At Comstat, Burrell delivers the new statistical imperatives to his...well, if it's a murder of crows, and a pride of lions, what would a group of majors be called? A muddle of Majors? A tribe of top brass? An assemblage of yes-men? At any rate, the majors are told by Rawls that they will reduce felony rates by 5% or more: "Or -- and I've always wanted to say this -- let no man come back alive." The directive on keeping the murder count at 275 goes over less well. "Christ," Col. Foerster mutters under his breath; unfortunately, it's loud enough for Rawls to hear. "Feeling a little fazed, Colonel Foerster?" he asks. "A little dyspeptic?" "Dys-who?" says Foerster, before affirming somewhat unenthusiastically that he's good to go. "I don't care how you do it," Rawls continues. "Just fucking do it." Colvin can't help asking a pointed question of Rawls: "I think we all understand there are certain processes by which you can reduce the overall number of felonies. You can reclassify an agg assault or you can unfound a robbery. But how do you make a body disappear?" By Rawls's response, I'd say that there's a body he'd like to make disappear right now. Burrell stresses once again that these orders are non-negotiable, and that anyone who can't deliver on the numbers will be replaced by someone who can. Rawls has kept his murderous gaze on Colvin this whole time. "Jesus, Bunny," Valchek chuckles. "What got into you?" "Another six months to my thirty," Colvin says. "I'm out the door on a major's pension. The hell they can do to me." Yes, write it in the sky in forty-foot-letters: THESE WORDS WILL NEVER COME BACK TO HAUNT ME. It makes the inevitable denouement so much more poignant.
Meanwhile, Cutty -- who was briefly seen earlier staring at his bag of drugs and regretting his foray into the entrepreneurial world -- is watching a drug deal go down, with the money changing hands from a series of slingers who look like they were all conceived, born, and raised into a life of crime during Cutty's time in the joint, until he spots the brains of the operation. Either Cutty is studying how to build an efficient drug-dealing operation, or he's figuring out that maybe turning to a sub-contractor is the way out of this predicament.
With the Drac plan a non-starter, the Major Case folks are kicking around ideas on what to do next. McNulty, naturally, proposes a bugging scheme that calls for more manpower and funding than they actually have, and then gets all huffy when Pearlman suggests closing up shop, filing what charges they can, and moving on to the next case. "We come down early two years ago, and we left a real bastard on the street," says McNulty, not even bothering to hide his Stringer Bell obsession at this point. "You're telling me we're going to let that same son of a bitch beat me again? How many times you let a cocksucker like Stringer Bell go around the board, collect under $200 fucking million." I am pretty sure McNulty is interpreting the rules of Monopoly fairly liberally there, but he's upset, so I'll cut him a break. Daniels is not so forgiving, icily pointing out that there are other fish in the barrel. "Stringer's the target," McNutly snaps. "There isn't a better fucker out there. You know it, Lieutenant." Looks like someone is about to regret pulling all those strings to get a certain hothead back in his detail. "Don't you let him go soft on this," McNulty barks at Freamon. "It's you against the world, isn't it?" Freamon asks -- it's a rhetorical question, thankfully, or else we'd be treated to another twenty minutes of McNulty ranting that, yes, it is very much him against the rest of the world. "What the fuck did I do?" McNulty wonders aloud. You want an itemized list?