In the dark, a phone rings. The light snaps on, and we see we're at McNulty's, and that he sleeps under one of those cheap, polar fleece-y blankets that always depress me so much at hotels. And that a cheap armchair is serving as his bedside table. Dude, Ikea sells furniture for grownups, too. Please go get some and quit bumming me out. Anyway, McNulty answers the phone, "Yeah?...What?...Who is this?...He did?...Well, how the hell did you get my number?" No good-news call ever sounded like that.

Dressed now, in a warm-up jacket, McNulty knocks on an apartment door, which opens to reveal Bunk's conquest from the bar inside, in her robe. "Get this crazy bastard out of here," she orders, plainly well over it. McNulty looks dismayed, and asks what the problem is. "He set off the smoke alarm, twice," crabs Bar Lady. "That good, huh?" grins McNulty, never too sleep-deprived to make a slightly dirty joke. Bar Lady lets that pass without comment, and directs McNulty to the bathroom.

McNulty knocks on the door and finds Bunk, in a pink robe, dozing on the toilet with a cigar in his mouth. What woman wouldn't want to hit that again? Am I right, ladies? "What the fuck?!" spits McNulty, but even that outburst isn't enough to rouse him, and McNulty has to walk over and shove him, whereupon we see that Bunk has accessorized his housecoat with a tie, and no shirt. Finally, Bunk wakes up. McNulty asks what he's doing. "I hear you," mumbles Bunk. "What are you doing?" asks McNulty, kind of giggling in surprise at the situation. "Where are your fucking clothes?" Bunk points into the tub, which contains the smoldering remains of his suit. He reaches in to take his lighter out of his pants and tries to set them alight again, but McNulty stops him, asking why Bunk burned his clothes in the first place. Bunk drunkenly manages a conjunction-free explanation that he was trying to destroy trace evidence -- fibers, pussy, the usual. Bunk's satisfied that he can no longer smell pussy, and says that McNulty can take him home. McNulty gathers Bunk's cop things from various surfaces as Bunk babbles on that there won't be a case file on this drunken hookup. They're almost in the clear, except McNulty can't find Bunk's shoes. Ladies, for real. There's a bathmat right there that Bar Lady could have used to get herself a little more Bunkly sugar, and I just can't understand why she wouldn't.