was fire to Henry's loins (and tidings of Henry's loins constituted TOO MUCH INFORMATION); Eve was a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in coochie shorts.

Fade up on the Sanctum Dawsonorum. In the half-light, Dawson "Boo Berry...except for the 'Berry' Part" Leery pecks away at a notebook computer, an unrecognizable (to me) black-and-white movie plays on the TV, and Pacey "Fake 'n Bake" Witter holds a small fan in front of his mouth and intones, in the deepest voice he can manage, "Luke. I am your father." Both of them are drenched in ersatz sweat. Dawson tells Pacey he's "monopolizing what's passing for a breeze." Pacey says that this is "one of the most abysmal movie nights ever"; he adds that it's sad that they're two "happening" young guys, and yet can't find anything better to do than sit in a "sweat box in the middle of an armpit-staining Indian summer," watching old movies. It's a good thing Pacey mentioned his stained armpits, because otherwise I might have been able to keep down my Subway. That's okay; I don't need those nutrients -- besides which, now I can really feel like I'm in the action now that my shirt is stained with bodily fluids too. Pacey adds, "Correct me if I'm wrong, Dawson, but didn't we used to have a couple of really cute girlfriends?" Dawson says that was a long time ago, "in a galaxy far, far away." From another room, Glark expresses resentment at the appropriation by Dawson's Creek of any and all Star Wars-related material. Dawson regards the screen of his computer and says that he can't "wrap his mind around this film noir stuff," which is making it hard to write a paper on it. For starters, you could refrain from pronouncing it "film nooo-wahr," ass. Pacey tells Dawson that film noir is "the cinema of cynicism," and that a Spielberg fan could never appreciate its moral ambiguity, "hard-boiled anti-heroes" and "femmes fatales." Dawson whines that it's too hot for "spiky repartee." Pacey drains a bottle of Nantucket Nectar. Mmmm -- product-placed fruit beverage. Pacey indicates the TV screen -- now featuring a young, relatively thin Orson Welles -- and says that he, Pacey, is the embodiment of the fallible protagonist. Dawson rolls his chair out from behind his desk and asks Pacey how the character Welles is playing could not know that the woman is setting him up for "a fall of epic proportions." Pacey says, "Because, Dawson, not all of us are as immune to the lure of sex as you are." I would like to go on record as saying that I'm fine with Dawson the Eunuch, and that the day Dawson actually goes the whole nine is the day I start looking for a replacement recapper; Dawson's virginity (possibly only technical virginity at this point, I know) is one of the few things that confirms my faith in the natural order of the universe. Pacey goes on: "Most of us are just big, dumb guys happy to sell our souls for the slimmest chance of gettin' some." Dawson asks if he can quote Pacey on that. Pacey says, "Witter: two 't's," and then gets up to leave for the air-conditioned police cruiser he's, somehow, allowed to drive.