...a cemetery. D'OH! Yes, Miss Elizabeth Duren has been dead for ten years, and The Late, Unlamented Mr. Hammond's standing order at Jane's was for floral arrangements to decorate her grave. "Died at ten," Sam realizes after spotting the enormous "1991-2001" etched into Miss Duren's headstone, for Sam is excellent at math. "So," he proceeds to ask of Dean, "who was she?" Like your stupid brother's gonna fucking know, you moron.

Cut to This Week's Motel Room, where Super-Smart Sammy's already found an article from the May 11th, 2001, edition of the Detroit Daily News that details the circumstances surrounding Miss Duren's untimely demise. "Killed," Sam reads from the paper's website, "when a neighbor backed out of his driveway without seeing her bike." Said neighbor was, of course, The Late, Unlamented Mr. Hammond, so Our Intrepid Idiots figure they've got a pissed-off ghost on their hands, and Sam immediately leaps to his feet to desecrate Miss Duren's grave. Dean, however, seems mightily reluctant to salt and burn whatever's left of the wee corpse's earthly remains, which apparently means that Something's Not Quite Right With Dashing El Deano This Evening, but fuck if I can be bothered to care what that Something is at this point. Well, aside from the fact that I'm certain that Something is Something Unearned, better known as Something They Pulled Out Of Their Collective Ass For The Purposes Of This Evening's Presentation, also known as Something We'll Never Hear About Again Once This Wretched Episode Has Finally Ended. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Oh, mind your own business, lizard.

Graveyard. We're treated to a far-too-brief Desecration Montage before the camera cuts over to capture...

...a panic-stricken gentleman, racing on foot through the darkened streets of what that target=_"blank">familiar-looking pub he's passing would have me believe is Paterson, New Jersey. The panic-stricken gentleman peels across a deserted street, pursued by a black, late-model German shepherd that's apparently intent on tearing out his throat, with the dog nipping at the guy's heels until Our Imperiled Friend disappears into a convenient diner. The soon-to-be-dead gent opts for the presumed safety of the men's room, where he locks himself in and leans against the wall to dial 911 and scream, "There's a dog after me!" with his heaving breaths fogging up in the bathroom's suddenly supercooled air. DUN! And sure enough, a persistent doggy panting erupts behind him, and Our Imperiled Friend turns to find himself staring straight into the jaws of that late-model German shepherd. The dog growls, and as Our Imperiled Friend howls, "Nooooooo!" that late-model German shepherd knocks Our Imperiled Friend right into this evening's first METAL TEETH CHOMP!