In the Sun's lobby, Gus walks up to the homeless vet: "Mr. Hanning?" he asks. Ah -- so that's who Terry Hanning is. "It's an honor for me to meet you, sir," Gus continues. The honor is all Gus's, as Hanning doesn't shake hands and demands to know who Gus is. Gus identifies himself as the editor of the story Hanning was featured in. "Then you're a fucking liar," says Hanning. No, you have him confused with the writer of the piece.
Back on the streets, Omar limps his way down an alleyway, passing a group of children pouring lighter fluid on a very perturbed cat. Do I have to tell you that the ringleader of this band of juvenile animal torturers is Kenard, or could you have pretty much guessed that the little creep was involved somehow? One day, when cats rule the earth -- and judging by the conspiratorial way my cats are acting lately, that day will come soon -- they are going to come after you, Kenard, and go all shredding post on your ass. Anyhoo, the other kids spot Omar and run off, presumably to get to their dog-fighting training sessions across town. Kenard stays and gives Omar the hairy eyeball as he limps by. That could just be the look Kenard gives everyone, though.
Omar reaches the corner just in time to admire the fruits of his handiwork: the gunmen are being loaded into a police van, leaving this corner remarkably muscle-free. Well, except for Omar. And the minute the police drive off, he appears and tells the remaining corner kids to beat it. It's like the cartoons where there's just a puff of smoke where they used to be standing. The corner now completely abandoned, Omar retrieves the stash and deposits it down the sewer grate. Some lucky abandoned pet alligator is going to get really high tonight! Then Omar counts off the vacant rowhouses, stopping in front of No. 4. "See there," Omar shouts out to the boarded-up house. "Omar know what one it is. Look like all your muscle done up and indisposed now. So you might as well go ahead and drop it out, ya feel me?" When the inhabitants inside the vacant do not give any immediate indication that they feel him, Omar repeats his request, this time promising to blast his way in with a shotgun. A door opens slightly, and the rest of the stash is dropped out. Omar picks it up, throws out his usual stump speech about Marlo being a straight-up punk, and dumps the rest of the stash down the same sewer grate. Some lucky abandoned pet alligator is now in danger of OD'ing tonight. Well, that went well -- I can't possibly see how this operation could go south from here!
At Homicide, Bunk sits at his desk, a visible cloud of dread hanging over him. He shoots a hateful glance over at McNulty -- the latter gabbing away on the phone, apparently to Freamon, about the newly constructed surveillance units -- and, his loins sufficiently girded for the humiliation to come, gets up and walks over to McNulty, piece of paper in hand. Bunk sets the paper down in front of McNulty and then holds out a pen. McNulty, summoning his inner dick, turns his full and undivided attention to the phone call with Freamon, leaving Bunk hanging. After hanging up, McNulty glances at the paper, then at Bunk. "Just sign the motherfucker and shut the fuck up," Bunk snarls. I'm guessing that Bunk is finally taking advantage of all those excess police resources McNulty has at his disposal. That guess is confirmed by McNulty, who smirks throughout the signing process and keeps smirking even after handing the paper back to Bunk. To his credit, Bunk does not conclude their transaction by jamming the pen into McNulty's jugular. Good thing, too, because Kima's shown up to accompany McNulty on his road trip to the FBI, and it would have been awkward to have McNulty gurgling blood for the entire drive down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.