Wolfgang obviously has other ideas, however, because the next scene features Sister Pete hunting him down in the mailroom to chastise him for missing their appointment. "Shrinks are for fags," replies Cutler, much to the amusement of Schillinger, who stands nearby. Hi, Vern! We miss you! Come and see us sometime, okay? Only, not like that, you know? Cutler makes the mistake of threatening Sister Pete, which raises the ire of the guard who's with her. Oh, sure. She'll bring a guard to the brightly-lit mailroom, but not the pitch-black gymnasium. Whatever.

The next morning, Robson wakes up to find Wolfgang's half-naked corpse hanging from the edge of the bed in a pantyhose noose. Ew. On the other hand, James's deadpan delivery of "Good morning, Wolfie," is utterly perfect. He casually calls the guard down to his cell, and an already good scene gets even better when the guard remarks, "Well, ain't that a kick. One of you actually went and lynched yourselves." Hee!

Nappa. When everything has been said and done, and all the words written, and all the phone calls made, we'll sit together and "watch Mother Earth's last days on reality TV." And then Hill will wander by, and remind us that God, "instead of wanting to talk, is now tired of listening." God ain't the only one, my friends. God ain't the only one.

Tom Fontana: I think what we got here is a failure to communicate. So you get what we had here last week, with no convorsation and all those quotes.
Aaron: Sorry. That's the way they want it. Well, they get it. I don't like it any more than you do.
Tom Fontana: Boy, I wish you'd stop being so good to me.
Aaron: In that case, get out. Now.
Tom Fontana: Oh, yeah? Well…"You son of a bitch. Give my love to mother." Francis "Two Gun" Crowley. Electric chair, March 3, 1931. Have some of that!