...Brian Doyle-Murray's on a conference call with his primary underling, some random we've never seen before and will never see again, and "Sera Gamble." "I'm trying to understand," "Sera Gamble" nasally drones via speakerphone, and Brian Doyle-Murray -- whose character name, by the way, is "Bob" -- admits, "We don't understand it, ourselves." "It appears," he continues, "that Jared and Jensen were seen beating an extra to death." "Huh!" "Sera Gamble" exclaims. The random breaks in to note, "It wasn't all the way to death, only partway, so that's a plus." "He could definitely still run," the primary underling sniffs, referring of course to Virgil. "And we'll certainly follow up on that," "Bob" interrupts, reclaiming control of the conversation as he opines, "But I think the real issue here is that the boys appear to be on some kind of extended, psychedelic acid trip." He should have gone with 'roid rage. 'Roid rage would work. Well, for Padalecki, at any rate -- Ackles is pretty scrawny. Anyway, "Sera Gamble" suggests she fly up to Vancouver to have a chat with her errant stars, but the gentlemen around the table agree that said errant stars likely wouldn't know "Sera Gamble" from a hole in the wall, and suggest she send up "Eric Kripke" instead. "And how does that make me look?" "Sera Gamble" instantly shrills, her professional jealousy getting the best of her. "I'm supposed to be running this thing!" she shrieks. "Besides," she adds dismissively, "Eric's off in some cabin somewhere, writing his next pilot!" "He sold Octocobra?" "Bob" eyebrows, stunned. "Yes!" "Sera Gamble" hisses, her contempt virtually hosing itself through the line to geyser up from the speakerphone at the center of the table. "Mother of God," "Bob" sighs, rolling his eyes. "They'll buy anything!" Indeed.

After a brief scene wherein Our Intrepid Thickheads yell at each other, the camera cuts over to "Misha's" trailer, from which the oblivious dolt in question presently emerges at the end of a very long day to climb into his Prius. Once behind the wheel, he whips out his smartphone to narrate yet another twit like so: "Ever get that feeling someone's in the backseat, frowny-face?" and OH MY HOLY GOD STOP TALKING TO YOUR FUCKING PHONE YOU FUCKING TOOL. Fortunately for what little is left of my sanity, Virgil pops up to press an actual knife against "Misha's" throat at this juncture, so I don't think the little asswipe'll be twatting anything else this evening. "Drive!" Virgil snarls, and as "Misha" goes near-ultrasonic with the girly screaming, the camera cuts back over to...