Out of the licking, violent, blazing, stoned-guy-holding-up-a-lighter-before-the-encore-at-a-Frampton-concert-esque levels of sheer conflagration, Porno comes a-stumbling, still bedecked in his security guard finery. He falls to the ground and commences his choking exercises, so Isabel attempts to occupy his mind with thoughts of happier endings: "Where's Max? Jim, where's my brother?" When did he become "Jim," I wonder? I know she's eighteen and all, but societal mores dictate a certain amount of respect be paid to those overnight minimum-wage rent-a-cops that form the backbone of our fragile culture. But Jim Porno has nothing but the happies to report: "He's dead." Isabel responds "No!" in that incredulous happy way that means "Yes!" He repeats it many times, even once phrasing it in the native hick dialect of the desert Southwest he no doubt hopes she'll understand: "He's dead, I tell ya!" A-yuh. Shoulda known a storm was a-comin'.
They make a break for it, and we cut to the three of them bursting out the front door of the building, an exterior shot displaying how fake fake fire can really be. Once safely a full nine inches from the front of the building (hella good safety precautions there, "Sheriff"), Isabel repeats that Max can't be dead, and Porno confirms for her that, in fact, "I tried to get to him, but he collapsed into dust." But just then, Morgan Fairchild's evil henchmen (aw, man. If "Morgan Fairchild's evil henchmen" weren't already the hidden recap phrase of the week, it sure as hell should have been) run from the front door to a nearby limo, Michael noting, "There they are." Porno tries to warn them: "They're armed! With the obvious silver bullet of sheer predictability!" But no matter. Michael and Isabel make a reflexive bolt toward the car, holding out their hands to enact mad magic powers (here, Michael. Here's a bowl of soup and a can opener. Can you open the soup for me, or oh, never mind. I'll just do it myself). But Isabel can't get out of the way of one oncoming bullet, the gun in the first act goes off in the first, and Isabel is taken down by a stray bullet before Michael's powers make the evil henchmen trip over their car. Oooh, good one. The limo peels off, and Isabel goes down in slo-mo, shot through the heart and giving love a bad name. Viewers? You're to blame. Michael kneels beside her and thinks, "What does this emergency call for? Think, Michael! Think!" before deciding that one gaping wound to the chest deserves another, ripping off his shirt like the stripper at a fat farm and revealing, however briefly, every inch of his sunken upper body. Viewers? That's your fault, too.