And through the fire stood before me a pale horse,
And he that sat atop him carried a scythe.
And I saw since he had risen,
They, too, shall rise,
And from him, and through him. >
Our Intrepid Geniuses eventually realize that Bobby's talking about Capital-D Death, whom Lucifer summoned, as you'll recall, shortly before Thanksgiving, and they bury their pretty, pretty faces in their hands for a moment before snapping out of their temporary funk to strategize. "If Death is behind this," Dean cautions Bobby, "then whatever these things are, it's not good. You know what we have to do, here." "She doesn't remember anything," Bobby bleats, not willing to go there just yet. "Being possessed," he elaborates, "me killing her, her coming back..." He trails off helplessly at this point, allowing us all to listen as The Undead Mrs. Bobby putters happily about in the kitchen. "She hums when she cooks," Bobby smiles wistfully. "She always used to hum when she cooked," he continues. "Tone-deaf as all hell, and I never thought I would hear it again." Aw. Poor Bobby. Not like I ever gave a shit about his personal life, but I must admit that Jim Beaver is selling the hell out of the material they've given him this evening, so that's a plus, I suppose. "I WAS TOLD THERE WOULD BE ZOMBIES!" God! I'm getting to them! Jeez!
ANY-way, Bobby tries to argue that the dead are supposed to rise from their graves during The Apocalypse and that it's not necessarily a bad thing and wah, but Dean sidesteps that line of reasoning to level with him. "What would you do if you were us?" he asks. After a moment, Bobby sighs, "I know what I'd do, and I know what you think you gotta do, but I'm begging you: Please, please leave her be."
Back at that diner from the top of the hour, the boys ponder their options over coffee for a minute or so, then decide their best plan of attack involves Dashing El Deano returning to The Emporium to keep a surreptitious eye on The Undead Mrs. Bobby while Darling Sammy investigates the other revenants. Next!
Emporium. Dean cools his heels out in the salvage yard, pursing a pair of determined Ducky Lips in the general direction of Bobby's boarded-up house until...The Undead Mrs. Bobby pops up beside him to invite him indoors for lunch! D'OH! So much for Dashing El Deano's surreptitious eye, I suppose. Next!
Over in a far tidier section of town, Darling Sammy arrives at Sheriff Mills's charming two-storey sky-blue Colonial, and tiptoes around the living room window to spy on her as she reads a book to her zombie child while her pleasant-looking husband lounges next to them on the sofa. Next!
Emporium. While Bobby snoozes away in an armchair over in the den, The Undead Mrs. Bobby treats Dean to a slice of her cherry pie. No, not like that. God, you people are sick. By the way, The Undead Mrs. Bobby's apparently been quite the busy little chef since she returned to Sioux Falls, as every available table, countertop, and desk has a pie or six cooling on it. Dashing El Deano, ever the observant one, makes note of this, and wonders when The Undead Mrs. Bobby finds time to sleep. "I don't!" she perks before modifying her tone a bit to offer him by way of explanation a decidedly more tentative, "It must be the excitement." "Or being dead," Dean pointedly replies. The Undead Mrs. Bobby clearly expected that from him for, rather than lopping his rude head off with a butcher's knife, she calmly -- almost apologetically -- turns to face him and allows, "I know you don't trust me." "That's why you're here, isn't it?" she continues. "Keeping an eye on me?" Dean remains silent, so The Undead Mrs. Bobby lays it all on the line: "I know who you are, just like I know Bobby's not the same mild-mannered scrap dealer I married. You hunt things, and I...I'm a thing. I get it." "Then you know that Sam and I would never let anything happen to Bobby," Dean warns before adding, "He's like a father to us." "I understand," The Undead Mrs. Bobby assures him, "and he's lucky to have you looking out for him, Dean, but you're not the only one." "Is that so?" Dean replies, mildly enough, but there's a certain hard menace in his expression. Unable at the moment to continue meeting his gaze, The Undead Mrs. Bobby turns back to her pie making and admits as lightly as she can, "I remember everything, you know -- when I died, that demon taking over my body, and the things that it made me do." But you must understand that when she now looks into Bobby's eyes, all she can see is the guilt he still feels, and she'd like nothing more than to bring him a bit of peace, for however long she's allowed. Dean blinks. Next!
Oh, you'll have to excuse me for a moment. Dragon! "Oui?!" I think you'll want to get back in here. "Really!?" Really. "Hooray!" For yes, gentle reader, we have finally arrived at the exciting portion of this evening's festivities, wherein Darling Sammy raps at a decrepit-looking barn of a house's front door, all the while calling out for a Mrs. Jones who never answers. Looking down, he spots a tiny bit of blood on the threshold, and so cracks open the door to tippy-toe his ginormous self into the barn's foyer, and good God. It's like Grey Gardens up in here. "You can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape!" Thanks for that trenchant bit of commentary, Raoul. "No problem!" In any event, Darling Sammy gingerly shoulders his way through the mounds of trash to find a wan-looking little old lady propped up in a decaying bed about where the dining room furniture should be, and oh, crap. The camera's just leapt over for a close-up on the little old lady's face, and she's got gaping, suppurating sores on her cheeks and lips, and her already pale eyes seem to be clouded over with cataracts, and from somewhere deep within her scrawny chest, her struggling lungs are hacking up moist bits of God knows what, and as she drools no small amount of viscous fluid down her neck, she motions for Darling Sammy to come closer. Sam hesitates. "What is it?" he asks oh-so-politely from the far side of the room. The little old lady gestures again, a bit more insistently this time. "You think you can tell me from over here?" Sam wonders. Hee. The little old lady's only response is another flap of her hand. "Yeah, I'm gonna regret this," Squicked-Out Sammy winces, and yet he soldiers on over to her bedside, whereupon the weak, tiny granny...kicks his tantalizing derriere clear across the room! "VIOLENCE! WANTON ACTS OF UNREPENTANT ZOMBIE-RELATED VIOLENCE AND GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Yep, Darling Sammy soon finds himself flat on his back next to the rapidly decaying corpse of Mrs. Jones's eviscerated husband, and we get a brief of glimpse of the hole where the corpse's stomach should be right before Zombie Granny flings herself on top of Our Intrepid Hero. At which point she proceeds to, you know, drip ropy foulness from her snarling, gaping maw directly onto his face! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Fortunately for Our Dear Boy, he remembered to tuck Dashing El Deano's trusty pearl-handled automatic into the waistband of his jeans, and he now retrieves the weapon to shove the business end of the thing into Zombie Granny's mouth, and BAM! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" And as Zombie Granny's brains spray straight up into the air to splatter against the ceiling, Darling Sammy wastes not a second before pushing her hoary corpse directly into the METAL TEETH CHOMP! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Are we feeling better about tonight's installment? "We are, most certainly!" Excellent. And did you finish your Easter eggs? "I did! See?!" Why, Raoul, you've outdone yourself. "Oh, go on!" No, seriously -- this has got to be the most horrific rendition of The Scourging At The Pillar I've seen since that racist drunk directed his pseudoreligious snuff flick. "I'm blushing!" And is that... is that Saint Longinus poking his Holy Lance into Christ's ribcage on this one? "It is!" Oh, Raoul! And here I thought everyone had forgotten about poor Saint Longinus. "Not I!" Apparently not. It's so...vivid. "Thanks!" And the Roman centurions breaking Saint Dismas's legs! "I made that one especially for you!" Oh, I couldn't possibly accept -- that piece belongs in a museum. "You flatter me!" Hey, I'm serious! "[Giggle!] [Blush!] [Giggle!]" Well, we should probably get back to this tedious episode, but I have to admit, I can't wait to see what else you've prepared for this Sunday. "Hooray!"
Now, where was I? Oh, yes: Bobby's Emporium. Aftermath. Sam's already given Bobby the bad news and -- needless to say -- Speed Racer isn't taking it so well. He draws a gnarly-looking old-school revolver from the depths of his wheelchair and snarls, "Time to go." Our Intrepid Heroes are all, "Buh?" so Bobby growls, "You heard me -- off my property!" "Or what?" Darling Sammy pisses. "You'll shoot?" "If Karen turns," Bobby replies, carefully emphasizing that first word, "I will handle it my way!" Dean attempts to reason with the cripple, but Bobby just cocks the revolver and states, "I'm not telling you twice." Thus so effectively threatened, Sam and Dean tuck their tails between their legs and flee.
Of course, they make it no further than the street outside the salvage lot before Dean keys off the Impala's engine to blurt, "He's crazy!" "So, what do we do?" I'm sure Sam says. "Split up, because we are idiots," Dean most likely replies. "You go take care of all the ravening zombies in town by yourself, and I'll lurk around Bobby's backyard for a while so he can get plenty of chances to shoot me in the face." "I never wanted to live to see the end of the season, anyway," Sam nods, agreeing to the stupid plan, "and having my steaming intestines torn from my abdominal cavity by a horde of the evil undead does seem like the perfect way to go." "Then, we're set?" "We'r