"Whee!" For yes, gentle reader, we have finally entered the evil undead portion of this evening's entertainment. Meathead Matt slouches on the sofa in his darkened living room, staring blankly at a home video he shot of Angela frolicking through a park, or wherever. I suppose he's grieving. He eventually rises to grab himself another beer from the kitchen, and while he's gone, the small houseplant on his coffee table withers and dies. DUN! Meathead Matt returns, collapses back onto the couch, takes a depressed swig of his beer as his onscreen self assures Angela, "You're beautiful, you know that?" and finally pauses the tape on a still of Angela's broad, toothy smile. We stare at the image on the television for a very long time until a figure clad in white emerges from the living room's shadows to cast her elongated reflection on the picture tube's glass. "This can't be good!" Raoul hisses, leaning forward in eager anticipation. Meathead Matt squints his bleary eyes at the reflection, willing it into focus, and the recognition that follows forces him forward in his seat in disbelief as the orchestra goes nuts on the soundtrack. Matt whips his head around, and we catch a hint of his goggle-eyed and gaping horror at the intruder's identity right as the camera cuts back to the TV screen. Matt emits a strangled shout before a sharp, slicing noise heralds the arrival of the -- wait for it -- SPLAT! The arc of Meathead Matt's arterial spray that managed to hit Dead Angela square in her televised face trickles towards the carpet as the soundtrack's strings scream upwards until they hit the roof of the METAL TEETH CHOMP!
Took them long enough.
The following morning, I suppose, Dean uses one of his fake credit cards to jimmy the lock on an exceptionally large and well-appointed apartment. He wanders through the apparently unpopulated rooms until he stumbles across a framed studio portrait of Angela, which he lifts from its shelf to examine. In a little parallel to the scene just passed, a woman's form unexpectedly appears in the glass, and Dean whips his head around to find some startled brunette chippie in the hall, clad in nothing more than a strappy pink t-shirt and a pair of matching hooker shorts. "Who the hell are you?!" she shouts before darting into a nearby room to barricade the door and scream, "I'm calling 9-1-1!" "I'm Angela's cousin!" Dean hastily LIES. "Her dad sent me over to pick up her stuff! My name's, uh, Alan? Alan Stanwyk?" Dean pulls this funny little "Eh, it's good enough, and she'll never get that reference" grimace-slash-eyebrow wiggle as Pink Chippie warily unlatches the door to pucker, "Her dad didn't say that you were coming." "Well, um," Dean begins, fumbling before he pulls it together to LIE once more, "How else would I have the key to your place?" With that, he jingles his own keys around in the dim Pink Chippie's face.