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.
We're out in Bakersfield, where Jax and his crew have rolled to fix Kozik's screw-up. Jax is all, "A HICCUP?" and Kozik is all, "On the bright side, they only got one case of AR-15s -- that's good, right? Heh, heh, we'll all laugh about this later?" Jax is not amused, as the guns were already promised to the cartel, and they aren't the kind of customer who will cheerfully take an IOU and a coupon for 10% off a future order. Tig and Opie end up having to pull Jax off Kozik. Tig points out that their first order of business is not beating some sense into Kozik -- that would end up being a season-long endeavor -- but getting the guns back. Happy points out that in this neighborhood, there is only one place to sell those guns: to Vivica, a French fence.