Cut to Evil Ed accompanying The Three Product-Placed Ross-Dress-For-Less Suit-Wearers Of The Apocalypse (either that nickname gets a macro or I get carpal tunnel, and I just don't have the insurance for that right now) down a hallway in the casino, plot developing for the perpetually hard-of-caring, "Obviously, being only a VP, I had no direct responsibility for the safe or the safeguarding of its contents." He continues in this vein until one of the men, already exhausted by Evil Ed's very existence, even without having spent the last three years without his head shot and résumé affixed to the ceiling above his bed and a tattoo of his face inked permanently on his forearm (both of which, in my scarily advanced knowledge of him, I have quite clearly done), adds, "Personally, I'm at the point where I'd fire you for talking one more time." Yahtzee! Boo-ya! Super Boggle! Cranium With Additional Playing Card Deck!
Suits and darkness and Matrix-y zooms that would have been so five minutes ago if this episode had aired on the date of "1997 and five minutes" accompany The Three Product-Placed Ross-Dress-For-Less Suit-Wearers Of The Apocalypse and Evil Ed into the room with the UnSafe. They saunter around, all wishing secretly but with equal fervor that their boss would give them cool code nicknames like Mr. Brown and Mr. Pink, but certain that they're so cut-rate and extraneous as characters that they'd end up with dusty-outposts-of-the-color-wheel names like "Mr. Periwinkle" and "Mr. Burnt Siena" and "Mr. That Sharpener Thing On The Back Of The Box That You Could Spin That Crayon Around For Hours And Hours As My Entire Wasted Childhood Went Flashing Before My Eyes BUT IT NEVER, EVER SHARPENED ANYTHING EXCEPT MY TEMPER, DAMMIT." God, I hated that thing.
They pause for a pensive moment whose approximate measure of time is known to the television-viewing scores of us as "nine cumulative episodes," Mr. Wisteria noting a surveillance camera and asking, "That camera? It's heat-sensitive?" Discovering it is, he asks of Evil Ed, "At what point is its baseline?" Evil Ed fails to comprehend the question, perplexed that that his perpetual status as "Hey! It's That Guy…Oh, Wait, Never Mind. I Thought You Were Someone Else" has not as of yet led to him getting killed, cancelled, or upstaged right off-camera by Philip Baker Hall. Or all three at once, which I believe would be selection "D." Jerk alert! Mr. Rose-Tinted White explains it all to you: "If someone's external body temperature is less than eighty degrees" -- cut to a quick package of shots of Polito 2.0 back when he was still a whole heartbeat away from ascending to full-fledged Polito-dom himself -- "he wouldn't be detected." Evil Ed claims ignorance of all of this, and Mr. Canary Yellow is super-patronizing because Evil Ed was on Roswell and, I mean, c'mon, that's super-gay, so they insert Plot Point A (money was stolen from a safe approximately eighty-five TV minutes ago) into Plot Contrivance B (Carmen Sandiego's V.I.L.E. Henchmen finally get around to opening the safe and skulking around in the dark and naming themselves after colors and shit) and OPEN THE DAMN SAFE, ALREADY!