Storm clouds. The truck that I bet will be wrecked even before Jocko leaves the state of Kansas pulls into a bus station. "Taking you where you want to go," a sign helpfully reads. Well, I should fucking hope so. The wind has picked up. A mom is ushering her kids toward the station as leaves and dust blow. Jocko's shiny red truck comes to a stop. This is, what, truck #7? I shall miss seeing his vehicles go boom. In the cab, Lana asks if Jocko has everything. He says he's only allowed one bag. "I'd never make it as a Marine," Lana jokes. Yeah, because you're such a fashion plate, Barbie. Jocko smiles, and when he does, he has crow's feet next to his eyes. How old is he supposed to be? He looks like Bo Duke all of a sudden. "I want you to have this for luck," Lana says. It's her kryptonite necklace, which may finally be out of our lives for good. Jocko takes the moment seriously, but I can tell he's wondering what his buddies in the Marines are going to think of his wearing it. He tells Lana he won't lose it this time. They hug. Jocko says goodbye. He gets out and grabs his bag, his newly shorn hair blowing in the wind. He's got Peter Krause hair now. Long goodbye stares. Lana gets out of the truck and goes after him. They hug some more. Jocko says he loved her the first moment he saw her. Lana balls a fist behind Jocko's neck. He says he'll love her when he sees her again. They kiss in the wind. No tongues, though. Jocko gets back on the bus, which according to the sign on it, is going to Wichita. Lana watches him go in her little Members Only white jacket. This scene sponsored by Greyhound. Greyhound: Not All Our Buses Smell Like Feet.
Storm cellar. A shadowy backlit figure is coming down the spooky stairs. Do you smell that? It's the crispy, fetid odor of barbecued evil. And I think this particular piece of evil has been slathered in evil marinade. It's Nixon and he's carrying a video camera with a bright light mounted on it. Nixon sees a shape in the middle of the cellar. He pulls back a nasty-looking, raggedy tarp. And it's Clark's spaceship! If the Kents were white trash, they'd have the spaceship up on blocks in the front lawn. "Roger! Baby! You are going to be filthy rich!" Nixon says to himself. Not just that. You're going to be stupid rich. Lactose rich. Hare-brained scheme rich. Nixon's camera zooms in on the piece of the ship that's missing an octagonal piece.