Leviathan Chet unfortunately does not reply, "Well, which is it -- you want I should shut my cake-trap, or tell you how I found you? 'Cause iffen I shut my cake-trap, I can't rightly tell you how I found you, and iffen I tell you how I found you, I'm-a gonna be talkin'." Because that would have been awesome. Instead, Leviathan Chet admits, "It was easy -- I used pattern-recognition software and a basic heuristic algorithm to track your known aliases," which is almost as good, actually, because it shuts Dim Dean right the hell up. Our Intrepid Idiot retreats to the relative safety of the Table Of Torment, abashed, as Super-Smart Sammy thinks to ask an excellent question: How, exactly, did Leviathan Chet know what their known aliases are? He swiped them from My Missing Baboo's brain, of course, and nattering ensues regarding Leviathan Chet's inexplicable spilling of "state secrets" until Leviathan Chet sneers, "You are aware that I'm the least of your concerns, right?" A round of dumb greets this question, so Leviathan Chet guesses, "You haven't watched the news today, have you?"
Cut upstairs to the ridiculously rustic homestead's lounge, where Sam, Dean, and Bobby watch in silence as a reporter from the KZPZ Action News Team informs western Montana of the wacky pre-credits hijinks over at The First Bank Of Jericho. Despite the fact that they've been dead for the last three years, the reporter notes that "Sam and Dean Winchester are now the subjects of a manhunt throughout the state of California." Bobby snaps off the set and takes a moment before drawling, "Busy morning, you two?" "Those sons of bitches Xeroxed us!" Dean spits. "But I don't understand how!" Sam whines. "It was the hair!" Leviathan Chet exasperates from far below, and hee! The camera jumps back down to the basement to watch as Leviathan Chet amusingly eye-rolls, "Not too hard to lift some DNA out of a motel shower drain, you fucking morons!" and I perhaps added that last bit myself, but that's neither here nor there at the moment, for we must bounce back up to the ridiculously rustic homestead's lounge to listen as Our Intrepid Idiots piss and moan and gripe and complain about their miserable lot in life for a while before stupidly deciding to attack their murderous doppelgangers head-on. "Wait a sec," Bobby mercifully interrupts. "You don't have a clue how to kill 'em or slow 'em down, and your plan is, what? Go right at 'em? Genius." God love ya, Bobby. Our Intrepid Idiots, however, will not be deterred from their frankly suicidal plan of action, so Bobby sighs and insists they first see "a jackass and a lunatic" named "Frank Devereaux," who owes Bobby one "from back in Port Huron." "In the meantime," Bobby states, "I'll keep working on Chatty Cathy, here, to see if I can figure out what makes him die." "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Again: Wait for it, Raoul! "Oh, I am most sorry for my premature exuberance, indeed! Pray continue!" Okay. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Oy.