Supernatural

Episode Report Card
Demian: C- | 2 USERS: B
YOU GRADE IT
The Hardy Boys Spell "Trouble" T-R-U-B-I-L
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

Rattle, Rattle THEN! I'm not sure if you all remember this or not, but just in case you don't, you should probably be aware that The Apocalypse began in the season premiere. Since then, Lucifer has unleashed three of The Four Horsemen upon the face of the world, though over the last several episodes, we've become acquainted only with War and Famine -- the latter of whom introduced himself via a diner slaughter so gruesome that Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon has been able to speak of little else since, despite the fact that that particular episode aired a grueling month and a half ago. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Ugh. In other news, Bobby Singer killed Mrs. Bobby a very long time ago, and Demented El Deano dejectedly admitted to himself that he doesn't know how he gets up in the morning anymore before Despairing El Deano begged the heavens for help. Are we all caught up now? "We are!" Excellent, because the...

...Rattle, Rattle NOW!'s rather insistently advancing towards the front of the television screen at the moment, and I feel it would be rude of us to ignore its typically subtle entrance. "Hi, NOW!!" shrieks Raoul, waving madly at the bloody thing with one perfectly manicured paw, and Raoul? "Yes?!" It can't hear you. "Hee!" I swear to God, Raoul, one of these days...oh, never mind.

Ahem. Somewhere remote, I'm sure, a violent midnight thunderstorm erupts overhead as the rarely seen VerminCam scurries through piles of cemetery leaf debris for a bit before rearing back on its haunches to examine the headstone of one "CLAY JAMES THOMPSON," a "FATHER, COACH, [AND] FRIEND" who apparently dropped dead on October 15, 2004, at the age of 42. Barely have we had a chance, however, to absorb all of that information when CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's mud-streaked zombie hand punches through the sod covering what should have been his final resting place, and I have to say this right now: This little stunt was far more awesome the first time they sprang it on us. In any event, CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's mud-streaked zombie head presently follows his mud-streaked zombie hand from the grave, and while my initial impulse is to hoot and holler about the glorious return of the hideous undead on this show, CLAY JAMES THOMPSON's looking suspiciously well preserved for someone who's supposedly been a-moldering in the ground these last five and a half years, so I'll be holding off on the enthusiasm and such until I've a better idea what's going on with this grimy should-be corpse, which I believe I'll be receiving right about...

...now. As the storm continues to rage, the camera cross-fades to the shabby interior of a wood-paneled double-wide, where we find some middle-aged, unshorn, bemulleted, and tantalizingly beefy hesher kicking back in a tatty brown Barcalounger with a couple of beers while he tiredly eyes a nature documentary flickering away on his antique console television set. Coincidentally enough, the documentary's narration goes something like this: "The wildebeest lounges, lazy and self-content. He's oblivious to the fierce predator that stalks him from the shadows." Oh, show. Oh, clever, clever show. I'm sure the subsequent narration has just as much to do with the action at hand, but unfortunately for me and everybody else in the audience, the beefy hesher has chosen this moment to uncross his legs, thereby exposing the enormous hole worn through the crotch of his jeans, and I find myself utterly and distressingly unable to focus on anything else until something comes a-rattlin' at the double-wide's front door. Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick glances suspiciously at the wriggling doorknob for a bit before hauling himself out of the Barcalounger to investigate. He carefully picks his way across the garbage-strewn floor and pauses with his mitt wrapped around the doorknob for a moment before flinging the thing open to find...nothing at all, actually! "Rats!" My sentiments exactly, Raoul. My sentiments exactly. In any event, after getting little more than a faceful of wind-driven raindrops, Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick shuts the door and settles his holey crotch back in the Barcalounger until...the front door slams open, seemingly of its own accord! DUN! Or, you know, not, because it was just the wind, or something. "Drat!" But fear not, my faithful lizardly companion, for no sooner has Heshy The Beefstick slammed and locked the front door when... Zombie CLAY JAMES THOMPSON sneaks up on him from behind! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Yep, sneaky Zombie Clay apparently wormed his way in through one of the double-wide's unlocked rear windows and now looms above the horrified Heshy, who stammers and stutters and staggers backwards in a panic until he stumbles across his handy sawed-off shotgun, which he quickly retrieves from the floor to dry-fire in Zombie Clay's face, because stupid Heshy forgot to load the damn thing. Ooops. Heshy finally finds his voice to shout, "No! Please, God, no!" but Zombie Clay's having none of it, and he wraps his grave-caked hands around Heshy's neck to throttle the dimwitted piece of trailer trash and his mullet to the floor. And as Heshy's thick neck cracks somewhere just out of our line of vision, the camera focuses in on the double-wide's primary decorative element: A poster emblazoned with the slogan "He Who Dies With The Most Toys...Wins!" Which, you know, makes Heshy the biggest loser on the planet. Wah. Wah. Waaaaaaaah! Also:

SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul, writhing about once again upon his overstuffed armchair with delight over the fifth season's endlessly compelling blood-burst of a title card before settling himself down a bit to offer yours truly a deeply affronted glare, and what is it now, Raoul? "[A-him!] You'll pardon me for interrupting at this juncture, I'm sure!" Oh, God. "But! Would it have killed that darling little Kripke person you keep nattering on about to have shown us that fabulous neck-breaking just now? Hmmmm!?" Well, I'm sure the director made a stylistic choi... "HMMMM?!" Okay, fine, whatever: Yes, Raoul, it would have killed that darling little Kripke person I keep nattering on about to have shown us that fabulous neck-breaking just now. Happy? "Not in the least! Why, I've half a mind to...!" And I'll resist the cheap and easy insult Raoul so beautifully set up for me to allow the dizzy lizard his lengthy little rant over there atop his overstuffed armchair. In the meantime, let's carry on to find out what Our Intrepid Heroes are up to, shall we?

Ah. Much better. The camera fades up on the interior of a diner, followed quickly by a location card that informs us we've ended up in Sioux Falls this week. Meanwhile, out at the curb, Darling Sammy disembarks from the Impala to grump the following into his cell phone: "Bobby, listen -- when you get this message, call, okay?" Dashing El Deano joins his brother on the sidewalk to grouse about Bobby's unfortunate unresponsiveness for a bit before the two enter the diner, where the LYING LIARS WHO LIE -- once again masquerading as FBI agents -- spot the scruffy, scraggly haired, flannel-clad gent they're supposed to interrogate. "Whadda we do?" Sam sighs. "I guess we jus

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