The Vintagemobile takes a drive through Bleached-Film-Stock-Topia, Jim exiting the car and stepping over a chain that's attached to two wooden posts and probably three feet across (walk around it, Poindexter), and stares at a trailer home with a painting on the door of a skeleton wearing a top hat and smoking a cigarette, with the number 13 painted below in red. He's so bad! Eight junior high bands just named themselves "Morris" and ripped off the design to use as their logo on the t-shirts they're going to sell for $6.66 because Satan is, like, the coolest. Jim bangs right on the skeleton, and a man wearing a black mesh shirt appropriate for gay biking and dolphin poaching opens the door, pointing a gun at Jim's face. Jim remains cool. He's not going to flinch. He's not going to be the Snap, Crackle, or Pop of the elite crime-fighting wing of the IRS. Morris tells him the rules: "You come in, you do what I want. If everything works out all right, maybe later we talk." Jim takes a gander at the too-dark-to-see inside and bails. The door slams shut. Pa. Thetic. Silly Jim, tattoos are for gay bikers! Jim Prufrock is totally the Twix Rabbit of non-gay non-tattoo-getting non-bikers.

Polito 2.0 -- a man I assure you we've already seen waaaay too much of -- exits the shower because of that new government dictum that requires every show on television to feature twelve minutes per television hour of lumpy dudes walking around with no pants on, and this is the only show whose compliance is about to prevent it from incurring a really heavy fine. Sitting on his bed is Taudrey, who undertakes the activities of smiling, pausing, delivering a line about owing someone something, pausing, rubbing an ice cube down her lingerie-clad chest, pausing, smiling. She's so versatile. She tells him to come and sit down next to her on the bed, craftily informing him, "Make sure to whisper to me. Whisper everything. I like it that way. Just one thing before we start. Did Silas happen to tell you where he put it?" M-M-Moore, king of the external kind of internal monologue, takes another ill-advised gulp of that ubiquitous truth serum called "air," telling Taudrey everything: "I knew he was bad. I knew he was going to be bad. So I took it from him. And I hid it." Where? She insists that he whisper it to her, and I avert my eyes from having to see him cup his hands over his genitals (I know…I KNOW) as his only protection from the sensors. Anyway, where? If his answer isn't "in the deep, forest-y brambles of my seemingly endless tangle of chest hair," he isn't making use of his resources. Mary tells him that she's going to "take over," and cuffs him to the bed. Der. Once he's appropriately tethered, she grabs her bag and makes for the door, poor Polito 2.0 actually asking, "Where you going?" She promises she'll be right back. And that's the great thing about Taudrey. She's totally the devil-may-care, fun-loving broad who just want to have a good time and take everyone with her along for the ride. She's like the Spuds Mackenzie of shit-acting TV whores. Y'know?