Margaret asks, "Is Tara expecting you?" and Gemma stammers, "No, I um, I was just going some research." Margaret reads the book title: "Sonoanatomy and feasibility of ultrasonic graphic guidance in term and preterm neonates." "It's a trilogy," Gemma deadpans. You have to hand it to Gemma: Even when she is totally busted, she commits to her cover story. Behind Margaret, Unser's just skidded up, his eyes cartoonishly wide, and he says brightly, "Hey there!" "Hey, Wayne," says Gemma, in a voice that promises quick entry into a world of pain. Unser then tries to draw Margaret away with questions about his HMO, and as Margaret goes, she tells Gemma, "I'll tell Tara you're in here, engrossed in the Neonatus trilogy."
Southern corner of the Wahewa rez. Charlie greets them and says he's glad they have the privacy to talk about this increase in demand for ammo. Besides, there's a tribal matter the Sons are involved in, no matter how tangentially. We find out that Charlie's fine with upping the volume of ammo made, but he wants a larger cut of the sales. Clay says, "Our deal with the Wahewa's set. It doesn't matter who we're selling to." Charlie says, "I'm not living in a teepee, Clay. The cartel's a risk for you. I know you've got to be charging more for our bullets. I just want to make sure that the Wahewa get their piece."
And what happens to people who don't give the Wahewa their piece? They're buried up to their necks, then beset with a nest of flesh-eating ants, per the Russian thug from the last episode. Charlie explains that the tribe's big on slow death as a means of extracting retribution. Clay takes in the drooling, twitching man and comments, "That's some real cowboy-and-Indian-shit, chief." Charlie says, "It's about closure. You play a part in his passing over into the spirit realm." A woman hands Clay a shallow dish filled with some sort of ritual brew, and both Sons take a slug of the foul-tasting stuff. The What the fucking FUCK? look has not left Bobby Elvis's face the whole time. The Wahewa wander off to let SAMCRO contemplate what happens to people who screw over the Wahewa. Bobby Elvis points out that Clay's charging the cartel nearly 50% more for the same ammo, so it probably would not hurt to bump up the Wahewa's take. Clay, however, is blinded by avarice -- or a frantic need to bulk out his 401(k), whatever -- and stubbornly insists he's not altering the pricing at all, "because as far as he knows, we're charging the Mexicans same as we charge anyone else." This debate is interrupted by the Russian, who gasps out, "Help me, please. Help." Clay asks him, "Are you listening to us? Oh, you heard that, didn't you?" and decides that it's time to take out the witness, which he does by suffocating him. "You're going to piss off the gods," Bobby Elvis drawls. "I don't give a shit about the gods," Clay says in a tone that would make Richard Dawkins beg for lessons on detatchment.