Philadelphia. The city of brotherly love. Right? There's not a lot of brotherly love in this here courtroom, as a grim-looking judge slams her gavel down, declaring a case closed. A hot guy looks pained at this, as a woman across from him smiles and thanks her lawyer profusely. Looking cranky, the hot guy signs the "Decree of Dissolution" for Cindy Savalas and Edward Jerse. (I'm guessing he's Ed. Yeah, I still got it. Sharp as a tack, baby.) Ed drops the pen angrily.
The Pretenders come jangling on the soundtrack. Ed downs drink after drink at a divey bar. He gestures drunkenly at the tattooed bartender, who gives him a "nice try, dude" glare and cuts him off. I have never seen anyone get cut off. And I used to know a lot of drunk people. Maybe Los Angeles bartenders don't cut people off. I mean, I know people who've gotten kicked out of bars for being too wasted, and I once saw a girl pass out because she'd had too much to drink and the bouncer just slung her over his shoulder and carried her out like a sack of flour, but getting cut off? Never seen it happen. Bear in mind, however, that I leave bars at, like, 11:30 now (because I am old and boring), which is probably right about when the Ed Jerses are just getting started. Which, now that I think about it, might explain some things about my current dating situation. I mean, sure: Ed's got some problems. But, hello? He's hot! I'm getting ahead of myself, though, aren't I? Ed accepts being cut off with nary a whine, and just drops his credit card on the bar. He takes a picture out of his pocket, staring at it grimly. It's a photograph of himself, smiling and flanked by two small, cheerful-looking kids. Ed takes his cigarette and deliberately burns his own face off the photo. See, I told you he had some issues. He looks very depressed. "You mess with the goods, darling, you gotta pay," Chrissie Hynde sings. Remember that she said that, later.
Cut to "Custom Design Tattoo Parlor." Ed slogs past it through the rain, but then turns and examines the tattoo designs pasted in the front window. They're mostly the usual: devils' heads, flaming skulls, burning hearts. One, however, catches his eye: it's a Bettie Page-esque woman's head -- ponytail and red pouty lips included. She winks flirtatiously. Lightening crashes in the background. Ed just stands there, getting soaked, as he looks at her.
Ed's place. It's never going to be featured in Architectural Digest, unless they do a spread on the Ten Most Depressing Apartments in Philadelphia, Ever. He slams inside, drops his keys on the sofa and starts slowly peeling off his wet clothes. Hellllo. I'm sorry. I know. He's not...well, that's the thing, he's not bad, he just has a -- man, this one is hard to recap like I don't know what's going to happen. Let's just say that if you have to get involved with a dude with a tattoo that makes him want to kill you, it helps when he's easy on the eyes. Ed looks down at the bandage on his arm and slowly peels it off to reveal the winky little tattoo he admired in the window. Ed looks at it, and goes a little green. He tries to lower himself to the floor, but ends up falling the last quarter of the way, collapsing with a bang. The camera pans up his arm to the tattoo. "Never again," reads in a little perky scroll under her face. Suddenly, she's not winking anymore.