Later -- but not a whole lot later -- Curly sneaks off somewhere, furtively. Furtively sneaking. Sneaking furtively. He furtively sneaks for, like, forty-five minutes.
The oil rig's communications room. A guy with a tall blonde pompadour is fiddling with some kind of radio-like thing (I don't know from electronics). Enter Curly, furtively. Pompadour cheerfully greets him in Spanish, and I am pleased to discover that I remember enough of my junior high school Español to translate what he's asking: "How was the meat?" Real sparkling conversationalist, that Pompadour. Curly just looks furtive. Pompadour continues to make chipper conversation in basic Spanish, as Curly fingers the knife he pinched from the mess hall. He then just up and stabs the hell out of Pompadour, whose screams aren't heard over the cheers of the oil workers watching the hockey game. See? Sports kill. I recently sprained my ankle jumping up and down during a Lakers game, so they're also just plain dangerous for the uncoordinated.
Upstairs in the mess hall, the TV goes out again. A guy I'm calling Foreman (because he's wearing his hard hat in the mess hall, not because he looks like Topher Grace, and more's the pity) vigorously bangs the top of the set, to no avail. He wonders aloud about the whereabouts of their "illustrious communications officer," who, naturally, is not there, being quite busy getting stabbed to death.
Foreman goes down to the communications room, looking for Pompadour, but only finds Curly beating the hell out of their radio equipment. And then he sees Pompadour, dead on the floor. "Oh, man," Foreman groans. He and Curly both watch as those black oil worm things crawl up Pompadour's face, under the skin. Oh, so when they say they're working on an oil rig, it's that oil. Too bad I don't really remember any of the details about that oil. Wasn't that, like, three years ago? I have other stuff to remember, 1013, like my social security number, and whether Buffy is a rerun or not. "Now you've gone and done it," Foreman remarks. Curly tries to bolt, but Foreman roughly throws him to the ground and blocks the door. As Curly screams, Foreman begins to glow, as if from within. And not like the satisfied glow of a man with a belly full of roast beef and beer, but more like the creepy and extraterrestrial glow of a guy with a x-ray machine in his gut. Curly screams in agony and fear. And we have yet another new and wack symptom of the infamous black oil: the ability to check for broken bones and cavities using only the supernatural abilities of one's own body.