Before a dazed Sam can leave the club to track down Thurman Munson and deliver his important safety message, Profaci walks up and shoves a wad of bills in his hand. "Elliot wants you to have it," Profaci explains. "You know, bygones and such." Sam hands the money back to Profaci -- no cops for sale here, my Nathan Lane look-a-like friend. Now scamper, or Sam will arrest you for trying to bribe a police officer. While Profaci heads off with his bribing tail between his legs, Hunt sidles over to ask what the matter is. "Your friend just tried to pay me off," Sam complains. "They can't help themselves," Hunt replies, with a these-mobsters-today-what-can-you-do-about-it chuckle. Sam is not amused: "I'd rather burn that money than spend it." "So burn it," Hunt says three times, thanks to the miracle of jump cuts. Anything to avoid offending the mob. And if you do burn it, Sam, make sure it's to the rhythm of "Get It On" since that's what's blasting on the soundtrack now. Well, at least he gets to dance with Annie.
As the cops dance merrily to the sound of old T.Rex, Profaci is reporting to Casso that Sam thinks he's too good for their money. In that case, Casso says, maybe they should go lean on Rose Tyler, since that's precisely what Sam doesn't want them to do. See? That's why you don't throw money back in the face of mobsters, kids. It hurts their feelings. I read it in a Miss Manners column once.
When we return from commercial, Sam is crumpled in a heap on his furniture, still wearing his clothes from the night before. Windy is helping herself to some dairy from the refrigerator. (State of nudity: Partial.) "Rough night?" Windy asks when Sam finally comes to. Sam recounts his no-good-terrible day: saving his mother from a loan shark, crossing paths with Joe Namath and Jim Croce and "some dude in a Nirvana t-shirt," turned down a bribe from the aforementioned loan shark acting on behalf of the local ganglord, and there was that bit about the tiny robot climbing into his ear. Windy focuses on the bit of that recap that you or I might: "Jim Croce?" she says. "Far out!" Don't ever change, Windy. "I mean, what the hell is going on?" Sam continues. "I've got my past, present, and future all dropping in on me this week." Windy nonchalantly notes that this is the sort of thing that happens to her all the time: "You wires got crossed, that's all... different planes of existence between parallel dimensions -- the you now, the you then, the you coming down the pike. Sometimes, your wires get crossed, and your worlds... mix and things don't feel right. Like that time Deep Purple went on The Dating Game." Yeah, no offense, Dr. Windy, but I'm going to stick with the brain trauma-plus-coma diagnosis. Still, I look forward to reading more about your theory in this month's issue of Nature. At any rate, Windy suggests the universe is simply trying to tell Sam that he needs to something -- "help yourself or help someone else or go tell it on the mountain. All three or none of the above. I don't know." I see we've entered into the word salad portion of this conversation. Time, perhaps, to move on.