"What's with this book?" Brenda rants on, standing and picking up the copy of Stiff. "It's macabre!" Ooooh. That word practically undoes years of her diction coach's hard work, right there. Nate waves her off and explains that it's from Michaela for David -- GIVE HIM THE BOOK ALREADY, YOU GODDAMN INSENSITIVE NARCISSIST -- and that he just hasn't gotten around to giving it to him yet. Remember the book. Watch the book. Touch the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Lick the book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book. Yeah, I haven't read it either. People with ADD, they aren't good readers.
David "Such A Fucking Victim" Fisher sits in a dark room, staring ahead of him at a police lineup featuring five Hollywood waiters and Jimmy Felon. Strangely enough, I have flown across the country, like, fourteen time since the abduction episode aired, and on two of those trips, I saw the same episode of Frasier (you got a better suggestion?) featuring that guy as "Man Who Delivers Ice Sculpture To Niles And Daphne's Party." And he was great. But then you wouldn't believe what happened at the party, what with Frasier's wine selection and Martin's crusty insolence and the whole misunderstanding about the recipe for the foie gras! Priceless!
Seriously, I have got to stop flying Continental.
David proclaims #3 on the lineup the winner, and when he says it, Jimmy Felon looks up through the glass and gives David a foreboding glare and a small, everything-all-right- with-your-ice- sculpture-sir kind of smile. A quick cut later and he's roused by the sound of Keith "Such A Fucking Victim" Charles repeating David's name over and over. David is lying in bed, the chest hair gene clearly running recessive within him, as Keith asks David if he has any plans to get up today. David utters an exhausted "Yeah," which causes Keith to here-we-go-again himself over to the bed and ask David what's wrong. "I'm still replaying that fucking look he gave me," David says, because one-way mirrors have clearly not been invented in Los Angeles yet and the guy knew exactly where to stare. Keith asks if he wants to talk about it, and David bemoans that he's told Keith about it "nine hundred times," which makes it sound vaguely like Keith's fault. He adds that he wants to "move on and leave it behind" him, and Keith helpfully suggests, "So do it." Ah, yes. The Nike commercial cure to post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, close enough. But David proclaims himself "fucking stuck," wishing that he could tell his captor "what I think of him and what he did to me." Keith reminds him that he can do that, and David counters, "I know. I said it all to the therapy pillow." Heh. I know teenagers have lots of confusing feelings, but today it is unlawful to bottle 'em up...you gotta LET 'EM OUT... like I do, every night between 10 and 10:15, on a pillow shaped like my father. "No," Keith speeches. "You can visit him in jail." David freezes and then shoots back a comical "Are you serious?" Keith is, and David's mad, spitting back that he thinks that would be an "extremely self-destructive" thing for him to do and he can't believe Keith would even suggest it. With which Keith stands up and exits the room with great purpose, which is going to look pretty silly when he gets to the front door, looks around confusedly, and quietly mutters under his breath, "Y'know, I'd go outside, but I'm not entirely sure if I have a job right now or not."