Up in the attic, The Prideful Pencil Pusher bursts through a door in pursuit of Sam with The Greedy Tip Whore and The Gluttonous Boozehound trailing behind him. Sam attempts the same sort of fake-out Bobby used on Sloth down in the parlor, but Pride's too smart for that sort of crap, of course, and even goes so far as to telekinetically bust open the devil's trap Sam had so diligently inscribed upon the ceiling plaster. Whoops. The Prideful Pencil Pusher then practically slithers across the floor with various taunts, but as the dialogue tonight has been almost universally painful to endure, and as these taunts are certainly no exception, I'll cut to the chase to note that Our Yellow-Eyed Acquaintance apparently exerted quite a bit influence over the other denizens of Hell, up to and including the prehistoric monsters present, but as The Ceiling Demon's now dead and gone, his prize human protégé -- his "boy king," as Pride snidely puts it -- is no longer off-limits to the gang from down under. "You're fair game, now," Pride grins through an impressive array of teeth, "and it's open season." See what I meant with the dialogue? That's a direct quote, people. Oy.
Down in the bathroom, Dean unexpectedly breaks the embrace to shove The Lusty Slut's head and boobs into a bathtub filled with holy water. Many on the boards have bemoaned Dean's never-explained apparent immunity to The Lusty Slut's many charms, but my question about this scene is this: How the hell did he fill up the bathtub? The house is a wreck, but you're telling me this about-to-crumble pile still has functioning water pipes? Shut up, show.
Upstairs, if it's Thursday, then Sam's getting choked. Yep, The Prideful Pencil Pusher's got Darling Sammy in a headlock and is slowly squeezing his airpipe shut while The Greedy Tip Whore and The Gluttonous Boozehound snicker in the background. Suddenly, up pops the mysterious and slender blonde! With death and destruction in her eyes! Oh, this is going to make the fangirls frantic. Joy. By the way, Katie Cassidy's looking an awful lot like Chloe Sevigny in this shot, and that's enough for her character to scare the crap out of me. For now, at any rate. In quick succession -- and in an action sequence that inexplicably slides into slow motion at the most jarring and illogical moments -- The Mysterious And Slender Blonde That All True Fangirls Everywhere Must Hate slides some sort of special shiny knife out of her, um, knife holster, or whatever, and rips it straight through The Gluttonous Boozehound's throat. "Gore?!" No, honey, no gore, even though a slash like that should result in instant gouts of arterial spray shooting forty feet across the room. "Rats!" Indeed. Instead, the gaping wound seems to cauterize itself with a quick-flaring burst of orange energy that vanishes almost as soon as it's appeared, and the gurgling human remains of The Gluttonous Boozehound drop to the floor just as The Greedy Tip Whore whips her body around to howl an accusatory "You!" in the direction of The Mysterious And Slender Blonde That All True Fangirls Everywhere Must Hate. Greed's still working that macramé vest, by the way, so I'm not too disappointed when The Mysterious And Slender Blonde That All True Fangirls Everywhere Must Hate slits The Greedy Tip Whore's throat immediately, rather than gifting us all with a quippy retort that would clarify Greed's cryptic accusation. Again, as with Gluttony, the gaping wound seals itself before The Mysterious And Slender Blonde That All True Fangirls Everywhere Must Hate gets any of that nasty arterial spray in her long, luxurious tresses, and The Hate Blonde -- I'm just shortening it to "The Hate Blonde," dontcha know -- shoves the gurgling human remains of The Greedy Tip Whore to the floorboards before spinning around a couple of times and jamming her trusty special knife into The Prideful Pencil Pusher's throat, Hot Fuzz-style. You know -- near the end, when Timothy Dalton impales himself on the church spire in the model village? Like that, only without any blood, because this is a television show on The CW. "How dare they sully the memory of that splendid cinematic masterpiece!" Raoul shrieks, appalled. Dunno, Raoul, but dare they did indeed, and I do believe they succeeded. "Wretches! Heartless, foul wretches!" Yes, yes, you're right, but let's finish the scene. So, the gurgling human remains of The Prideful Pencil Pusher drop to the floor on top of the other two corpses, and Sam and The Hate Blonde stare each other down for a moment before exchanging bits of dialogue of quality so appalling, I think my fingers would spontaneously rot and fall off rather than allow me to type them, so let's all wave a temporary goodbye to The Hate Blonde as she disappears from the attic, leaving poor, befuddled Darling Sammy all alone to gasp and pant and look a little sweaty and broad-shouldered and tall and hot until the most enthusiastic METAL TEETH CHOMP! of them all arrives to gobble him right up. Yum!
Out in the abandoned Victorian's expansive backyard, Our Dear Boys pitch the various corpses into a trench they've hastily clawed out of the earth at some point and prepare to salt and burn the recently deceased stereotypes. Over in a more elegantly appointed section of their makeshift open-air crematorium, Tamara stands solemn, solitary watch over the ridiculously tiny pyre they've erected for her husband's remains. Seriously, they've stretched him out over three or four shipping pallets and set the thing on fire. Didn't they construct a goddamned Viking altar for their worthless bastard of a so-called father when it was his turn to fry? Whatever. There are five godforsaken minutes left in this misbegotten premiere, and I want to make it through them quickly, and with my sanity intact, thanks very much. So, before Our Intrepid Heroes torch the dead stereotypes, Bobby wanders over to commence with the lengthy denouement, and we learn the only two stereotypes to survive were the fat guy and the slut. They should get together sometime and party about that. No, I don't know how Bobby knows that the supremacist is also dead, because his corpse isn't in the pile at their feet, and no, I haven't a clue as to the disposition of the suburbanite's remains, because he isn't down there, either, but again: Five. Goddamned. Minutes.