The deal has been, for lo these seven seasons, that they produce a show, I recap it, and then you come here to read. This week, because of the difficulty that human minds, coupled with human eyes, may have in processing the level of badness of this episode, I'm going to need you to do a little extra work. I need you to procure, either by printing out or cutting from magazines, the following three items:
- A photo of a kitten. The cuter and more helpless, the better. This will counteract the loss of innocence and soul-sucking this episode will present.
- A photo of a beautiful beach. This will represent calm and relaxation when the events of this episode make us want to scream with frustration.
- Photos of Al Gough and Miles Millar. These are just for dart throwing.
We open on the Metropolis skyline at night. Incredibly funky club music is playing. It's Duffy! No, not Patrick Duffy. Or Duff. Or Duff Beer. This Duffy. We cut to a fancy dress-up party. It's a celebration of white people! Yaaay! I say, let's just have a good time: we're always stuck in a goddamned barn or a fortress made of ice. Why not just let us hang out at a party with women in low-cut dresses and blandly attractive men in suits drinking until their livers cry or they get hazed? We cruise along with the beautiful people and swing by the bar, where many blu botols are stacked on lit platforms for a nice presentation. The camera glides through an air grate and suddenly we're following a path inside a CGI-animated air duct. Hey, no! I was having fun at the party! Now I have to take a cruise through the goddamned ventilation system? No fair! We sail and sail and sail through the remarkably clean and shiny vents. Hey, was that a rat? Finally, we see a masked man crawling toward us. Is that you, Sam Fisher? The sneaky man in the pipes easily lifts up a vent grate (which apparently nobody bothered to screw into place). We see a businessman walking down a hallway below and the spy-geared infiltrator drop down from the ceiling. The masked man makes absolutely no sound dropping to the floor, leading me to believe that this is a professional, not some idiot like, oh, say, Jimmy Olsen. The sneaky spy follows the businessman, rounds a corner and attacks the man with a stun gun in the neck. The man falls, dropping a briefcase. Super Spy Dude activates a glowing blue light on the edge of the briefcase. He moves the case close to the unconscious businessman's face. It's a retinal scanner. It scans as the spy opens the man's eye. The case opens. It's got a snazzy PDA inside. The spy places his own PDA next to it and downloads some information, presumably via technology like BlueTube or WiFidelity or The Googlez. The spy takes his now-information-rich PDA and gets into an elevator, He unzips his ninja outfit. There's a tuxedo underneath. He adjusts his expensive-looking wristwatch. The elevator lights up and we see that it is Jimmy Olsen? WHAT!? No, don't use your beach photo yet! Save it! We're going to need it later, I swear. Jimmy adjusts his tuxedo bowtie as ridiculous James Bond music plays. We go to the opening credits before we all have a chance to change the channel. Or kill ourselves. Or both.