So, Father Sneaky and The Five-Cent Piece Of Ass exchange a bit of good-natured banter with each other -- he's twisted his swizzle sticks into a cross, by the way, which: Hee! -- until the good padre takes his leave, allowing slick El Deano to step forward and drool, "So, what's your specialty?" "I make a mean hurricane," The Five-Cent Piece Of Ass replies evenly, so it's a round of sickeningly sweet rum-based cocktails for Our Intrepid Heroes!
Well, it would be, were it not for that beaten-down bit of walking psychosis now shuffling its dejected yet insane way over to the pool tables. "Hi, Chuck," the walking psychosis offers one of its fellow patrons. "Richie!" Chuck eyebrows, and two unbearable losers named Richie in the same damned episode? They're not even trying anymore. "Especially," Raoul interjects, "when it's obvious this piece of downtrodden trash is named Dave!" Oh, how I love it when you're probably right, my scaly friend. Well, except when I don't. That made sense in my head. "Mine too!" Good. Now, where the hell were we? Oh, yes: Chuck continues, concern flooding his tone, "Everything okay with you?" Downtrodden Dave's reply? "I'm just not feeling myself today." Raoul and I jinx each other by shrieking, "Maybe he should start!" at exactly the same time, and we dissolve into fits of filthy-minded giggles just as eagle-eyed Action Sammy spots the revolver in Downtrodden Dave's right hand. Our Intrepid Heroes leap into action, but alas, they're too late, for Downtrodden Dave's already blown a massive hole through Chuck's forehead with the thing. Well, I'm pretty sure it's a massive hole, given the size of the gun. Oh, the hell with it: We'll never know for certain, because once again they have decided to stint on the goddamned good stuff this evening by cutting away from the actual murder at the most crucial of moments, and rather than delighting ourselves in the sorely needed vision of brain matter spraying across the tattily attired patrons of this fine establishment, the audience is left merely imagining it all because The Kripkeeper apparently shunted the entire effects budget for the evening into hiring that dago greaseball from the motel. "RIP-OFF!" I couldn't agree with you more, doll, so let's press past all of the screaming and tattily attired patrons to follow Dean as he tackles Downtrodden Dave to the floor before the now-suicidal loser can blow his own head off. Sam sprints along after his brother and, after Dean's subdued Downtrodden Dave in a chokehold against the linoleum, sprinkles a little holy water on the loser's face from a handy flask tugged from his jacket pocket. Nothing happens. Our Intrepid Heroes goggle at each other for a moment before Sam roars at The Five-Cent Piece Of Ass to dial 9-1-1.