In Bill's house, Bill is not making much progress on cleaning up all the bird crap, but he is soliloquying up a storm. Mostly, he's talking about how he's not a frightened person by nature but how he's suddenly afraid. "I'm feeling a real…" he says, taking the most pregnant of pauses, "a genuine frightened feeling. Something's behind and whatever the hell might be going on, I'm afraid to even turn around and look." The birds don't seem to share his discomfort. "Is that you, Lois?" Who, pray tell, is Lois? Bill's ex-/possibly-late wife? Some neighbor lady? The chick who was supposed to flip the cue card to the more compelling dialogue that actually made a lick of sense? Yeah, yeah -- Bill's touched in the head. We get it, Milch. Maybe try to work another scene in to this speedily-paced narrative.
Like more Cunningham babbling, maybe, because that's what we get next. He's back in the office with Ramon and Dickstein, concluding that the motel is haunted. "At least, Room 24 is haunted," he adds. "You mentioned you had an unpleasant experience there," Dickstein begins, uncomfortably. "It was all one in my mind," Cunningham replies, not the least bit helpfully. "Time flies when you're having fun. Mega Millions are not the broom to sweep Room 24 clean. Must I say for me? Isn't 'for me' understood?" Yes, yes -- the fat man dances by the moonlight in Chicago. But only when the peaches are ripe. What in God's name are you saying, SuperFreak? But perhaps Ramon puts it best: "You're getting a little hard to follow," he says wearily. Yes -- something to put on the John From Cincinnati t-shirts, I think. Anyhow, Ramon and Dickstein assure Cunningham that he doesn't have to go into Room 24 anymore; he shows his gratitude by hugging Ramon. ‘I woke up this morning happy," Cunningham says. That makes two of us pal. "I mistook that freedom for power," he continues. Uh huh. "Our visions are powerless against our pasts," he adds. "Happiness is helpless in passing." Say, tell you what -- you just keep rambling there, and I'm going to help myself to one of those empanadas if there still are any. There aren't? Fuck.
You know who's having a better time of things than Ramon, Dickstein, and me? Butchie and John, who have hit the local liquor store to see if the line of credit on John's platinum card is any way close to being exceeded. As Butchie boasts to the put-upon clerk about how their charge is going to go through -- guess it's hard for down-on-their-heels surfer-junkies to maintain a glowing credit rating -- John is making eyes at the cardboard cut-out girls advertising beer, going so far as to ape their smiles. He does vacant happiness surprisingly well. Anyhow, the charge goes through, and Butchie decides to celebrate his newfound financial backing by stocking up on Chivas Regal -- we'll take the whole shelf's worth my good man.