Out of the car, Vinick goes in shaking few hands, and dealing with more questions about whether he still feels nuclear power is completely safe. He's still sporting the manic grimace.
Vinick waits in the bathroom as a Chicago football player introduces him. He runs his old, red, swollen, age-spotted hand under the water. When he comes out, Football sticks out his hand and we go dramatically slow-mo. Oh...no...not...The...Hand! Football shakes Vinick's hand, and as the crowd goes wild. Vinick turns away, and I do believe he's actually screaming.
Back in the all-purpose Suburban, Vinick is being attended to by, presumably, a doctor. Vinick can't even bend his fingers. The doctor wants x-rays, but Bruno and Vinick both jump on him with a chorus of "no!" Bruno (looking over his glasses -- and if he didn't have a goatee, with that hair and those glasses, he'd really look like someone's grandmother, but I digress) explains that they can't get x-rays, since the reporters following Vinick's campaign will suddenly report, "Handshake breaks Vinick's hand." Which...is exactly what happened. The doctor tells Vinick that he believes he has a metacarpal fracture and needs a cast, which Vinick also shoots down, saying that he "can't look like an old man falling apart on the campaign trail." The doctor gives in and grudgingly says that he can re-set the bone and give Vinick a cast that he can remove in public; Bruno welcomes him to politics. Before he opens the door, Vinick reminds the doctor that, if asked, they were discussing healthcare policies in the car. "Well actually, I do have some suggestions about Medicare..." muses the doctor. Vinick just gives him an exasperated look. Come on, doctor: did you really think they actually wanted to hear what you had to contribute to society? Welcome to politics, indeed.
Back inside, Football is now introducing Santos. There's a real-time hearty handshake, nothing breaking this time. Everyone's in a flurry at Santos HQ -- will he stay in Ohio? Will he go to Florida instead? Will he appear on a short-lived Mark Feuerstein sitcom? Oh wait, I think Josh was referring to an actual morning show called Good Morning, Miami. Josh is then told that he has a phone call from someone named Bob. And whichever of the show's "Bob"s you think it could be, you'd be wrong -- it's none other than Toby, secretly doling out campaign advice. Ignoring Josh's jokes, Toby asks what the numbers are in California. When Josh reports that Santos and Vinick are basically tied there, Toby tells him he has to get Santos there immediately. Josh is rattling off states that they are going to, but Toby interrupts: "California's the whole ball game." Continuing in a rote recitation, as if it's something he's repeated thirty-five times that day, Josh assures "Bob" that they're increasing their California media buy, but that the Santos campaign has "got to keep the candidate working in the states where he can shake enough hands to make a difference." Josh goes on and on about how, in California, one can only reach the voters through television. Toby agrees, but Josh won't let him get a word in edgewise until Toby screams his name three times. He calls Josh on getting three hours of sleep a night and being completely frazzled: "Now take a deep breath and listen to me for one second." Sheesh, I'm just happy he got the nasal, monotone-yet-somewhat-panicky voice to stop for a moment. Toby barks, "You can win this thing if you get him out to California right now." He's shut Josh up.