The moon hangs, and the saxophone of Sex That Never Was wails on the soundtrack. For whatever reason, the unmistakable sex music accompanies the seductive footage of a guy buffing the lobby floor. And no, that is not a euphemism, though it would be a good one, wouldn't it? Admit it; it would. There are also people cleaning the escalators, but that would be a gross euphemism. It is such a fine line, seriously. Up in S5, it is now the next day, and Kelly -- AGAIN -- answers the Rhonaphone. Kevin's chest appears behind Kelly, so I kind of don't hear the details of the call, but Rhona apparently tells them to meet Trump at 9:00 at the top of Kevin's exposed back. I mean, at the top of Trump World Tower. Heh heh, sorry.

The candidates stroll purposefully toward the tower, as if they have somewhere really important to be, which, if you think about it, they must not, or they wouldn't be here. Upstairs, they enter an office where Trump, in his powerful pink tie of triumph, awaits. He's sort of standing awkwardly and meaninglessly, which seems fitting. Trump raves about the great office they're standing in, and how they may eventually make it into such an office if they "do well in life." Note that he didn't say, "If you get this job." Because if you get this job, all you're getting is the couch at the Today show and the back of a limo with some dipwad from Big Brother. Trump tells them that they're the final four candidates, which he just realized through the complex process of counting, and he goes on to tell them how proud of themselves they should be for getting to the point where all concern for teamwork and cooperation is gone, and you're free to let your hatred of your fellows fly free. This year, Trump has chosen executives from "the world" to serve as the Four Horsemen of the Interviewocalypse. And they are: Alan Jope, chief operating officer at Unilever (I've always wondered what kind of a device they make there that only needs one lever); Dawn Hudson, the president of Pepsi-Cola North America and "one of the most dynamic female executives anywhere in the world," currently figuring out how to defend the lawsuits over the shattered Edge bottles and the shards of plastic from the busted holes ["and rolling her eyes at the inclusion of the adjective 'female,' as if boobs have any bearing on personal dynamism; sorry, but that kind of patronizing mention of gender bugs the shit out of me" -- Sars]; Ace "Franklin William Studevant Thurston III" Greenberg, a hotshot at Bear Stearns; and Bob Kraft, the owner of the New England Patriots, currently pissed as all hell that the pressure is on again, thanks to the fucking Red Sox. Impressively, the Horsemen run roughshod over a total of half a million employees. Some of whom are football players. And they gross over $80 billion a year, not counting what Pepsi pays for Michael Jackson's ongoing scalp reconstructions. They'll be conducting the interviews, and then they'll be reporting back to Trump with their impressions, which they will deliver while Trump drinks a glass of water. And then, in the Boardroom, two of the candidates will get the boot, leaving two behind. And they'll be the final two. Hey, you do the math; you'll get the same answer.