Downstairs, Rico's actually doing some work! He's just installed the brain of one Abby Normal, and he stuffs the Former Robert Carl Meinhardt's bloody head cavity with a whole lot of cotton, pulling down the hair and snapping the missing head piece back into place. It's just like that scene in Hannibal, but now featuring 100% less Ray Liotta. Just like the Lord (were there one) intended. David enters and puts down a pair of shoes, telling Rico, "I polished his shoes." Yeah, David. Thanks for dealing with the grunt work. What are you going to do next while Rico stands there covered in blood, trying to make the dude look like anything besides the box from the board game Cranium? Hide his stash of pornos? Alphabetize his baseball cards? Render his likeness in pipe cleaners and paste? "Do you have his certificate? I can't find it." Ah, yes. Paperwork. When too emotionally unstable to face your own mortality, why not act as middle manager to the afterworld instead?
Rico asks David what happened to the dude -- well, I ain't no deathtician myself, but from the looks of things it appears he might have gotten shot in the head -- and David tells him that the wife didn't volunteer it, "so it must be a suicide." Rico notes that he must have been "pretty desperate," but David feels more for her, noting, "What an awful thing to do to your wife." This reminds Rico of...Rico. He tells David he needs to make a quick call because, I guess, no, this can not wait until after class, and he leaves David to gawk at the Former Robert Carl Meinhardt and think, "Sucks for you, having such a pretty computer."
Outside the room and away from Cottonhead's judging, prying view, Rico places a call on his cell phone, hears an answering machine, and leaves the generic message, "Hey, it's me. Um, listen I can't do dinner tomorrow night. I have to work. But I'll call you later and we'll figure something out, all right?" All right, Rico. And I respond to him directly on account of the fact that he accidentally called me.
Coach house, which Claire now calls home. Claire makes art while Anita moves in (the hell?), apologizing, "It should only be for a few days, hopefully." Mena Suvari enters just then, regarding Claire's photos on the wall and complimenting them. They're basically a past-episode flipbook rendered on celluloid: sacrificial bonfire in the back yard. The basement vomiting pre-blowjob blood. Claire worries that they're "pointless," because things in real life are so much more important than art. Like David getting beaten up and kicked by quick-healing shoes that dispensed bactine even while they dispensed whoopin'. Like "some old lady spits at you and it seriously affects your outlook on things." Claire turns the conversation to Mena Suvari, telling her that her work "happens to people. It's not just some image hanging on the wall doing nothing." Mena Suvari counters that she thinks Claire's pictures do more than nothing, suggesting, "We should make something together. Like some kind of mixed-media thing." This is what lesbians refer to as "foreplay."