Okay, so the cops naturally assume Jason killed Dawn, and take him in. Of course, it's only after he's handcuffed in the back of Andy's car that he realizes he has an entire vial of V in his pocket, so he panics, drinks the whole thing, and leaves the empty vial stuffed between the car cushions. Meanwhile, Bon Temps takes the second murder this week as a reason to throw a barbecue, which is so realistic it's sick. While in custody, Jason's dick goes crazy and he locks himself in the bathroom to have ten thousand life-threateningly intense orgasms. Eventually Tara arrives, terrorizes Bud and Andy with jurisprudence knowledge you could glean from any random episode of Law & Order, and lies that she was with Jason -- not Sam -- last night.

Hours later, Jason's managed to rub his hands blistered; his dick is now approaching the appearance of, we're told, an eggplant; and we've taken a grand step forward in the sexual dissociation that would seem to be Jason's entire life. (At one point he actually weeps and apologizes to it like Gollum, calling it "Darlin." This is what I'm saying.) Tara finds him in the cooler at Merlotte's applying steaks to himself and takes him to the ER, where horrible things happen that we don't need to talk about. Tara remembers the day she fell for Jason: they were both in their tweens, and he saved her from Momma in an adorable fashion. Oh, and I think I know who the killer is.

Realizing things in Bon Temps are reaching a fever pitch, w/r/t serial killings, witch hunts, and general neurosis and racism, Gran realizes it's only a matter of time before the pitchfork swings back around at Jason, and tells Sookie to use her psychic abilities to get him off the hook. Learning that both Maudette and Dawn frequented the vampire bar in Shreveport, she asks Bill to accompany her there, specifying that it is not a date. Bill spends (almost) the entire episode being completely and utterly adorable. At the wildly dorky but self-aware Fangtasia, which is identical to a cheesy gothy tourist bar in the French Quarter but with vampires in addition to the hordes of deeply lame sexually confused and ambiguous, Sookie makes the acquaintance of Eric and Pam. Pam is like Kylie + Botox - Feelings + Dominatrix Gear = Awesome, and Eric is ... well, he's like the Serena to Bill's Blair Waldorf: dreeeeeeamy, effortlessly magnetic, powerful, beloved, and hilariously fun-loving and, most importantly: in charge. A random police raid sends all four of them into the night, and then on the way back home Bill listens to shitty (and eponymous) Cambodian pop, then glamours the shit out of a good ole boy cop, freaking the shit out of Sookie all the way back to square one.

What else. Oh, the nine feet of cornfed sex that is Hoyt Fortenberry finally gets some dialogue, delivering it so sweetly that he earns a kiss from Sookie; we see a bit of Arlene's nastier side and her home life with the put-upon Rene; Tara is a badass the whole time as usual; and everybody involved in the crime scene is fucking creepier than a Wegman Weimaraner. The pitchfork of blame points at everybody, basically, but ends up pointing -- as insistently as Jason's giant cock -- at one Sam Merlotte, owner of gloves, possessor of total cuteness, yipper of sleep... And landlord/likely murderer of Dawn. In whose bed we end the episode with Sam, as he goes from sniffing the sheets like a lissome but unsettling perv ... to rolling around in them like a werecollie in shit.

To reiterate: White people? All kinds of fucked up.