In the Pit, Poot and Wallace enjoy some Chicken McNuggets, as you do, when you want to break up a long, boring day of dealing drugs. D'Angelo is there too, scanning the area, and declines Wallace's offer of a nugget. Wallace opines that whoever invented McNuggets is "off the hook." "Word!" Poot agrees. "Motherfucker got the bone all the way out the damn chicken." Well, for real. I know that McNuggets are, like, reconstituted chicken feet and corn meal, but I'd still rather eat that than wings. Too much work! Poot and Wallace muse about what genius it was for the McNuggets inventor to "say 'later' to the bone," and further deem said inventor to be "richer than a mo'fucker." D'Angelo breaks in to ask why: "You think he get a percentage?" Wallace is like, "He wouldn't?" D'Angelo: "Nigga, please. The man who invented them things just some sad-ass down in the basement at McDonald's, thinking up some shit to make money for the real players." Okay, first of all, I kind of doubt everything D'Angelo says after that whole Hamilton thing last week. And furthermore, I hope that Stringer is getting better instruction than this in the way corporate product lines are developed down in his B-school classes. Poot thinks "that ain't right," and D'Angelo counters, "It ain't about right, it's about money." I'm surprised that wasn't our epigraph. D'Angelo ends his sad tale by conjecturing that the man who invented the McNugget is still in the basement working for his regular wage, "thinking of some shit to make the fries taste better." Um, not possible. They're already tossed in crack! I think! D'Angelo turns away, thinking he's had the last word, but Wallace pipes up: "Still had the idea, though." D'Angelo doesn't seem to think the idea is worth much.
In a narrow hallway at her office, Ronnie's asking Daniels, "Who?" "Polk and Pat Mahone," says Daniels. "A couple of drunks from Property." Hey, I was right! Still don't know which one is which, though -- but one has a moustache and the other doesn't, so I'm just going to call them Statler (clean-shaven) and Waldorf (hirsute) until someone says one of their names to them. Ronnie says she doesn't know Mahone and Polk, and Daniels scoffs, "Why would you? They haven't made a case in ten years." She giggles. Daniels also says he was handed "some kid," and mangles Prez's name a couple of times before Ronnie gets it right, rolling her eyes: "Him, I know." Daniels asks why he was in Casualty Section. "He shot up his own car, you remember?" Ronnie replies. Daniels is like, "Jigga-what?" Ronnie: "He fired two clips into an unmarked car, somewhere out in West Baltimore. Called in a Signal 13 on the radio, like he was under fire from a sniper." Okay, so I'm going to revise my view of Casualty: I guess it's not a cushy assignment, but one for simpletons. Ronnie can't believe Daniels didn't hear about it: "He stuck to his story for half a day, until Ballistics matched the bullet to his off-duty weapon. We almost cited him for false report...He's got some kind of suction with the Mayor's office." Daniels bottom-lines that he can't "build much" with the "garbage" he's had detailed. Ronnie cheerily suggests that he go to Burrell: "You've got his ear on this." Daniels sighs loudly, and Ronnie's like, "What?" Basically, Daniels already did that, and the people he ended up with were a bunch of dullars and losers not fit for a revival of Revenge Of The Nerds (I paraphrase), because every department Burrell ordered to detail personnel knows it's their chance to "dump their dead wood." Burrell himself knows it, too; he could have let Daniels pick his team, but he didn't: "He sent me a message on this...'Don't dig in. Don't get fancy.'" I think he kind of already sent that message with all that "buy-bust" business. Daniels says that he could get good police work out of good officers, "but if the state's attorney's office were to--" Ronnie kiboshes that kind of talk. Daniels looks around for a seat, finally moving a pile of papers. Ronnie smirks. Daniels puts on his rarely-seen ingratiating face, and coos, "Rhonda. Darling. It's bad protocol for me to ask for help, and then trash the help I'm given! You, on the other hand--" "No way!" she replies. Daniels settles back in his chair, and Ronnie sighs that she can tell her unit chief that Daniels "drew shit": "He wants to take it upstairs and have someone call [Burrell], that's his choice." "That won't happen," mopes Daniels. "Probably not," Ronnie agrees, finally advising Daniels, "Make lemonade." Ooh, that dude's lemonade would be sour.