Over to Reg Bev Wil, where a fully unctuous individual helps them out of the car. Inside, Randal and the man they call Kelly are comparing dick size about their personal and team records. Now, either this is hilarious because they've not given that shit a second thought since they were able to escape the hellish Skinner Box of this show... or it's hilarious because they still think it matters. I was forgetting one of them through this whole part, I was like, there's going to be Kelly I never saw before, and Kendra or whoever that I won't recognize, and Randal, and the presumably terrified Bill. And that's all of them! Oh, how quickly we forget. Sean's Face right up in this hizzy. Never fails to freak me out. As our kids enter, the Crown Apprenti begin to clap, and through the magic of television, their tiny applause sounds like a Superbowl crowd. The room is spare, so even though this "party" is taking place in the sumptuous Reg Bev Wil, there's no defined space or anything, so it gives this echoing parking-garage impression of being the most boring drug deal gone wrong in the history of narcotics. I mean, who've you got? The howler monkeys of Arrow, in a space so large there's nothing for them to break or climb around on, facing off against the four people in the world judged so boring -- by even the exacting standards of this Procrustean show -- that they managed to win. That's like giving a fevered six-year-old Robitussin and then sitting them down for My Dinner With Andre. And there's going to be a quiz at the end. This cocktail party, in other words, constitutes child abuse.
Frank interviews that Bill -- surely the champion, even among these purebreds -- had a last minute meeting and couldn't make the painfully awkward cocktail party. I'm so sure, I bet at even the prospect of meeting in a room with these eight people kicked his paranoia in hardcore. God, just the idea of Frank dealing with Bill in this informal setting makes me want to wash my hands over and over and over. I can't imagine how scary that would be for poor Bill, whom last we saw still believes his life to be in danger. Frank gives us a concentrated blast of what lay in store for Brilliant Bill, had he not begged off, as he screams at length about how THIS is what it is to be an Apprentice: working 24/7, working until you are a husk of a person, working until your soul comes off on the ledger books. Of course, what Frank doesn't know -- and we do -- is that his ass will never be winning this thing, because he's the least procrusted person I've ever seen. His rough edges have rough edges. The rough in which his diamond can be found is bigger than the sandtraps at all Trump's golf courses combined. He's a blue-collar needle in a haystack of excellent crazy: he exists to make Trump feel like a populist, and that's it.