John From Cincinnati
His Visit: Day Eight

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Mr. Sobell: B+ | Grade It Now!
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Shaun Gone! Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

At the beach, Kai emerges from a morning of surfing and checks her voicemail. She listens to the message that Cissy left earlier, which means we listen too, since Cissy delivered it loudly enough to drown out nearby jet engines. Shaun's gone. Really? Wow.

And now, we get to watch a montage of Cissy walking the streets of Imperial Beach and showing Shaun's photo off to random passersby -- mostly fishermen at the pier in this clip -- so that they can shake their heads to indicate that no, they haven't seen that boy anywhere. To her credit, Cissy moves on the next passerby without showering the last one with abuse or trying to kick anyone in the shins. Seriously, you wouldn't be surprised if she did, would you?

Bill is still in his house mourning the loss of Zippy when he hears some very pointed chirping. "Zip?" he asks hopefully, getting up out of his chair and walking over to where a white cockatoo is perched in a cage. "Zip, is that you?" Bill repeats, before his eyes widen and his voice becomes mockingly apologetic. "Please forgive me," Bill says. "How could I have been so mistaken?" There's a pause before Bill adds in a regal voice, "Your wish is my command, your ladyship. It's Bill Jacks, commencing recon for both the missing." He grabs Zippy's empty cage and turns back to the cockatoo: "And please forgive me," he adds, "for being so slow on the uptake." His eyes are still wide as he heads out of the house: "Never once communicated in the previous fifteen years," he says of the cockatoo. Maybe it's because she had nothing worth sharing before.

Cunningham emerges from the Snug Harbor's bar. "(Breathing shakily)" is how the closed-captioning describes it, and that's putting it mildly -- Cunningham looks wrecked. And he looks even worse when Dr. Smith strolls by and greets him. "Go away," Cunningham hisses, extending his hands like they were claws -- think a very clean-cut troll or a lizard with fabulous skin. Dr. Smith is understandably concerned that Cunningham doesn't seem like his normally chipper self, but approaching Cunningham only makes him more agitated. "This is my property," Cunningham screeches as he backs up the stairs and curls into a crouching, defensive position. "I'll have you arrested...don't touch me! Don't put your hands on me!" Dr. Smith decides to try a different tack: "I've had terrible dreams, too," he begins. Cunningham counters that the doctor's dreams can't possibly be as terrible as his, and looking at Cunningham, I'm willing to take him at his word. "I dreamed about Butchie's son," Cunningham says, in between agitated gasps for air. "There in the bar. Now he's gone." Dr. Smith points out that things don't happen in real life just because they happen in dreams -- which is good, because if they did, I'd be the center fielder for the Oakland A's, which would mean I'm missing a game in Detroit right now -- but Cunningham is inconsolable. "No one should go in there!" Cunningham shouts. "I should have leveled the place." And give up your dreams of the stage? Dr. Smith suggests that maybe he and Cunningham head into the bar. "Are you crazy?" Cunningham demands. Dr. Smith considers the question: "Definitely," he answers, taking Cunningham by the hand. Palaka observes all of this from across the parking lot: "The doctor is in," he says. Oh, Palaka -- Freddy should punch you in the solar plexus on principle for that one.

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John From Cincinnati

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