This week's entirely awesome episode begins with Our Intrepid Heroes investigating your run-of-the-mill haunting in -- of all places -- a comic book store, but when The Comic Book Guy immediately accuses them of something incredibly distasteful known as "LARPing," which I never needed to know existed, ever, the boys put the kibosh on the ghost hunt in favor of immersing themselves in the fandom surrounding a series of novels called Supernatural, which happen to include every single detail of their lives from Seasons One through Three, up to and including that fabulously stupid racist truck, those hideously stupid racist bugs (complete with Insta-Dawn!, I'm sure), the unfortunately aerated (but not noticeably racist) Madison, and the reason Dashing El Deano's racist against dogs (including, presumably, Madison).
Seems an alcoholic, shut-in hack named Chuck Shirley [Felicity's Richard) -- who lives in Kripke's Hollow, naturally -- has been on the receiving end of four years' worth of painful visions that he funneled into his fiction, and while the Supernatural book series was cancelled right after its Dean went to Hell, Chuck continued to labor away on new titles, including the latest, which includes the details of this very episode, as this episode is airing. A great, big, meta mind-fuck of truly epic proportions, I hear you say? It is, indeed, but it gets brilliantly tied into this season's overarching storyline when My Sweet Baboo pops up to announce that Chuck is actually A Prophet Of The Lord, and that the Supernatural book series is destined one day to become "The Winchester Gospels." Did I mention how awesome this episode is?
In any event, startling revelations aside, the main plot involves Our Dear Boys contorting themselves into a variety of extremely amusing shapes in failed attempt after failed attempt to prevent Chuck's latest prophecies from coming true, leading up to the return of an adult Lilith, who makes Darling Sammy an offer he can't refuse: She'll call off The Apocalypse if he and his brother agree to die. Just as Sam's about to seal the deal [In all senses of the word! - Z], Dashing El Deano arrives with our freshly minted Prophet and said Prophet's avenging guardian archangel to drive Lilith out of town, so that whole saving-of-all-Creation thing is going to have to wait another week or two. Or, you know, until May sweeps. Whichever comes later. Damn you, Kripke!
Rattle, Rattle WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, jumping the gun considerably and now feeling quite the fool, given that he's writhing about upon his overstuffed armchair with delight over nothing more than a flock of twittering birds. "Oh, I am ashamed!" Raoul shrieks, blushing furiously. "However! In my defense, you did startle me with that most unusual outburst of yours!" My apologies, friend of friends, but I was quite startled myself, for they've skipped the BLOOD-RED THEN! this evening. "Entirely?!" Indeed. "How rude!" Well, to be honest with you, Raoul, skipping the THEN!'s nothing compared to everything else they skipped this evening, if you understand my meaning. "I do not!" Then follow along, my impressively fanged companion, and you shall learn all. "Thanks! I can't wait to see what this charming little Thursday-evening divertissement has in store for us tonight!" Oh, they're just going to break your poor little heart, aren't they? I'll get the Kleenex ready.
There. Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: This THEN!-less introductory segment, during which the camera's risen on the interior of a darkened and absolutely tragic bachelor pad as a flock of incongruously joyful songbirds twitter somewhere outside the house. The camera hoists itself over the back of the sofa to take in the pad's apparent owner, dead to the world, clad in little more than some plaid boxer shorts and a stripey robe with his face all unshorn, and as I apparently attended college with this actor back in the day, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn this is not the first time I've actually seen the guy dead to the world, clad in little more than plaid boxer shorts and a stripey robe with his face all unshorn, but that's neither here nor there at the moment, for we must join this unconscious slob as he's...flung into a vision of this evening's events! Well, a few of this evening's events, actually, and some of them run in reverse so that the last shot in this guy's head is actually the first shot of the episode proper, so I do believe it's time for all of you to shut the hell up for the...
...Nonexistent NOW! The NOW! enjoys its week off, I'm sure, getting trashed at a bar somewhere with the THEN! and the -- spoiler! -- RAAAWWWR! as some geek sporting a Star Wars tee beneath his open Hawaiian shirt browses through the fantasy section of a comic book store somewhere, and the camera swings around the inordinately pleased expression on the geek's face before throwing its focus on the shop's front door, through which Our Intrepid Heroes enter at this very moment. The boys are besuited beneath their long, dark overcoats, and Darling Sammy has tamed his unruly mane down into his slick Sunday-go-to-meeting coif, so it's little surprise when the LYING LIARS WHO LIE introduce themselves to the shop's owner as Special Agents DeYoung and Shaw of the FBI, and your Entirely Unrelated TWoP Trufax Of The Moment is this: John Panozzo and his lovely wife at the time were drinking buddies of your faithful recapper back in the day, but no, none of us knew about his cirrhosis, so you can leave me the hell alone as far as all that's concerned. (Also, in supplementary Entirely Unrelated TWoP Trufax Of The Moment news, John's slutty brother Chuck has slept with more of my acquaintances than I can count -- each of them beneath the gold records he has hanging in his bedroom, mind you -- but that sort of salacious gossip really has no place in a Television Without Pity recap, so you should forget I ever typed it out in the first place. "Typed what?!" Excellent, my scaly friend. Excellent.) Unfortunately for Our Intrepid Heroes, the instant they start questioning the store's owner about possible recent supernatural activity in the building -- including "flickering lights," "skittering in the walls," and "cold spots" -- Jeff Albertson, here, gets this ridiculously broad grin on his doughy face and triumphs, "I knew it! You guys are LARPing, aren't you?" My reaction is the same as Dean's: "Excuse me?" Though I've been online long enough to recognize at least the "RP" bit, so I'm not quite as disgusted as he is when Jeff um-duuuuuhs, "Live-action role playing!" But, you know, I'm pretty goddamned disgusted, anyway. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean!" shrieks Raoul, attempting to be pleasant. "It sounds simply adorable!" I suspect you have an ulterior motive, friend of friends, and I am shutting that nonsense down this instant: No one -- no one -- is going to LARP you at a fan convention, ever, so knock it off. Now. "Oh, phooey!" Raoul pouts, having been found out at his mischievous ruse. "Though I must admit that when you put it like that, it does sound just the teensiest bit filthy!" This is what I'm saying. "Good to know! Now be a dear little man and do continue! I've always wondered exactly how much viscera one as sedentary as this delightful comic gentleman could contain!"