It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a zombie shot out! And with that, we hurtle into this week's primary adventure, which involves various recently deceased citizens of Sioux Falls rising unexpectedly from graves both untimely and long anticipated to lurch and stagger through the otherwise tidy little streets of their wee tiny village nestled deep within the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota to... well, pick up quite boringly right where they left off, as it turns out. Oh, sure, the initial zombie -- a thirtysomething soccer dad named Clay James Thompson -- actually takes the time to slaughter the lowlife piece of trailer trash who "accidentally" shot him in the back on a hunting trip five years ago, but aside from that bit of easily justified unpleasantness, the three dozen or so remarkably photogenic revenants simply head back to their respective homes, shower off the thin layer of grime they acquired while clawing themselves out of their coffins, and happily settle back into their daily routines.
Naturally, Our Intrepid Heroes have Capital-I Issues with all of this, and they motor on over to Bobby's nearby Emporium to enlist the grizzled geezer's crippled aid in ridding his town of the freshly undead, but -- naturally -- there's a problem: Bobby's violently dismembered wife, Karen, is one of the risen, and Bobby's none too eager to send her screaming back to Hell. Or, you know, wherever the hell these people were being stored since they died. And, in all fairness, once the boys have had a chance to meet Zombie Karen, they can sort of understand Bobby's position, as Zombie Karen is sweet-natured and sharp-witted and quick with a smile, even if her complexion's more than a little cadaverous and dingy. Plus, Zombie Karen makes them all pie, which greatly pleases Dashing El Deano. Unfortunately, Zombie Karen is also apparently doomed to lurch through her unnatural afterlife in her old poly double-knit waitress uniform, which greatly displeases Raoul. "TACKY!!!"
In any event, after all the initial joy and such, the zombies' mental faculties gradually deteriorate as we all knew they must, and within days of their miraculous resurrections, they're tackling their friends and family to the ground to rip out their intestines with their bare teeth. Fortunately, Super-Smart Sammy quickly realizes that nothing more complicated than a head shot can take out this type of Supernatural zombie, and the episode quickly deteriorates into a turkey shoot -- as we all knew it must -- complete with exploding skulls and bits of brain splattering against the camera lens until every last Sioux Falls zombie is dead. Again.
But what was it all for, I hear you ask? Simple: Death finally realized he'd blown more than enough time laying waste to various unimportant Midwestern states since Lucifer summoned him topside back before Thanksgiving, and he decided to set his sights upon Bobby, hoping to remove one of the last two remaining human supports Darling Sammy has left in the latter's ongoing struggle against his boss. And why, you cry, would Death try to off Bobby in so complicated a fashion when he could just swing that scythe of his around and lop off the grizzled geezer's head? Beats the shit out of me --- why don't you ask him?
Rattle, Rattle THEN! I'm not sure if you all remember this or not, but just in case you don't, you should probably be aware that The Apocalypse began in the season premiere. Since then, Lucifer has unleashed three of The Four Horsemen upon the face of the world, though over the last several episodes, we've become acquainted only with War and Famine -- the latter of whom introduced himself via a diner slaughter so gruesome that Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon has been able to speak of little else since, despite the fact that that particular episode aired a grueling month and a half ago. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Ugh. In other news, Bobby Singer killed Mrs. Bobby a very long time ago, and Demented El Deano dejectedly admitted to himself that he doesn't know how he gets up in the morning anymore before Despairing El Deano begged the heavens for help. Are we all caught up now? "We are!" Excellent, because the...
...Rattle, Rattle NOW!'s rather insistently advancing towards the front of the television screen at the moment, and I feel it would be rude of us to ignore its typically subtle entrance. "Hi, NOW!!" shrieks Raoul, waving madly at the bloody thing with one perfectly manicured paw, and Raoul? "Yes?!" It can't hear you. "Hee!" I swear to God, Raoul, one of these days...oh, never mind.
Ahem. Somewhere remote, I'm sure, a violent midnight thunderstorm erupts overhead as the rarely seen VerminCam scurries through piles of cemetery leaf debris for a bit before rearing back on its haunches to examine the headstone of one "CLAY JAMES THOMPSON," a "FATHER, COACH, [AND] FRIEND" who apparently dropped dead on October 15, 2004, at the age of 42. Barely have we had a chance, however, to absorb all of that information when CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's mud-streaked zombie hand punches through the sod covering what should have been his final resting place, and I have to say this right now: This little stunt was far more awesome the first time they sprang it on us. In any event, CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's mud-streaked zombie head presently follows his mud-streaked zombie hand from the grave, and while my initial impulse is to hoot and holler about the glorious return of the hideous undead on this show, CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's looking suspiciously well preserved for someone who's supposedly been a-moldering in the ground these last five and a half years, so I'll be holding off on the enthusiasm and such until I've a better idea what's going on with this grimy should-be corpse, which I believe I'll be receiving right about...
...now. As the storm continues to rage, the camera cross-fades to the shabby interior of a wood-paneled double-wide, where we find some middle-aged, unshorn, bemulleted, and tantalizingly beefy hesher kicking back in a tatty brown Barcalounger with a couple of beers while he tiredly eyes a nature documentary flickering away on his antique console television set. Coincidentally enough, the documentary's narration goes something like this: "The wildebeest lounges, lazy and self-content. He's oblivious to the fierce predator that stalks him from the shadows." Oh, show. Oh, clever, clever show. I'm sure the subsequent narration has just as much to do with the action at hand, but unfortunately for me and everybody else in the audience, the beefy hesher has chosen this moment to uncross his legs, thereby exposing the enormous hole worn through the crotch of his jeans, and I find myself utterly and distressingly unable to focus on anything else until something comes a-rattlin' at the double-wide's front door. Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick glances suspiciously at the wriggling doorknob for a bit before hauling himself out of the Barcalounger to investigate. He carefully picks his way across the garbage-strewn floor and pauses with his mitt wrapped around the doorknob for a moment before flinging the thing open to find...nothing at all, actually! "Rats!" My sentiments exactly, Raoul. My sentiments exactly. In any event, after getting little more than a faceful of wind-driven raindrops, Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick shuts the door and settles his holey crotch back in the Barcalounger until...the front door slams open, seemingly of its own accord! DUN! Or, you know, not, because it was just the wind, or something. "Drat!" But fear not, my faithful lizardly companion, for no sooner has Heshy The Beefstick slammed and locked the front door when... Zombie CLAY JAMES THOMPSON sneaks up on him from behind! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Yep, sneaky Zombie Clay apparently wormed his way in through one of the double-wide's unlocked rear windows and now looms above the horrified Heshy, who stammers and stutters and staggers backwards in a panic until he stumbles across his handy sawed-off shotgun, which he quickly retrieves from the floor to dry-fire in Zombie Clay's face, because stupid Heshy forgot to load the damn thing. Ooops. Heshy finally finds his voice to shout, "No! Please, God, no!" but Zombie Clay's having none of it, and he wraps his grave-caked hands around Heshy's neck to throttle the dimwitted piece of trailer trash and his mullet to the floor. And as Heshy's thick neck cracks somewhere just out of our line of vision, the camera focuses in on the double-wide's primary decorative element: A poster emblazoned with the slogan "He Who Dies With The Most Toys...Wins!" Which, you know, makes Heshy the biggest loser on the planet. Wah. Wah. Waaaaaaaah! Also:
SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul, writhing about once again upon his overstuffed armchair with delight over the fifth season's endlessly compelling blood-burst of a title card before settling himself down a bit to offer yours truly a deeply affronted glare, and what is it now, Raoul? "[A-him!] You'll pardon me for interrupting at this juncture, I'm sure!" Oh, God. "But! Would it have killed that darling little Kripke person you keep nattering on about to have shown us that fabulous neck-breaking just now? Hmmmm!?" Well, I'm sure the director made a stylistic choi... "HMMMM?!" Okay, fine, whatever: Yes, Raoul, it would have killed that darling little Kripke person I keep nattering on about to have shown us that fabulous neck-breaking just now. Happy? "Not in the least! Why, I've half a mind to...!" And I'll resist the cheap and easy insult Raoul so beautifully set up for me to allow the dizzy lizard his lengthy little rant over there atop his overstuffed armchair. In the meantime, let's carry on to find out what Our Intrepid Heroes are up to, shall we?
Ah. Much better. The camera fades up on the interior of a diner, followed quickly by a location card that informs us we've ended up in Sioux Falls this week. Meanwhile, out at the curb, Darling Sammy disembarks from the Impala to grump the following into his cell phone: "Bobby, listen -- when you get this message, call, okay?" Dashing El Deano joins his brother on the sidewalk to grouse about Bobby's unfortunate unresponsiveness for a bit before the two enter the diner, where the LYING LIARS WHO LIE -- once again masquerading as FBI agents -- spot the scruffy, scraggly haired, flannel-clad gent they're supposed to interrogate. "Whadda we do?" Sam sighs. "I guess we jus