Back at Sheriff Relaxo's office, the namesake of said office barges in and prevents yet another scene of Exposition, Lies, and Videotape from becoming a reality as he curtly informs Jim, "Prufrock, you're being moved. Let's go." Jim stands, because he's a pushover, and Not His Lawyer follows them outside, asking, "Where are you taking my client?" Sheriff Relaxo explains, "Vegas Pen. We're out of room here." Out of room? There's no one else there. And I don't even mean that in a they're-giving-away- the-only-money- they-have-so-they- can't-even-afford- to-hire-any-extras- to-be-imprisoned kind of way; I mean that in a literal, smarty-who-knows-the-show kind of way: no one else would be held in the Push Sheriff's Department prison because no one else does anything wrong. There's only one troublemaker, and all cameras are pointed at him. So where are we going and what's going on? Sheriff Relaxo grabs Jim's arm as they walk outside, the sheriff whispering, "You know what they do to tax men in the Pen, Prufrock?" They ask what the K in 401K stands for? What? Tell me you've never wondered. Jim asks Not His Lawyer if there's anything he can do, and Not His Lawyer at least insures, "I'll call the Vegas office. You won't go into the general population." Oooh, Genpop. Tough crowd. Pawn, standing aside, comforts Jim with the knowledge, "Cheer up, Jimbo. It's only a four-hour drive." Jim steps into a dank and crowded van as Sheriff Relaxo adds helpfully and cluefully, "Through the Valley of Fire." Jim is shackled in a seat next to two stank-looking prisoners, and the truck zooms down a lonely stretch of highway past The Three Product-Placed Ross-Dress-For-Less-Suit-Wearers Of The Apocalypse, one of whom observes, "Goodbye, Jim Prufrock." The truck continues on past a highway sign reading, "Welcome to the: Valley Of Fire." Oooh, the: Valley of Fire. Where superfluous colons can kill with a glance.