Hoyt's. That leering waitress from the earlier montage tosses some darts at the bar's board, flirtatiously inviting Darling Sammy and his remarkably broad shoulders to join her for a game or two, if you know what she means, and I think you do. "Tramp!" chides Raoul, and for once, the following phrase actually applies: You're just jealous. "Oh, it's true!" Raoul sighs, collapsing backwards against his overstuffed armchair, a paw pressed against his forehead in despair. "Why can I not find a gentleman of such outstanding character in this city?!" Okay, for one thing, that's not his character you're staring at, Raoul, and for another: House arrest. "SILENCE!" Hey, you started i-- "I WILL HAVE SILENCE!" Fine! Fine. You just wallow in your self-pity while I continue with the scene, okay? "Okay!" Dizzy lizard.
ANY-way, the waitress -- who addressed Sam as "Keith," by the way -- next smiles, "You finish that crossword puzzle in the kitchen? The New York Times Saturday crossword?" Super-Smart Sammy did, of course, and in ink, I've no doubt, but that's not important. What is important is that I'm calling bullshit on this whole ridiculous exchange, because Garber sits in the middle of a vast cultural wasteland known as "Northwestern Oklahoma," and there is no way -- NO WAY -- a bar like Hoyt's, in a town like Garber, in a part of the country like that, would have a copy of the goddamned New York Times lying around in the kitchen. No. Just... NO. In ANY event, the whole stupid crossword thing's just an obnoxious jumping-off point for this flirtatious waitress to Valley Girl, "You blow into town last week, you don't talk to anybody, you're obviously highly educated, you're, like, this..." "...riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a taco?" And cute, Sam, but still: Shut up, Supernatural.
The Lascivious Lass (hey, they still haven't given her a name yet, so why should I?) then challenges Our Intrepidly Mysterious Hero to a game of darts; if she wins, he buys her dinner and tells her his entire life story. Sam's prize for winning -- that would be getting this bleached blonde bint to shut the hell up already -- is never explicitly mentioned, but it doesn't matter, for he steps up to the line and immediately throws three bullseyes in a row. Atta boy. The Lascivious Lass, not getting the message (though in her defense, she is trying to get into Sam's pants), makes with more of the flirtatious remarks, so it's a happy thing as far as my sanity goes that the bartender's just cranked up the sound on a televised news report regarding dire doings in a nearby Oklahoman hellhole. The torrential hailstorm that assaulted the area beginning that afternoon suddenly turned into a rampaging cluster of lightning strikes that touched off fires now threatening to consume the entire town, which in that part of the state probably amounts to eighteen doublewides and a hayrick. "Is it me," the husky old coot of a bartender rhetorically wonders, switching off the depressing news, "or does it seem like the end of the world?" Sam clenches.