The lights are low, and a single candle drips hot wax on the burnished copper stand. From the doorway, there's a muted rustle of the finest British tweed that Bond Street has to offer as, silently and stealthily, a dark figure slips across the hardwood floors. He casts a look over his shoulder before sliding open a mahogany drawer and removing a small packet. There's a creak of leather as the figure lowers himself into his accustomed position. A moment later a match flares to life as the figure touches the flared head to a pipe and takes in a long inhalation. "You see," the Evil Dr. Mathra exhales, "this episode suffers from what all middle episodes in a three-episode arc suffer from. Take The Two Towers, The Empire Strikes Back -- which, I hasten to add is my personal favorite -- and Poison Ivy II: Lily. They are misunderstood, misrepresented, and generally mismanaged. The middle children of the families, criticized in their own time, they will later come to be recognized as the pinnacle of the oeuvre. A shining star among so much dross." The Evil Dr. Mathra takes another thoughtful puff and considers the fire burning softly in the grate. A log falls and sparks as fissures in the wood crack and spill hot orange ash. The lights switch on overhead as Bermanga move in a single body to the middle of the living room. They hand the Evil Dr. Mathra a thick packet, which crinkles richly. "Your wife will never know."
Oh yeah, and it was also a dark and stormy night.
Oh, dear. This episode is so painful. I don't know if my brain was drugged by the brined turkey breast, the roasted fennel and fingerling potatoes, the ginger-steamed broccoli, or the bourbon pumpkin cheesecake, but I found myself physically and psychologically unable to undertake this episode for the longest time. In retrospect, I do know what was causing my blockage: SURAK'S FUCKING KATRA. So I've taken some Metamucil and will strive to undertake this recap. Thanks to Sars for the Thanksgiving Day Amnesty which allowed me to procrastinate more than usual.
For distressingly obvious reasons, Muck'ty Muck will have to undergo a name change: I christen him Dub'ya.
On a beige Coruscant set, which is really quite cool, if you overlook the fact that it is essentially an Art Deco skyscraper with a balcony on the top level -- which must be really windy and yet there's nary a guardrail in sight -- Soval marches into some high-falutin' Vulcan chambers ready to receive his wrist-slapping, tongue-lashing punishment of the flesh. Kinky. Soval defends his mind-melding, and another oddly familiar Vulcan adds his words of support to the venerable Vulcan. It is not enough. Dub'ya tells him they decided that Cond'leeza is just another Syrrannite and that's why he bombed the embassy. Soval thinks there's more to the story than that, but Dub'ya shuts him down and fires him. At this, the oddly familiar Vulcan turns and eyes Dub'ya askance. Strangely enough, the green bruises they were so careful to maintain on Soval's face last week have grown scratches. Maybe he was trying to clip the claws of his domesticated sehlat after being late with his dinner. Soval ends his tongue-lashing with a zinger about much needing to be said and no one listening, but I was engaged in a leftover-fueled burp and not paying very close attention.