Meanwhile, over at Chez Dipshits, Grossman's still out cold as Wayne slowly rouses himself and staggers to his feet. He stumbles towards the kitchen, deliberately kicking a discarded beer bottle out of his way, but the thing instead rolls ominously across the linoleum, coming to a stop halfway across the floor. Wayne obliviously totters past it on his way to the dingy apartment's filthy sink, and he slings a few dirty dishes and utensils into the countertop drainer -- the last a huge honking meat fork he stupidly inserts tines-up -- before leaning forward to splash water on his face. I immediately ignore everything else in this scene and instead cringingly await the meat fork's inevitable moment of glory. Raoul, meanwhile, has scooted forward to the edge of his overstuffed armchair, clapping his paws together in delighted anticipation. "Whee!" After a bit of dithering at the sink, Wayne finally starts back towards the living room, immediately and of course steps directly on the bottle, and flies backwards through the air to impale the back of his head on the murderous meat fork in the drainer, accompanied by appropriate sound effects. Grossman, awoken by Wayne's abruptly strangled shout of terror, rises to his feet as we catch some horrifically gruesome gagging noises coming from the kitchen, and he turns just as the camera spins to land on... "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" For yes, gentle reader, Wayne landed so heavily on the murderous meat fork that the goddamned thing shot straight through his neck and throat and is now jutting a full eight inches out of his bloodily gagging mouth while the rest of his almost-dead body twitches and spasms against the counter! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Raoul squirms about delightedly on his overstuffed armchair, his shrieks threatening to enter ultrasonic territory as Grossman unhinges his lower jaw to unleash an impressive bellow of terror himself, but his effort unfortunately gets gobbled up almost immediately by the METAL TEETH CHOMP! "Againagainagain!" Raoul shrieks, flapping his paws around in the air with glee. What the hell? Let's!
Back from the break, we rejoin Our Intrepid Heroes at the strip mall, where Dean totes up their lottery winnings while Sam receives some vital bits of exposition from Bobby via his cell. Long story short, Bobby not only knew about Sucky John's storage unit, he even built all of those curse boxes for the boys' worthless bastard of a so-called father. He also knows that the rabbit's foot they now possess is "real hoodoo old-world stuff, made by a Baton Rouge conjure-woman about a hundred years ago." "It's a hell of a luck charm," Sam guhs as he unexpectedly discovers a gold Rolex beneath a discarded copy of The Wall Street Journal on the asphalt at his feet. "It's not a luck charm!" Bobby all but rages by way of response. "It's a curse!" "You touch it, you own it," he explains. "You own it? Sure, you get a run of good luck to beat the devil, but you lose it? That luck turns -- turns so bad that you're dead inside a week!" Uh oh. "Nonsense!" Raoul interrupts. "The darling boy's one of the walking un-dead now! What could possibly hurt him?!" Um, a bullet to the brain? "False!" Raoul roars. In my ear. "As you'll recall," Raoul continues, oblivious to my excruciating agony, "delightful zombies must be impaled into their own grave beds, and as the dear boy never had a grave to begin with, he's immortal now!" Really? "Well, except for the creeping rot, of course!" Your logic is impeccable, my scaly friend. Thanks. I think. "Never a problem, you silly little man! Now get back to your story, or whatever this is!" Raoul can be such a bitch sometimes.