Ryan walks out and encounters Kenny, Pierce, and Poet. Ryan asks Kenny if he's ready to fight Khan, the Muslim. Kenny says he's more than ready, and mentions that he's going to get high. Ryan wonders if he should be getting high the day of the fight, but Kenny says he's like Tyson -- he parties, then he fights, then he parties some more. Yeah, and look where that got Tyson. Except I guess Kenny's already in prison. So, I guess Adebisi didn't kill Kenny in the last scene from the previous episode.
Ryan next encounters Pancamo, and wants to make a big bet on Khan in the fight. Ryan keeps moving, coming up to Khan and telling him that Kenny has been talking trash about him. Khan says he aims to win in the name of Allah, adding some other words in there that I don't know. Ryan doesn't either, saying, "Yeah, whatever. Just kick his ass."
In the gym, Ryan grabs Kenny's water bottle and starts to put the chloral hydrate in it. Then, Ryan pauses to think, and says, "Yeah, right," and puts the bottle back untainted.
At the fight, Kenny dances around the ring like a fool while Khan stands there and waits patiently. Khan probably outweighs Kenny by about fifty pounds, and it's all muscle. Kenny gets a few hits in early, but then it's all Khan. We see a shot of Beecher and Chip buddying up in the audience. Khan knocks Kenny out pretty quickly. As Ryan collects his money from Pancamo, he yells out, "You're like Tyson, all right. Cicely Tyson."
Hill, in postal worker attire, says that sometimes a package arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it's a gift, but it could also be from the Unabomber. Well, it couldn't really. I don't think they let him send packages anymore.
In the kitchen, Kenny tells Poet that it's time to fuck with the Muslims. Poet hops out onto a stage in the cafeteria and announces that he's started writing poems again because he was inspired by something he saw the other day, and that this poem is dedicated to Said, who looks flattered. Poet recites angrily:
That's it. I figured you easy.
All you want to do is get your palm greasy.
Capitalize. See, fucking American been in your eyes for
More than four hundred fifty years
And now you want to hide your tears
In your so-called Allah-given mission to help your brothers
Well, Allah gave me vision, and I'm going to tell all the others
Talking about revolution
What I saw, that was revelation.
You, frolicking with the devil's maiden.
And now you happy because you think you can manipulate her think.
Well, I'm going to put you onto something while we're locked up here in this clink.
While you trying to get us all to the heaven above
When she forget about your contradictorial ass
Make sure you hide them bloody gloves.