Mulder, looking glum, leans against the wall outside the apartment. Applause echoes from inside, and the door opens to reveal Yappi and his Robert-Palmer-girl sidekick taking their leave. "Skeptics like you make me sick," Yappi spits. "Mr. Yappi, read this thought," Mulder responds. Yappi stares at him. [Eyebrow!] "So's your old man!" he shouts. "Actually, my old man has been working with my arch-rival on a series of experiments and deals with these evil aliens who want to take over the earth and make us a slave race," Mulder says. "Or he may have been shot by this guy with whom I have a strange, at times homoerotic relationship. I can't remember whether that's happened yet." Not really. He actually just goes back inside the apartment, where Scully tells him that he missed quite a performance. Mulder snips that Yappi's so-called leads are so vague as to be practically useless. Scully mildly agrees. Sadly, the cops are devoted to Yappi. "If you don't mind, I have to get an APB out on a white male, seventeen to thirty-four, with or without a beard, maybe a tattoo, that's impotent. Let's go," Bald says, deadpan. The police skip out to get right on that! "Might as well go home, Mulder. This case is as good as solved," Scully says under her breath.
Elsewhere, Peter Boyle -- oh, screw it. We all know his name. It's in the title! Anyway, elsewhere, Clyde Bruckman is attempting to sell a life-insurance policy to a young couple. The husband, though, is unsure. He thinks he might want to buy a boat instead. Bruckman points out that the husband's new responsibilities to his family ought to take precedence over his "recreational needs." "But this is a really good boat," the husband whines. Bruckman looks very slightly away from the couple and goes into what looks like a minor trance. "You don't get it, kid," he says. "Two years from now, while driving down Route 91, coming home to your wife and baby daughter, you're going to be hit head-on by a drunk in a blue '87 mustang. It'll be worse than the sixty feet of bad road your body slides across after flying out your front windshield." The couple stares at him. "Mister, you really need to work on your closing technique," the husband says. Really? Because that would have sold me.
So Bruckman goes home, pours himself a glass of scotch, and takes a head of lettuce out of the refrigerator. As he holds it, the lettuce turns into something resembling a decaying human head. He makes a face, and throws it away.