Under a stock-footage half-moon closely resembling something which can't make me mention how much a certain Lucky Charms pitchman might point out that it looks like a Lucky Charm, the Vintagemobile has affixed to its dashboard a bit of a task list for Jim's evening. The bullet points are as follows: Recon Demonhead Flats, Interview Caleb Moore, Find Man w/Serpent Tattoo. He couldn't have committed those to memory? Well, then, good thing he's starting on in Number One, which finds him with a flashlight heading toward Demonhead Flats. But as he climbs over a ridge and stares down into it, he notes the presence of about a billion more flashlights covering the area, and is soon confused by the appearance of an oncoming helicopter, which gets real low, like, and takes off into the darkness. Oh, wait. It's back. Run, Jim Prufrock! Run or the Push Nevada trafficopter will give you traffic and weather together! And death, as well!
Back at Martha's, Jim walks through the common room on his way out to find Martha expectantly asking, "No breakfast this morning?" He declines -- and if you've ever stayed at a B&B, you know that this is a bad idea, having briefly reconsidered your entire relationship to adulthood and self-determination in the face of some crazy proprietor waving a stinking pan in front of your face and insist, "The toast really tastes better with just a spot of beans on it" -- and she talks him down to a cup of coffee. But! "Do you have any tea? I don't drink coffee." Hmmm. People who don't drink coffee make me the slightest bit nervous, unless they're the kind of people who can produce a really specific reason why, like that it makes their heart stop or that their uncle was captured and imprisoned on Juan Valdez's killing fields or something like that. Other than that, drink up or you and America are going to have to part some ways. Martha feels the same way, clearly, telling him that she'll see what she can do, snidely asking if he has "any other dislikes I should know about." Jim sits at a nearby table next to a really, really old man whom he interrupts mid-Jason-Robards impersonation, because everyone else in this show has tied on their best Magnolia, so why not him, right? Jim bids him a good morning and watches the morning show that doesn't really exist. ABC? Un-cancel Sports Night or Prince William gets it.
M-M-Moore's house, where Jim has clearly been asked to look in on K-K-K-Ken's p-p-p-pets during Polito 2.0's lengthy visit to a chilly vacation spot called death. He enters the bedroom to find Polito 2.0's pickled body, and is soon followed into the room by Sheriff Intentionally Ineffective and Not Lauren Graham To The Continuing Delight Of Lauren Graham. The Sheriff heads criticism off, asking, "Well, I suppose you think this is a murder here too, Prufrock." Jim deems himself "not an expert" (at anything but math), and the sheriff shows him the door and promises that someone will be there to help them take care of the damn suicide because there's a cover-up or a conspiracy and no one will explain what or why, and it will never be explained, and it's going to be pointlessly confusing because we've seen the pedigree of the people who created this show and it qualifies them to steal Oscars from their script doctors and the business sense to say yes to the script of Forces of Nature, and let's face it, we've already got our feet so deep in the quagmire that we're never going to be able to figure out what these people want or why, no matter how many of them there are, so for the love of god, Sheriff, stop reminding us that this is another dang suicide even though it clearly isn't because for the love of God, Affleck, WE GET IT WE GET IT WE GET IT.