Over at the Bimbetova Bungalow, Tony lies on his back in bed; Irina Bimbetova dashes out of the bathroom wearing only black panties and pounces on him. "Watch the balls," he warns her. Boy, he really has a way with the pillow talk. Not. Irina starts kissing her way down Tony's ample stomach, and he blisses out for a moment, but then his head snaps up. "What is the matter?" Irina asks. "Tony's cannoli doesn't want to stand up?" Yecch. He pulls her up, laughing unconvincingly that his cannoli is "tired." Irina baby-voices that she could help, and he says he knows, "just…maybe…" and he trails off. She kisses his nipple. "So how's your job?" he asks, and she gives him a "whatever" look and asks since when does he care about her job, and he sputters, "Can't I be nice?" but she's kissing her way down again. "All right," he shrugs, stares at the ceiling for a moment while chewing his lip, then rolls out from under her and snaps, "You don't wanna talk about your job? Fine," and he hurls a wad of cash at her: "Call somebody who gives a fuck." Oh, that's nice. I mean, Irina bugs, but really. She brushes the money off the bed, saying that she's not a whore and he can "stick the money up [his] ass," and she doesn't know what's wrong with him but he shouldn't take it out on her. "There's nothin' wrong with me!" he interrupts. "I just wanted to talk, that's all!" He buttons his pants, continuing, "For all the conversation I get around here I might as well be a fuckin' dildo." "If you were a dildo, we wouldn't be fighting," Irina murmurs. Uh, I wouldn't go there, Irina; I wouldn't even go to that area code.