Donnie picks up the phone in his bedroom. Apparently, the people at Ficicello's don't believe in checking references, because he's their new delivery guy. Barbie, wrapped only in a towel, skitters into the room, complaining that the bath water is "ice cold." She blanches when she notices Donnie's interior decorating, which consists of flower arrangements pinched from funerals, complete with "sympathy" sashes, arranged all around the bed. It's totally oogy, but it also kind of works. It's like Marilyn Manson's bedroom as imagined by Martha Stewart. Donnie thanks the Ficicello's HR lady, hangs up the phone, and turns around. Barbie manages to get her breath back and shrieks. "What kind of sick freak are you?" she screams. "Oh my God!" Barbie backs out of the room and slams into the wall, breathlessly warning Donnie Pfaster not to come anywhere near her. She wiggles around against the wall. Hi, Barbie? It's called running. Look into it. "Dead Blonde, Opus Two" swells in the background.
Time passes. Somewhere out in the...somewhere, the authorities are investigating...something. Oh, it's Barbie's dead and dismembered body. This show is so much fun! Bocks takes Mulder and Scully over to the body, telling them that the cops are in the process of finding someone to ID it, but they think she's "probably a working girl." Another officer brings one of the streetwalkers over to the ditch in the road into which Barbie was dumped. Scully looks green in the background, for, like, the millionth time. Mulder's face is carefully blank. The policeman pulls the sheet off Barbie's body. The hooker freaks out and stumbles away from the crime scene, screaming. "Was it him?" Mulder quietly asks. "Looks like it," Bocks says. Barbie's hair is gone. Her nails have been removed. And this time, Bocks tells them, the killer's taken a couple of fingers. Mulder walks over and looks down at the body, but Scully doesn't follow. He turns back and looks at her. "I need a minute," she tells him. He makes a sympathetic face. Scully and her longer-than-usual hair turn away from the crime scene with a grimace. Get a grip, honey! How can this be worse than that time you were abducted by aliens? That first time, I mean. Since the other time hasn't happened yet.
A sunny day in suburbia. Donnie Pfaster makes his deliveries as a Ficicello man -- he's delivering actual foodstuffs, apparently, not pizza, as I originally thought. He's totally the new guy by whom all the female employees at the corporate office are freaked out, although none of them exactly know why. When I worked for the Soul-Sucking Internet Company That Laid Me Off and Ruined My Life, there was this one guy who worked downstairs in IT. Every five minutes he would walk upstairs and past Editorial and Marketing, and he would just stare at all the women in those departments, and then he'd get a cup of coffee, and then he'd walk back and stare some more, and he totally gave us all the wig, and then, a few weeks later, he got fired because he approached one of the women in Business Development and put his hand under her shirt and told her he loved her, in front of, like, all of us, in the middle of the hallway. He also always wore swimming trunks to work. So Donnie Pfaster is totally like that at Ficicello's, except worse because, you know, he's a psychotic murderer, not just a sartorially challenged sexual harasser. Donnie creeps up to the front door of the first house on his route. The woman who answers the bell lets him in, all perky and trusting, because she's stupid.