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.