Angela excitedly meets with Dwight at the vending machine to celebrate what she thinks of as their success. Dwight says that he will be the one making a difference in the branch, but that Angela "can be in charge of the women." He leaves her to smirk at the possibilities, as though she isn't already in charge of the women. Hello? Head of the Party Planning Committee?
Stamford. Karen tells the camera to look at "how cute he is": her Call Of Duty avatar is behind Jim's, and Jim's has penned itself into a corner because Jim doesn't know how to turn his guy around; he's also "trying to shoot with a smoke grenade." She speaks up to tell him which keystrokes will get him facing out again; he follows her instructions, and her guy shoots his guy in the face. "Psychopath," says Jim to the camera, and Karen's triumphant grin fades a little, because the truth hurts.
Scranton. Creed comes up to Pam's desk to stare at her new top. And, obviously, what's underneath it. And he makes no effort to cover, either. He's an old man; he doesn't care. Pam quietly asks him to go back to his desk. Creed: "In a minute." Pam reaches behind her on her chair to cover up with her cardigan, and then she interviews that she remembers why she dresses so frumpy at work, not that she uses the word, though she should. She adds that she's going to keep the new clothes anyway, because it will be nice to have some after-work clothes that aren't pyjamas. Man, and you know Pam is still wearing sweatshirts from her high school, too, no matter if they're covered in paint and bleach stains and holes. And she wears them to the supermarket sometimes, when she has to run out to get cat food. And if she doesn't have a cat yet, she's really thinking about getting one.
Dwight starts his formal move into Michael's office by, under Michael's bitter gaze, gathering all the doodads off his desk and sticking them in a box. Michael fumes, and then remembers the performance he's supposed to be giving and tells Dwight he supposes it's time to hand over the keys to "the famous Sebring." Dwight curtly declines. Michael tells him that it's Dwight's right, since it's a company lease, but Dwight doesn't want it: he says he wants something German that gets better gas mileage, adding that a convertible is a ridiculous choice for the Pennsylvania climate. Michael, barely clinging to his composure, murmurs, "Take it back." Dwight -- already completely adapted to his new position -- calmly refuses. Michael: "That's my car." Dwight makes a patronizing face, and Michael explodes: "THAT'S MY CAR!" Dwight's like, "Guh?" Michael announces, "I know, Dwight! I know. I know, I know." Dwight doesn't get it, and Michael says that Jan told him about their meeting: "I know what you did!" Dwight immediately switches back into craven mode, babbling that the Sebring is a cool car even as Michael talks over him, saying that he made up the whole story of his demotion: "How dare you? How dare you, Dwight?!" Michael's now chased him around to the front of his desk, and Dwight begs, "Don't fire me." He immediately gets down on his knees before Michael, who asks Dwight to give him one reason Michael shouldn't fire him on the spot. "I HAVE EXCELLENT SALES NUMBERS!" screams Dwight, covering his face. "NOT GOOD ENOUGH," says Michael, as the people in the bullpen can no longer ignore the servile display unrolling on the other side of the window; Angela, in particular, is distressed and disgusted and not really as turned on as she was by the macho Dwight who seized power just minutes earlier. Dwight sobs that he'll do Michael's laundry for a month, or a year, but Michael is not interested. Dwight, with his head on the floor, says he'll do anything; he admits that Michael can't trust him anymore, but promises that he'll never betray Michael again. As Dwight writhes on the floor, Michael finally realizes how this must look to the rest of their colleagues, and tells Dwight to get up. Dwight complies, spittle still oozing from his lips. Michael hoarsely tells Dwight to "hug it out, bitch." He opens his arms, and Dwight fucking rockets into them, hugging Michael so hard that if his back was at all misaligned, Dwight's probably set it back in order.