Michael is walked into a garden shed, where Abruzzi's waiting. He says, "This little polka you and I have been doing for a while...as of this moment, it's over." Michael's knocked on to a potting bench. Abruzzi says, "Fibonacci. I want to know how you got to him, and where he is right now." Michael says evenly, "It's not going to happen, John." And that is the thug's cue to hold him down, rip off his left boot, and stick a pair of gardening shears on his pinky toe. Michael looks miffed. Abruzzi snarls, "Now, I'm going to count to three. One --" "I give you that information, I'm a dead man. You know it, I know it," Michael says. "Two --" Abruzzi says. "I'll tell you the moment we're outside those walls, not a second before," Michael says. "Tell me now," Abruzzi says. Michael looks down at his foot with a twinge of regret, and then whispers, "Not going to happen, John." Then we hear Abruzzi says, "Three," Michael grimaces --
And the screen goes dark, so as to keep the whole hour network-friendly. On second reflection, maybe it's a good thing Sucre didn't get that pedicure after all. Perhaps next week, we'll see if Michael's little piggy goes wee, wee, wee, all the way home.