Supernatural
Survival Of The Fittest

Episode Report Card
Demian: C- | 11 USERS: B
YOU GRADE IT
They Should Have Cancelled The Hardy Boys Years Ago

...wherever the hell Dead Bobby's been hanging out lately to watch as he steers that hotel maid through the rain and into a motel forecourt, where he covetously eyes a late-model pickup. Dead Bobby directs the maid to the pickup's bed, where he finds yet another massive sledgehammer just sitting there waiting for him, but when he forces the maid to latch onto the thing's handle, a sudden shock of whatever zaps him straight out of the hapless woman's body. And as the maid collapses back onto the pavement in an understandable daze, Dead Bobby howls, "Son of a bitch! Pure iron, dammit!" We'll go with that. I guess. In any event, the maid pleads with Dead Bobby to let her go, but Dead Bobby's a ghost on a mission, so he just plunges back into her. DUN!

Seattle. Richard Roman and Leviathan Sue power through the tackily-appointed halls of SucroCorp's world headquarters, nattering away at each other over various unimportant details until Roman rather unexpectedly wonders, "Do I look like a fool?" No comment. Leviathan Sue obviously disagrees with me on that point, and prompts her boss for a little clarification. "Have I told you there are three rules to contract negotiation?" Roman asks by way of reply before proceeding to list those rules like so: "Bring breath mints, get it in writing and have a plan for when they screw you." "Go to the freezer," he suggests. "The arm?" Leviathan Sue guesses. "The arm," Richard Roman confirms, and with that, we take our momentary leave of them to head on over to...

...some anonymous conference room, where we find that sniveling, snot-nosed teenager pacing back and forth until one of his Leviathanically-enhanced handlers opens the door to escort a bored-looking, Twizzler-chomping blonde over to a chair, after which the Leviathanically-enhanced handler retreats. That was exciting. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" I couldn't have said it better myself, my scaly friend. Gosh, it's good to have you home again. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, whatever.

Ridiculously Scenic Rustic Homestead. Our Intrepid Heroes gather all the components of This Year's Unnecessarily Complicated Ultimate Weapon together and, after they give voice to a few last-minute doubts regarding Crowley's trustworthiness, Darling Sammy dumps the various vials and containers of blood over the late Sister Mary Constant's shattered femur. Nothing happens. "Where's the kaboom?" Dashing El Deano more or less asks. Darling Sammy of course doesn't have an answer for that one, but we haven't time to linger on the depressing implications of their kaboom-less magical futzings because My Batshit Baboo's just fluttered in from the stormy coasts of Normandy with a couple of artisanal sandwiches for Our Intrepid Heroes' delight and delectation, and could you please knock all of this tedious shit off and kill someone already? Please? PLEASE? They don't answer me, because they never have answered me and they never will answer me, and after My Batshit Baboo refuses once more to have anything to do with the Leviathan vanquish, we head back to...

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Supernatural

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