But then it all changed on the day he "received a fax," which he thought it was his "duty to investigate." He shows up in Push, "where it now appears I will spend the rest of eternity." Yeah, I get that feeling sometimes myself, Jimbo. Just hang on a few weeks more, and rest assured, this feeling won't outlive October and you won't be sitting around your family's dining room table through the holiday season worrying about when you're going to fit in recapping A Very Special Push Thanksgiving. This show? A very different kind of turkey altogether. Pawn seems moved by the flashbacks (and again I implore you to leave the recapping to the…oh, never mind), pausing a moment before lowering her gun and demanding, "Get up." He does so, his hands still bound, asking, "You believe me?" She's not sure. "You're either the dumbest or the most honest man I've come across, sticking to your guns like that." What guns? What stupidity? What honesty? But she continues anyway: "Let me be clear: if you get in my way, we'll come right back out here. Only next time without all the polite conversation." She warns him that her "life is on the line, here," removing from her pocket a badge reading, "Department of the Treasury" with a photo of her and the name "Dawn F. Mitchell." "Which means now, so is yours." Oh, great. The Treasury Department in cahoots with a cog from the IRS. Well, at least their hopelessly clichéd and unfairly depicted schnooky bosses will have someone to share Sabbath at the Arby's with. This is wild. I swear it.
A title card reading "The Letter of the Law" appears on screen, standing in a dark room like two stoned college students trying to make sparks with Lifesavers of the flavor Hint-o-Green. We're back in the woods, Pawn navigating perilously down the speed trap that is Exposition Boulevard, explaining to Jim in an unhappy deadpan, "I was part of a joint task force: ATF, DEA, LAPD, and Customs." Chin up, Pawn. I know Greek life can be hard when you've got the lesbian umpire stigma, but look at all the fancy letters you learned and the many different orders in which you can arrange them! She backstories endlessly about a drug bust in Long Beach, a sting that got bungled and they (the ATF, DEA, LAPD, and Customs) were only able to bring in one man. That man, however, provided Pawn (oh, excuse me…Special Agent Pawn, which I guess just equals the not-inappropriate "Yawn") with a name of one ringleader in the smuggling operation. It's "Oswald Wilkes," who worked for "Dwight Sloman." Jim interrupts Pawn to fill in the "Name Of Boy Who Runs Whore Ring From Office Marked 'Private'" blank on the Mad Libs story "A Trip To Push!" all by himself, promising to finish the story's last sentence -- "For a [adjective] show lasting [number not to exceed ten] episodes, it's almost impossible that so much convoluted [caustic swear word] could spill forth like so much [color] bile from the [word meaning 'inebriated'] mind of [name of Ben Affleck]" -- sometime later on. Whitewashed shots of strange men in large trucks accompany Pawn's continued explanation that "Sloman uses the money to finance a variety of shady deals. Electronics, drugs, even San Fernando Valley real estate. He has his fingers in more pies than Marie Callender." For those of you not from the western third of the United States or one arbitrary location that apparently dropped from space and landed on Mexico City, Marie Callender is a retailer of pies and other assorted pastries, the San Fernando Valley is a series of inexpensive bedroom communities hiding in shame over a hill behind the Hollywood sign, television writers are incapable of conceptualizing a world outside of Los Angeles even though most of them "would rather be living in New York," and any expression that links "fingers" and "pies" should be officially outlawed by a governmental dictum, particularly when uttered by self-proclaimed lesbian umpires, even if I'm the "self" who is doing the "proclaiming." I think that clears things up. I also think we can leave these two alone for the rest of the scene, while they continue to seal the deal in which one scratches the other's backstory, and so forth. Really, c'mon. You won't be missing much. If you're looking for me, I'll be in the next scene, installing my IE 6.0 patch. I expect you would enjoy it.
Under the cover of darkness, a car pulls up to the front of ShadJackBlack's shack (which is so much more fun to say than the supposedly fun tango with lingo "ATF, DEA, LAPD, and Customs," and also, ShadJackBlack's shack is a little old place where we can together). Taudrey bangs, bangs, bangs on the door, baby -- except that she just walks right in -- to find ShadJackBlack listening to Bible passages and adding pieces to an art project of some kind that appears to be The Shoebox Diorama Of The Damned. ShadJackBlack turns off Ezekiel 25:17 and announces crazily, "Mary, Mary, quite contrary." She approaches him, wasting no time before launching in: "Where is it, Shadrack? There was something else in the bag with that money." Knock a little louder, sugar, I don't think there's anyone in there. She continues the linear conversational path that only tends to work on those not in the process of affixing a baby's head to a bicycle tire and musing, "I'm sure he's just going to love this!" but she ignores the reality that his tin roof is clearly rusted, all but begging, "I know it's a book, and I know it's the only thing that will ever get me out of here and keep me safe." ShadJackBlack bellows that she "knows nothing," and he spits back, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," blowing the glitter in the hallway into a veritable tornado as Taudrey hops in her Chrysler (it's as big as a whale) and sets sail away from crazy unhelpful guy.