"It's a jealous demon and knows how close I am to Jesus," says Lettie Mae, completely missing the point: "That's why it picked me." Tara is disgusted, but Lettie Mae comes down on her for taking the Lord's name in vain. Tara's sad; the demon moves in. "Tara, honey..." Lettie Mae leans forward, staring at the floor. Playing a complicated game, a war, of which we only see the most scenery-chewing fucked-up part. "I know I wasn't the best mother. I fucked up a lot and I'm sorry." Her face goes coon-cat mean, slippery, manipulative; Jason could learn a lesson just now: "I want to do this for the both of us. That's why I talked her down fifty dollars." Tara rolls her eyes, but all she's doing is spurring the demon on. "Please help me with this. Please." She sips at it: coffee bitter and hot, vodka cold as nails and kicking at the throat.

"Mama. Put down that coffee and look at me." Not happening. "It's the demon drinking, not me..." she says, and Tara reaches for it, but her hands go crazy and she screams: the hot coffee spills itself all over her, scalding hot, ruining her pure white shirt and robe. She's dirty. She has become dirty. She sucks at it, from her shirt, holding fire-slicked hands to her mouth, sucking at them like a hungry thing, every last drop. The very drops of it, the demon wants. Tara shakes, near weeping; near falling on her knees. "It's the demon! It's the demon!" Tara cannot hold this inside herself.

Sookie comes home in Bill's shirt, holding her bridal, her sacrificial, her virgin garment in her arms and her panties and his shirt on her back. A new girl. She hears a succession of fumbling noises in the house that is hers. The killer is back. The killer always wears a mask, and you will never guess. It's always Jason when it matters: he comes stumbling out, with a paper shopping bag in one hand and silver candlesticks in the other. "Fuck," he whispers to himself, caught hungry-handed. "What are you doing?" she asks, but in his search to deflect blame his gaze falls upon her body, the territory of war. He is dirty, and she cannot be dirty. "You went ahead and did it, huh? My own sister. Nothing but a damn fangbanger. Now, you saved it all these years for a fucking vampire?" He thinks dirty is possible; he thinks "dirty" is something our bodies are capable of being. His most of all, and then everybody that reflects him. He looked right at Bartlett and never figured it out, because he lives in the daylight world where our histories are our faults, and we must ignore our history to say clean. He still doesn't know, when a monkey would know. He just knows where to assign it; who the possum must be for his ugly desire.