Shelter/Hospital/Hotel. Ray is approached by a blowsy blonde, Lorena, who "helps out" around whatever the hell this place is. Rehab? I don't know. She gives the big old "you're not alone. I'm here for you" speech. Ray gives her a good glare and eats his burger. He tells her to leave him alone. "Okaaaaaay," she says, and takes off. Run, Blowsy! Run!
Salvage Yard. Salvage Dude is spray-painting over some writing on a hazardous waste barrel. How unsuspicious. He skitters around the salvage yard as though he's scared someone is going to jump out of one of the abandoned cars and bash him to death with a tire iron. He lurkifies himself right into the Salvage Yard Office, where he sets to shredding documents. Now, that's TOTALLY not suspicious, shredding documents in the dead of night while looking around furtively. I'm sure those are just credit-card offers, telling Dude that he's pre-approved. Dude looks up mid-shred, and guess who's standing right here? Not Vigilante Elvis. Not George Dubya Bush. Not Ricky Martin. Nope, it's Not Dead Ray! Dude is shocked but seemingly pleased to see his former employee. Apparently, however, that's some kind of self-preserving front, because just as he starts to warn Ray that the Feds are nosin' around and askin' all kinds of durn pesky questions about Ray's "death," Dude opens his desk drawer, takes out his shotgun, and opens fire. "This time, you stay dead," he spits "dramatically." Dude, Dude. That line's as old as my grandmother and half as fresh.