Meanwhile, back at Ed's mobile motel command unit, we see he's got an audio system hooked up, and he says into a microphone, "Commence Operation Desert Swarm." Omaha 19 consists, in this theatre anyway, of old men riding through the casino on motorized wheelchairs. I'm going to assume the tactics were somewhat different in the Second World War, unless the war was won by old people spinning in circles on the edge of the Grand Canyon and negotiating dangerously slick sidewalks on their own. Anyway, the Senior Sopranos fan out through the casino wreaking havoc -- opening fire doors, triggering fire alarms. Even more irritating, someone is playing "Ballroom Blitz" REALLY LOUDLY. In the surveillance room, Danny's all, "Dammit, Ed!" and tells the other guy whose name I still don't know to get a team together and meet Danny on the floor. And while nearly all of this is funny -- Vaseline on card tables? Whoopee cushions on chairs? Cantankerous old men somehow stuck in the prize car by the slot machines? -- I'm not buying it as something Ed would actually do, what with the Montecito being his baby and everything. I mean, having the crew dump extra roulette balls on the wheel? Grabbing waitresses? Putting fake turds by players' chips? Nuh-uh. It's not happening. Ed gleefully watches the action unfolding on the screen, with Jillian getting bored. Why is she there again? She seems to be wondering the same thing, and suggests to Ed that they "christen" the "presidential suite," but Ed is plenty fine getting off on turning his own casino upside-down. "I love the smell of Metamucil in the morning! It's the smell of victory," like, please don't drag Tom Hagen into your little prank war, Sonny. You know he's not a wartime consigliere. If he were, you wouldn't be in this shape. Commercials.
In hell, opening for Celine and Tom Jones, a million dancing Shatners in white.
Nessa, observant pit boss that she is, apparently only just now notices Mike hanging out while Frank takes the Montecito for a whole whack of cash. She wants to know what he's doing there, that is to say, wot 'e's doing 'ere. "I'm his talisman," says Mike, which Nessa helpfully dumbs down to "rabbit's foot." And Mike's got some more poetry for Frank: "Got a hunch; bet a bunch." Frank obliges. "Well, you know wot they say: never kick anything inanimate, never fry bacon in the nude," and she turns to Frank now, "and never, ever mess with a man on a streak. Play on, player," she says, and gives him a wink. I'm sure they also say, "Never deliver your lines so flat and monotone that it sounds like you've been ethered," but Nessa doesn't appear to have taken that advice to heart.