Schillinger, ever the class act, shoots pool as he comments on how well the table's working. Because nothing makes a pool table sing like gang-raping someone on top of it. Just ask Jodie Foster.
Sitting in Leo's antechamber, Penders starts hitting on his assistant, who must be really over this sort of thing by now. In more exposition, Penders explains that he saved Leo's life when Clayton Hughes was about to stab him, and then goes off on how Ms. Assistant is the first real woman he's seen after being in solitary for almost a year ('cause the female hacks don't count -- I hope the lady guard standing there kicks his ass after they leave). "You're very pretty," he says, as though she's going to stop her typing and straddle him. I guess you don't get if you don't try, right? Leo calls Penders into his office; when the latter pauses to say goodbye to Ms. Assistant, Leo barks, "Now." Penders, out of solitary, wants to stay out, and thinks that his best chance is to avoid conflict -- and therefore contact -- with the other inmates. Rather than working in the shop, Penders would like a job in Leo's office. Out of the question, says Leo, and don't say you owe me because I hate that phrase, which deflates Penders' quest for payback. In a lot of unnecessary words, Leo tells Penders that he hates him because he serves as a constant reminder of what happened to Clayton, and that he needs to avoid Leo at all costs or risk a return to the hole. Leo then shoos him out with this really strange flapping motion.
With all this talk of dreams, there had to be something about the wet ones. It's time. A shirtless Hill talks of the wonderful, wonderful wet dream, which arrives at puberty with thoughts of canoodling with Pam Grier, Barbi Benton (big shout-out to her), or some little white girl from the fifth grade in a slouchy Girl Scout uniform, which for reasons I'd rather not explore grosses me out. As we get older, the wet dreams stop, but by then we're getting laid, so who cares. Until we realize that our partner doesn't fuck like Pam Grier, look like Barbi Benton, or love us as innocently as the Girl Scout. Wow. I can relate to that approximately not at all.
As a television journalist struggles with a sudden onset of narcolepsy, Governor Devlin talks about a new law that brings back the death penalty -- in the form of electric chair or lethal injection -- and sends a clear message to miscreants: "Stop murdering our families." Yes, that's definitely the message it sends, Governor. Pan out to reveal Beecher sitting with Rebadow and Busmalis, and constantly turning around to look behind him. Rebadow wonders what's going on, and Beecher explains that his hunk of burning love returns today, and he's feeling a bit anxious. Yeah, I'll bet that's what he's feeling. He asks Rebadow how he looks. "Anxious." "I was hoping you were going to say 'fuckable,'" says Beecher. Not with that hair, honey. And yuck. And I think he's got some pretty stiff competition from Schibetta in that department. And I so did not need to hear that.