Our Intrepid Heroes leave the main drag of the backlot behind and wander through some trailers on their way to Stage Nine. Dean's awfully delighted to be there, and excitedly points out Matt Damon off to the side. The Ginormotron glances over and sniffs, "I'm pretty sure that's not Matt Damon." "No, it is," Dean insists instantly, refusing to look again. "Well," Sam eyerolls, "Matt Damon just picked up a broom and started sweeping." Insert your own joke about the appropriateness of the janitorial professions for that particular actor here. Dean, ignoring me, insists that Matty Boy's simply researching a role, so Sam blows it all off to drag Dean off to their intended destination. Dean protests that they should check out more of the lot before they get down to business, as they came to Los Angeles "for a vacation -- swimming pools and movie stars," the whole deal. Sam snarks something about the current weather being a little too Canadian for swimming before Dean makes reference to the late, unlamented (by me, at any rate, because she was a motherfucking werewolf, for Christ's sake) Madison by way of announcing to us all that he thought this fun little trip to Hollywood would take Sam's tremendous mind off his recent troubles. Sam rather unhealthily insists that work helps keep his mind off of things, thank you very much, and Our Dear Boys finally get around to discussing this week's case. By the way, apropos of absolutely nothing, they've been ambling along for all of a minute at most, and they've already passed extras attired as cowboys and Roman centurions. I'm surprised The Kripkeeper didn't go all out with the superfluous background supernumeraries by tossing in a gaggle of Vegas-style showgirls, a cluster of cigarette smoking Louis XIV aristocrats, a couple of half-naked Indians chatting up a Zulu warrior princess, and Hitler.
In any event, the boys review the facts of Ole Grizzly Frank's violent and untimely demise, and there's nothing we don't already know, aside from the fact that The Wide Wide World Of Web's already running rampant with rumors of similarly violent and untimely deaths on the same soundstage in the past. Dean goes on at length explaining the supposed Poltergeist curse -- because, as he puts it, Sam "know[s] nothing of [his] cultural heritage" -- before wondering if Sam managed to snag a copy of "Frank Jaffe's" death certificate. Sam admits he hasn't but dismisses the whole thing, nattering something about people never using their real names in Hollywood. He does note, however, that someone on the set claims to have spotted something unnatural in the moments before she found Frank's corpse, and if El Deano was inordinately thrilled to spot the supposed Matt Damon earlier, his reaction then is nothing compared to the spasms of joy that twitch across his face when he learns that the witness in question is "Tara Benchley." "Tara Benchley?" he repeats, halting dead in his tracks in initial disbelief. "From-Fear-Dot-Com-and-Ghost-Ship Tara Benchley? Dude, why didn't you say so?" As Dean breaks out a thousand-watt grin of fan-boyish glee, Sam blinks. "So, now you're suddenly on board?" Sam snits, referring to Dean's earlier reluctance to get to work immediately. "I, just, uh," Dean stammers, struggling to suppress the grin before LYING, "I mean, I'm a fan of her work." And by "work," he means "boobs." I'm sure. El Deano wilts a bit under Darling Sammy's stern gaze, and he drops his head prior to continuing, "It's very good." Hee.