And we go to the credits, which we didn't get last week at all. They include: drugs, cash, people getting blown away, Chato having cheer sex with the camera, blood, tigers, more cash, strippers, priests, pistol-whipping, masks, thumb-wrestling, and Sheryl Lee with an entirely new haircut. She also gets the coveted "and starring [so and so] as [such and such]" credit. "New" doesn't really equal "better" as far as her haircut goes, by the way, although it does make her look about ten years younger.
An SUV roars into...somewhere in Juarez. I don't know. Is this the mall? A restaurant? A church? Marlene and Miguel's other house? No idea. At any rate, Marlene slides out of the back seat of the car.
Inside...wherever we are, Poppy from Seinfeld is wearing a general's uniform and telling Miguel that he's really going to miss Tio Jorge. "I appreciate that, General," Miguel says, handing General Poppy a cigar. They sit. Whose house is this? Whoever's house it is, he or she has fabulous taste, because the place is gorgeous, all red walls and lead-paned windows and fireplaces and piles of books. I want to live there. General Poppy wonders what exactly happened to Tio Jorge. He heard, he says, that the CIA had Jorge poisoned. "Tio Jorge committed suicide. The pressure of being on the run got to him," Miguel corrects him, looking at Poppy levelly. "In our younger days, me and Jorge, we screwed a lot of whores," is Poppy's response. "Your uncle, he liked them to be young. Fifteen, sixteen years old." Miguel blinks. "Holy Jesus," Miguel's Mole mutters. "Is that what you came here to say?" Miguel finally forces out. General Poppy tells him that, actually, he wants to talk about "the future." Miguel, he says, needs the general's friendship now even more than ever. And, in exchange for that friendship, the general will gladly accept $3 million a month. "A million a month isn't enough?" Miguel asks, faintly incredulously. "I want three million!" Poppy announces. "So, do you accept my offer?" Miguel calmly puffs on his stogie. "Are you even the man I should be talking to?" Poppy continues. "Because if you're not the man, tell me who is, so I can talk to him." Miguel calmly informs Poppy that they'll work this out when he gets back from Sinaloa. "After I have buried my uncle," he says, standing and taking Poppy's glass. "I will pass on your condolences to the widow. Buenos tardes, generale," he says, gesturing toward the door. But Poppy doesn't get up. "We don't know each other very well," he begins, then finally stands. "But you should know, Miguel, no one dismisses me from a room. Not your uncle and not you." Miguel says nothing, but just looks at him. "Unless you think yours is bigger than mine," Poppy adds. Ah, six minutes in and already we're talking unit size. Aaron Spelling rocks. Miguel laughs humorlessly. "Why don't you show me? Show me what you have," Poppy challenges, unbuckling his belt. "Holy shit, is he really taking off his pants?" the Mole wonders. Miguel can't believe this guy is dropping trou in his living room. And Poppy does. His junk is covered by a conveniently placed object d'art on the coffee table, but, people, we see pubes. Man, of all the guys on his show to go bottomless, it would have to be Poppy. "There's no one here. Let me see it," Poppy demands. Miguel doesn't know where to look, but he seems both amused and appalled. And he does check out the goods. "Show me!" Poppy demands. At this point, Marlene walks in the house and gets an eyeful. She closes her eyes briefly, shakes her head, and smiles. "General [Poppy]," she says. Miguel shoots her a brief "can you believe this guy?" look. "What a surprise to see you," Marlene tells him smoothly. Then she goes upstairs to wash out her brain with lye.