Adam tells McManus that Beecher -- i.e. "this faggot" -- jumped him, that he was just protecting himself, and that he doesn't want to spend another night in the same pod. McManus agrees, and ships Adam off to the cage with a pair of white vinyl hotpants, some body glitter, and a feather boa. Then, stating the obvious, McManus tells Beecher that Adam has a problem or two. Beecher agrees, but pulls out the tired "I know his family" crap, like being rich and white somehow elevates them both, and assures McManus that he can turn Adam around. Like the beat? Out in the blue light of night, a guard escorts Beecher back to his pod; as the pass the erotically-lit cage, Adam hisses, "Faggot," and then repeats the word, amplifying it into a shout, chanting it as Beecher crosses the common area until he's yelling at the top of his lungs like the twisted, pathetic creature he is. That seems like a sure way to stay a back-door virgin. While this set-up is both obvious and manipulative, I eagerly anticipate Adam's comeuppance (heh heh, I said "comeuppance"), especially the moment when he realizes that he loves every minute of it.
Schillinger, still on his mercy kick, tells Beecher that he's figured out a way to get Beecher some face time with Keller -- he should quit working for Pete and go postal. Schillinger will send him on the protective custody route, and voila! Oh, yeah, there's just one thing. Schillinger wants the luscious Adam in return, to do with as he pleases, which -- based on Adam's anger, potential for pure Aryan-style hatred, and kissable mouth -- makes sense. Perhaps Vern seeks a son to make up for his two dead ones. Beecher steps in to fill the "I'm trying to live a life of misguided valor in this stinkhole" void left when Vern's true colors reemerged, and tells him that he can't turn his back on his rebellious charge and let Vern "subject Adam to the same horrors you put me through," even for the chance to see Keller. Vern, stunned, compliments Beecher's "strength of character," and wanders off.
Hill wonders if "the future ain't fuckin' with the fortune-teller," for example, if the fortune-teller says you'll fall in love but she neglects to mention that your lover, who's also your sister and serial killer, will soon perish from cancer. Hill's staring into a crystal ball and wearing a red head cover, trimmed in gold coins, that looks exactly like what the Virgin Mary would have chosen had she gotten fed up with the chasteness of baby blue and decided to become an independent woman, part one. So, anyway, back to the blathering Hill, who posits that God might only hand out a fraction of the future to a fortune-teller. Um, who cares? And what are you talking about? And why is every fortune-teller in these derogatory monologues a "she"?