We're back at the Yost house -- Mitch is still floating, while Bill sits there, wordlessly, with an expression that seems to say, "I regret answering my phone." Butchie and Shaun have arrived now, too, and Butchie wants to know why they can't just yank Mitch down. Because Mitch won't hear of it -- "I want as little complication as possible," he says. "I need to know what this is about." So float that man up a laptop and get to Googling. "What about the complications for us, Mitch?" Cissy mutters. "Worrying you'll piss on our heads every time we'll walk under you." If I were Mitch, this is about the time I'd be clawing an escape hole through the ceiling in hopes that I'd float far enough away to never hear Cissy's voice again -- outside the Earth's atmosphere should do the trick. "You can tell me about where you went, Gramps," Shaun says. Mitch sheepishly responds that he can do that from the ceiling. "So why aren't you, Dad?" Butchie asks pointedly. Mitch shoos them out of the room so they won't see him cry. Bill excuses himself to use the restroom -- Bill Jacks doesn't piss on anybody's head.
Back at the Snug Harbor, some people respond to life's twists and turns with prayer and contemplation, others float to the ceiling -- Ramon cooks. He's doing that now with the able assistance of Cunningham. Linc shouts to them that they're going to be a part of a parade down at the pier -- you too, drug-dealing Hawaiians. The tailor is eyeballing the camouflage wetsuits and concluding that there's no way to paint the pattern on other wetsuits -- not in two hours anyhow. But he'll slap some stick-figure logos on some other suits and call it a day. Zack Morris is there -- regnant populus, baby -- and demanding to know a few things from Linc: "As his personal manager, now with Shaun back from the dead, and outer space, too -- and assuming he's signed you, too" -- that bit is directed to John, and yes, Linc has signed him -- "your idea for this skit in a barn is, like, 'Stinkweed!' Its face on all this." John echoes something dismissive Zack Morris said about miracles way back when, and Zack is impressed not a whit: "So you tell him something I said to you, and I'm supposed to think, 'Whoa, he just came up with that.' And then I'm supposed to just wet my pants and okay the street fair." Okay, John parrots something else, then: Zack's bribe offer to Tina. When Zack still isn't convinced, John hits him with something Linc hasn't heard Zack Morris say. Better start believing, Zack, or he's going to start quoting poorly written mash notes you composed back in junior high. "Do the T-shirts," Zack Morris tells the tailor. "Stinkweed logos on the wetsuits." John declares that they need an El Camino, while the tailor asks whose logo the stick figure belongs to. "Mind Your Own Fucking Business, Incorporated," Zack says. Is that a Delaware corporation? The tailor departs in a huff, leaving Zack and Linc to sort out what's what. John is fronting for his Father, Linc says. So that means his Father has plans for the Yosts, Zack concludes. Ah, but John talked to Linc first, as Linc points out. So Linc is involved, too, Zack figures. "I'm a salesman," Linc says. "I'm guessing he wants me to sell the family." And that's how God got into the surfware business.