Once there, McManus grimly provides him with a lengthy list of the many indignities a prisoner can suffer while confined to the hole. His monologue's real purpose, however, is simply to give Tom Fontana an excuse to hit us with his Inmates Gone Wild: Oz's Greatest Naked Hits reel, as we're treated to successive flashbacks of Keller, Ryan, and a guy I'm pretty sure was Beecher in all their splendid pants-free glory. By the way, now I really don't understand what it is people see in Chris Meloni. Not surprisingly, Kelch quickly offers to give up the man who hired him. Also not surprisingly, we next see Officer Murphy leading Johnson the Blatantly Guilty CO down that one hallway set that actually has sufficient ambient lighting. Because he's played by a talented actor, Murphy does an excellent job of tweaking Johnson's smarmy proclamations about Governor Fat Man and Little Boy's eulogizing skills like a man who knows exactly what's coming next. Because his character has to be even dumber than Omar White in order to serve the serpentine contortions of this plotline, Johnson does a merely passable job of acting like a man who hasn't noticed that he's been summoned to a suspiciously vague meeting with his boss, in what everyone knows is the prison interrogation room, less than twenty-four hours after personally arranging for the warden's murder. He blithely opens the office door, and is shocked (shocked, I say!) to discover Benjamin Prat waiting there for him with Kelch, Timbo, and a fresh pair of handcuffs all in close proximity. "Before he hauls your ass downtown," snarls Timmy, his flinty gaze now hovering somewhere between Blue Steel and Steel Magnolias, "just tell me why." When a satisfactory answer fails to be forthcoming, McManus hauls off and throws a punch that I'm honestly shocked to be forced to describe as "not even the third girliest in the episode." And it was pretty damn girly. The scene's closing shot of Little Timmy trying to look tough as he huffs and puffs with his shiny forehead and his suit jacket bunched up around his armpits has been topped on my So-Desperately-Pathetic-You-Almost-Have-To-Laugh scale recently only that by the utterly ludicrous trailer I just saw for that new Crispin Glover rat-attack movie. Have we truly sunk that low?
By the way, here's an interesting "little" tidbit I picked up while researching nicknames: If you do a title search on "little" at the IMDb, Mind of the Married Man for some reason appears at number 63 on the TV list, right between Dink the Little Dinosaur and Van Camp's Little Show. Now that's a fitting epitaph if ever I've seen one.