Well, that sure as hell felt like a waste of an hour.
When a 25-year-old douchenozzle suddenly drops dead of old age in his bathroom, the boys motor to God Knows Where Because They Apparently Didn't Have The Budget This Week For Title Cards to investigate, only to learn that a 900-year-old Irish manwitch (that would be "warlock" to you, me, and everybody else except Dashing El Deano) named Patrick has been playing Texas Hold 'Em with a variety of suckers over the last millennium with a set of magical chips that represent years of said suckers' lives rather than cash. The Manwitch is not a complete ogre -- he often lets elderly gentlemen snag a couple of extra years so they can attend their granddaughters' bat mitzvahs or bang teenaged Asian whores and such -- but he's robbed hundreds and hundreds of years from hundreds and hundreds of schmucks over the last few centuries, and for that he must die.
Of course, Bobby has to roll in from the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota to fuck everything up first, because Speed Racer resents being trapped in his wheelchair, or something like that. Naturally, he loses to The Manwitch, so Dashing El Deano has to play a couple of rounds of Texas Hold 'Em to try to save Ironside's life, and Dim Dean naturally loses to The Manwitch, so Darling Sammy has to play a couple of rounds of Texas Hold 'Em to try to save the lives of his stupid brother and their equally stupid associate, which Darling Sammy manages to do. And because this is a TV show, Darling Sammy does so in most dramatic a fashion with a last-minute four of a kind against The Manwitch's full house instead of, you know, a crappy pair of twos against The Manwitch's nothing, and what was the point of all of this, again? No, really: What was the point of all of this? 'Cause if I wanted to sit through a shitty rerun of Celebrity Poker Showdown, I'd watch Bravo.
In any event, The Manwitch is vanquished, maybe, I think, and Bobby happily rolls off into the sunset after a rousing pep-talk from Our Intrepid Heroes, and could someone remind these dolts that Lucifer is walking the earth and The Apocalypse is upon us? Because I think they forgot. Stupid Intrepid Heroes.
Rattle, Rattle NONEXISTENT THEN! which, logically, means we've also got a NONEXISTENT NOW! this episode, because it's an utterly pointless standalone that has absolutely nothing to do with anything that came before on this show, and likely has absolutely nothing to do with anything that will follow this season. Trust me when I tell you this development does not amuse me. In any event, the camera fades up on a woman perusing the latest edition of the no-longer-extant Weekly World News, whose headline screams, "LEADING PSYCHICS AGREE: THE APOCALYPSE IS HERE!" She chuckles to herself as her presumed husband barges in through the front door of their tastefully appointed and pricey suburban manse to ricochet immediately up the stairs to the second floor with nary a word of greeting to his mate. This odd-seeming behavior is evidently par for the course 'round these parts, for it elicits nothing more than a sarcastic, "Nice to see you, too," from the lady on the couch, and she returns her attention to Ed Anger's latest well considered Op-Ed column while upstairs...
...her presumed husband caroms into the main bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him before he spins around to assault the sink. He's clutching at his left arm, by the way, so already things aren't looking so good for this yuppified douchenozzle whose name we'll presently learn is "Xavier." In a panic, he yanks his good hand away from his forearm long enough to twist on the cold water, and he's about to, I don't know, soak his damn head, or something, when he's frozen in place by the reflection staring back at him in the mirror. The shot lingers on his right hand as the skin there instantly ages about fifty years, and by the time the camera's crawled up to his face, intricately wrinkled bags have appeared beneath his twentysomething eyes. Xavier's late-onset bout of Hutchinson-Gilford syndrome continues apace, with his hair simply vanishing from the crown of his head and his irises filming over with milky cataracts right before our eyes until that heart attack we've all been waiting for finally strikes with such force that Xavier staggers backwards to slam against the glass front of the medicine cabinet -- shattering the thing in a manner most convenient for alerting his soon-to-be widow far below -- before dropping to the floor, where he quietly expires against the tiles.