Back at the Sun, Gus walks gingerly up to the desk of that bearded guy who's heavily invested in the education series and breaks the news to him that his series is getting spiked for the newly approved "All Homelessness! All the Time!" coverage scheme. This will save me the trouble of having to learn the bearded guy's name. But there's no time to dwell on my innate laziness -- Templeton's on the TV, and so the entire newsroom gathers around the tube to watch this particular boob. He's being interviewed by Nancy Grace and -- OH GOD! MY EYES BURN! THE PROTECTIVE GOGGLES DO NOTHING! Anyhow, Nancy Grace, reveling in one of the few times that she's not the most contemptible person in her studio, tells Scott what an incredible moment it must have been for him as a reporter. And he's all, aw shucks, ma'am, it weren't nothing, because it actually weren't. And Nancy Grace keeps asking him if he's scared and if he's going to keep up his relentless brand of fearless reportage, and finally Gus can't take it anymore and walks away from the TV and back to his desk, where he starts typing furiously. Perhaps he despises Nancy Grace, too, in which case, he just moved up a notch or two in my estimation.
In an alley somewhere, Freamon and McNulty are meeting for a progress report on their scheme to get real resources for their fake investigation. Mostly, however, McNulty is just airing his grievances against the people that done him wrong. Like stupid Judge Phelan who won't tap the phones at the Baltimore Sun because of the stupid Bill of Rights. "What would you want with more wires?" Freamon asks, not unreasonably. "We've got all we need." It's the principle of it all, McNulty protests, which is the first time McNulty is anywhere near the word "principled" without the letters "u" and "n" wedged in there. Oh, also, McNulty's miffed about Landsman's blowing off his surveillance team request. "Assholes," McNulty fumes. "They're going to need another body, aren't they?" McNulty's the kind of a fellow who, if he ever fell into a hole, would decide that the best way out is to dig, isn't he? Freamon offers to hand him the figurative shovel, by telling Oscar in the Southern District to keep an eye out for any tamper-friendly dead bodies.
Outside a bail bonds office, Fatface Rick -- he's working on it, OK? -- gets out after a long, unproductive night of getting screwed over by Marlo. And as Fatface Rick fiddles with his keys to let himself in the door, his evening gets decidedly worse -- Omar sidles up behind him and jabs something into the back of his head. Rick assumes it's a gun; it's actually a beer bottle -- a Heineken if I recognize my labeling. "Whatever you want, it's yours, alright?" Rick offers. "Tonight," Omar says, while he relieves Rick of his sidearm, "I'm just gonna take your jump." He drops the beer bottle, and Rick realizes, with some degree of annoyance, that he's just been had. Omar would also like Rick to deliver a message to Marlo: "I'm callin' Marlo a straight bitch. I'm sayin' it don't take much to shoot down a blind man. Now as for him stepping to me, you tell that dude he ain't got the heart." "All right," Rick agrees, trying, with some success, to sound calm and collected. Seriously, his tone of voice is all, "Anything else? Coffee? Wet-Nap? A pair of non-shattered legs?" "You tell that man I'm in the street, waiting," Omar continues. "An' just like a little bitch, he ain't nowhere to be found." Seriously, is this message going to go on much longer? Because maybe you should just jot something down and Rick can pass it along at his convenience. Omar tells Rick to head on inside -- the longest message in the history of inter-gang communication is apparently complete. Before Omar can hobble off, Rick wants to know one thing: "You kill Joe? Hungry?" Omar scoffs. Rick takes that answer as a "no."