Meanwhile, Bellick is doing his best to prolong what he presumes is the afterglow from Michael's conjugal. That's right: Michael's getting an anal probe. I cannot write that sentence without thinking about space aliens. I'm sorry, that's just how it is: any reference to rectal exams, no matter how oblique and network-friendly, has me marveling about how space-faring races apparently have nothing better to do than zip around the galaxy and bugger random folks. I blame Whitley Strieber.
Speaking of people who apparently have nothing better to do than zip around buggering random folks, it's T-Bag. As he works, he sings "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." It's the first time that song has managed to sound like an insult. T-Bag is upset that C-Note did not live up to his name and remarks, "I thought you was a musical people." C-Note turns around with a broad grin and remarks sweetly, "Your parents must be so proud of you, man. I mean, you hit the trailer-park trifecta: racist, pedophile and stupid." Heeeeee. I may swoon for Quinn on the outside, but C-Note's rapidly endearing himself to me on the inside. T-Bag has himself a Scarlett O'Hara-style hissy: "It vexes me that I'm made out to be the bad guy in the room. It's not like y'all were incarcerated for stealing Girl Scout cookies. Fiddle-dee-dee!" "None of us murdered any Girl Scouts in the process," Abruzzi snarls. Linc just looks like he's trying to remember why he's glowering.
Sucre comes in all hyped up and he chortles, "Michael's coming back from the bone yard." Michael comes in looking very tense and angry. That right there should tell everyone he didn't get any during the visit. Sucre comes over and huffs, "I tell you everything about me and Maricruz and you can't even tell me you're married?" Michael's all, "When do I tell anyone anything?" C-Note's also seething with resentment: "While the rest of us are slinging concrete, you got your little girl to play on your rusty trombone, huh?" I can't believe the PTC didn't launch an immediate email offensive after that one. Ah, the benefits to imagining offensive items on television as opposed to actually observing them! Anyway, spite and sullen envy are the human qualities that transcend racial barriers, so T-Bag piles on about the incredible cosmic unfairness of it all. Linc tells people to stop picking on his baby brother. Abruzzi drawls, "I think what the idiots in here want to know is, while we're digging this hole, what are you doing?" Michael assumes a drearily familiar expression (overweening satisfaction) replies, "I'm going shopping." Gosh, with such lucid explanations like that, it's no wonder Sucre's stumped over Michael's lapse in communication.
Cut to Sucre and Michael's cell. After Sucre gives the all-clear, Michael pops the credit card out of the seam of his overalls. Sucre launches the fret offensive. Michael cuts him off by peeling off the decals that made a magnetic key card appear to be a credit card. Very smart! This way, if Nika's questioned, all she can say is she passed on a credit card; if someone tosses Michael's cell, they won't find it. And yes, Michael made the card himself, with his very own printer and card reader and everything.