Kitchen. Chez Evans. It's the next morning, and Michael is for some reason in the kitchen making breakfast. And for a guy who ate his dinner with the cannibalistic gusto of an anthropological study in a National Geographic feature just days before, Michael certainly is adept at laying out the numerous ingredients necessary for breakfast preparation. Isabel enters. She is glad he is there. Bangs and Our Father the Savior enter and regard Michael skeptically, until Michael is finally able to break through his own tough-guy veneer and ask Our Father the Savior for help in becoming emancipated. Wow, this man really is God, as we cut to the next scene where Michael, ruffian outsider with a problematic adoption record, numerous skirmishes with local law enforcement, and limited social connections to either adults or peers of any kind, signs the papers that set him free. It makes absolutely no sense at all, but if it gets us closer to ending the episode, you're not gonna hear a peep out of me about it.
Hey, it's the last two minutes of the episode! Someone turn on Roswell! Cut to Porno's office, where Tony Clifton enters and tells Porno to call off the search for him. Porno asks about the gunshot, and Tony Clifton advises him to "never clean a gun while you're drinking." Words for us all to live by, really. Anyway, he announces that he's hitching up the trailer and leaving town for good. Porno advises him to do so quickly, to which Tony Clifton enigmatically announces (well, enigmatically for the next twelve seconds) that "I'm already gone." Hey, I wonder if that means he's the shape-shifting alien we've heard almost nothing about during the last hour. Turns out he is. Cut to a beat-up station wagon in the middle of nowhere. Tony Clifton pops some pills, exits the vehicle, and opens the trunk, from which he extracts . . . another Tony Clifton. Under the bright glow of the giant flood light, I mean "extremely realistic moon," one Tony buries another in a shallow grave and returns to his car. He shuts the door, holds up a hand, another bright light glows. Cut to exterior view of the car, shaking and quaking with the special-effects reality of Plan 9's cutting room floor footage. Back inside, Tony Clifton, er, shifts shape. Hey, slickster, nice goatee. He pops some more pills, drives out of the shot, and I'm back in the bathroom concentrating on that pesky ring around the shower drain before I'm subjected once more to hearing the Collective Soul song in the "songs from this week" that made Michael so damned weepy in the first place.