Tony pulls over and leaps out of his car so that he can play the concerned citizen in front of a rapidly growing crowd of on-lookers. He heads over to Phil, who is alive, but dazed and groggy with an airbag in his face. Aw. Steve Buscemi gave himself a shout-out. Isn't that cute? It's not like the even better shout-out he gives himself at the end of the episode, but it'll do for now. Tony leans in real close, grabs Phil by the throat, and demands his money. "You got twenty-four hours," he threatens. Then he turns to the shocked bystanders, announces that he's called 911, and gets jauntily heads back to his own car. Heh. Sars just laughs at me every time I ask this question, but how is it possible that none of these people have ever called the cops on these guys?

Yet another funeral, presumably for the hot-tub kid. Mom is bawling her eyes out, and Dad the Dry Cleaner has to lead her upstairs. Everyone else in attendance appears appropriately melancholy. Everyone except for Junior, that is, who's smiling happily and quite pleased that the chicken is "nice and spicy." Whatever. Farewell, Hot Tub Kid. But look at it this way: If this were Six Feet Under, they probably would have shown the contusions from where you got sucked into the filter.

Tim's place. He's working at his laptop, and I have to say that his writing style perfectly matches my own. In other words, he's got an ashtray jammed with butts on one side, a cup of coffee on the other, and he's busy playing Snood instead of writing anything. He's just like me! Only better-looking. And better paid. And he's also got an Emmy on the shelf behind him. I've got a Lego Darth Vader on the shelf behind me. Maybe that's why I never married. The doorbell rings, and Tim tries to go all stealth and look through the peephole without giving away that he's at home. It doesn't quite work, though, because Christopher yells that he can see Tim's shadow. Tim reluctantly lets him in, claiming that he thought Christopher was some girl who's a big pain in the ass. Yeah. I'm betting he's not the first person who's ever thought that about Christopher. But maybe I shouldn't make that bet, because Chris is all business when it comes to collections. Tim keeps insisting that the Dick Wolf thing will come through any day now, only this time we learn that his big meeting is actually with someone named "Rene Balcer," who is either a seventeenth-century court fop from Versailles, or Dick Wolf's "right-hand guy." "I got out of that business because people fuck you over," says Chris, apparently not noting the irony inherent in his current business. "Jon Favreau? Faggot cocksucker tried to steal my ideas." And what spectacular ideas they were. Timmy promises to have the money by next week, but Chris tells him to have it by the next day.