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?
Over at One-Eyed Sloman's, Jim enters in his beige leisure suit and no tie, interrupting Taudrey mid-conversation with a post-holocaustal Jack Black with the post-Dungeons-and Dragons name of "Shadrack" (you've got to get a pretty low roll on that billion-sided die to end up with a name like "Shadrack"). She's advising him, "Because I want you to, Shadrack. That's why." He worries that "it's dangerous in Demonhead Flats," and Jim asks, "Where is Demonhead Flats?" Introductions all around, Shadrack asking, "Prufrock? Any relation?" Jim sits, engaging him in conversation, Shadrack offering that he "creates art inspired by the desert," which is just exactly what you'd expect your friendly neighborhood gnomish Shadrack to say, isn't it? Taudrey sends Shadrack on his way, and Jim launches in about Taudrey lying to Jim about knowing Silas Bodnick. Twenty sentences begin and fail to end, Jim finally asserting, "I think there are a lot of bad people here doing a lot of bad things, and I intend to get to the bottom of it all." But just then, three slo-mo men enter the bar dressed as cowboys in varying shades of hat, and as they leave and Jim is furrowed of brow, Taudrey takes him onto the dance floor and explains that Silas was stealing money, and that's pretty much all she knew. "But now he's dead, and you're still here. So what aren't you telling me, Jim Prufrock?" I wish against wish she would stop referring to him by both of his names, don't you, Benjamin Affleck? She assumes from the fact that Jim is no longer married that "your wife didn't treat you very well, did she, Jim?" Dancing dancing dancing. I'll be the first to say it: this scene is crap. And Snap, Crackle, and Pop (sorry. I know. I'll stop) know it too, as they take this opportunity to zoom from this conversation on a monitor to one of Taudrey's conversation with Polito 2.0. They're trying to figure out what he whispered in her ear regarding the location of the money, and we learn that it is buried at "Demonhead Flats." But Demonhead Flats, we learn, is "approximately nine square miles, sir." And we're back in Polito 2.0's house, a man coming through the front door with a hook of some kind in his hand. As Polito 2.0 begs for his life, the hooks pick up some gigantic block of ice, shoving it though a huge shredder, and sending billions of cubes showing down on a screaming Polito 2.0. Polito 2.0 screams in horror. We twelve viewers scream in horror. The estates of Walt Disney and Ted Williams nod approvingly. Why not just shoot him in the face? That was very sharks-with-laser-beams of them.