And add to, possibly, because when she hangs up, she has no idea that on the other end of the line, Fake Charlie is being made to look extra-evil, with some loud and booming minor keys and a camera angle right out of the Adam West Batman. Just to remind us that this isn't real Charlie, but Evil Fake Charlie. It's such a shame that they killed off the real Charlie, but I suppose that when an actor who looked exactly like him showed up to play the shapeshifter version of him they just couldn't pass up the opportunity. Anyway, Fake Charlie stumbles into the typewriter store, looking pretty sick to his stomach and growling, "I need the back room. Now." The proprietor hurriedly gets out the keys, though when he can't seem to bring himself to put them in Fake Charlie's Fake Hand, Fake Charlie has to snatch them away. Then he heads back inside that creepy-ass empty room that looks like a cult temple, except for the electric typewriter on the table that tell us it's only Hell's Typing Pool. He sits down at the big electric Underwo
rldod and types, "TARGET TRUSTS ME COMPLETELY. SHE STILL BELIEVES I'M HER PARTNER. AWAITING YOUR INSTRUCTIONS." Let's hope nobody switched typewriters on him, or he's going to be waiting a while. Unfortunately, the commercials start before he thinks to take a closer look at the manufacturer and say, "Oh, Brother."
Back at the Harvard lab, Peter and Olivia are going through Sheriff Golightly's piss-poor case files and learning "wildly helpful" facts relating to certain townspeople's liking for apple pie and flannel shirts. Bored, Peter goes to raid the lab's fridge for a soda. He encounters Walter, who is just now spilling some of the blue goo from the field in Lansdale on his unprotected fingers. Peter pleasantly asks him, "How's it going, Walter?" "I plan to urinate in 23 minutes," Walter reports. "Good to know," Peter says. Hey, he asked. Besides, as Walter informs him, it's relevant to Peter because Walter's going to need help with his fly. "It seems this substance from Pennsylvania is a paralytic," he says, happily holding up his newly useless extremity. And by "extremity" I mean "hand," of course. He might want to save his elation until he knows how long it takes for the stuff to wear off. And until he knows that, I would strongly advise him to wash that numb meathook thoroughly before he uses it to operate... um, himself. Peter's not too horrified by this line of discussion to conclude that this means the abductor used the goo to paralyze his or her (or, let's face it, its) victims, and asks Walter if it's traceable. Walter says it contains mutated human DNA. "Perhaps a whole new stage of human evolution," he marvels. "Wouldn't that be fantastic?" Actually, on this show, wouldn't that just be Thursday? Peter says he doesn't think "fantastic" when the thinks "mutant." "We're all mutants," Walter says, bending over his microscope. "What's more remarkable is how many of us appear to be normal." Peter just looks down indulgently at him, like, "'Us?' What do you mean 'us,' Cracker Barrel?"