...this week's seedy motel room which, despite the mirror on the ceiling, has little to offer by way of overt, eye-searing tackiness. Well, little aside from the just-appearing slimeball of a patron across the hall, I suppose. The just-appearing slimeball of a patron Dean instantly recognizes as "Richie" from Brooklyn, of course, and a bigger, more stereotypical goombah you're not likely to see on this show, mainly because Supernatural's supposed to be about terrorized Middle-American white trash, not greasy-haired, chain-wearing, beater-clad dagos from Bensonhurst, which is what we're getting with Richie, here. In any case, after Richie The Wop dispatches the fake-tittied hooker with whom he'd been spending the last four minutes or so, Dean invites him into the boys' room to reminisce. Seems El Deano and The Wop first met up battling a succubus in Canarsie while Darling Sammy was still in school somewhere doing Our Town, and because Richie The Wop is FUCKING UNBEARABLE, I'll be skipping through the expository blathering that follows to draw out the salient point, which is that Elizabethville's sudden switch to Satan's side of things seems to have been effected by one Mr. Trotter, the former Lions Club president primarily responsible for opening the town to gamblers and whores two months ago, right around the time -- you guessed it -- shoulder-smashing G.I. Jake unlocked that damn door to Hell. Cue the Creedence!
Yep, Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Run Through The Jungle" kicks in on the soundtrack as Our Intrepid Heroes ditch The Fucking Unbearable Wop to prowl along Elizabethville's main drag in Metallicar for a little investigating, and to be frank with you, Elizabethville's only demonically inspired and mentally unhinged sin appears to be a citywide disposition towards inappropriate and hideous clothing, because I find everything else these people are doing -- that would be "enjoying a couple of cocktails," "chatting with each other," and "openly ogling the two remarkably attractive gentlemen just now emerging from their boss mint-condition 1967 Chevy Impala" -- entirely level-headed and normal human behavior. Of course, this show doesn't care what I think, so we're forced to follow along as Sam and Dean shoulder their way through the happy hour crowd at Trotter's Bar & Hotel until they run into The Fucking Unbearable Wop yet again, and as the only thing he has to offer at the moment is "Fuhgeddaboudit," let's fuhgeddaboud him and jump ahead to the bit where slick El Deano notes of the barmaid's derriere, "You could fit that ass on a nickel." Why here? Well, first off, because that line makes no goddamned sense, and secondly, because Father Sneaky happens to overhear it from his perch at the bar. Dean is appropriately mortified when he realizes he busted out that pathetic drivel in front of a man of the cloth, but Darling Sammy, puzzled by the priest's presence in this supposed den of iniquity, blows right past all the discomfort to wonder, "What are you doing here, Father?" "Like it or not," the priest replies affably enough, "you go where your flock is." "Of course, the booze helps!" Raoul sagely notes. Just then, the barmaid whose ass one could fit on a nickel -- if one were so bizarre as to want to fit asses on nickels -- boobs her way into the scene to add, "Plus the clergy drinks for free!" "That's what I just said!" Raoul shrieks. Sorry, my faithful lizardly companion, but if you intend to go where I think you intend to go with that, it's my sad duty to remind you that no matter how you slice it, that ass of yours is never going to fit on a five-cent piece. "You BITCH!" Now, now. You know I'm right, so let's keep this moving, shall we? "Hmph!" the callipygian reptile harrumphs, two perfect circles of outraged smoke bursting from his mightily offended nostrils. Huffy sow. Well, huffy sow-eating dragon, but you know what I mean.