"Pretty tore up?" Andy asks, sitting in their car outside Merlotte's. "Blindsided him. Had no idea Neil was a fangbanger." Andy points out that Neil was inordinately creepy, which he was. "What nineteen-year-old goes to work for a funeral home?" A fangbanger sort; the kind that needs to look death in the face, that goes looking for it. "I worked in a slaughterhouse when I was fifteen," Bud protests. "They made me clean chitlins." I'm not entirely sure what those are, but I'm pretty sure I won't be cleaning any, ever. Andy spots Sam: "Speaking of freaks..."
Later, in the trailer, Sam's wrapping up the story of Malcolm's visit. "...And that's it. I got no control over what people do after they leave the bar." Was anyone "unusually angry" about the fight? Mainstreaming is for pussies. Everybody was. "Heck, you might as well interrogate the whole town. Between you and me? I wouldn't be heartbroken if you didn't find who did it." Bud smiles warmly, but Andy's not feeling him. I think Andy's so willing to take any human suspect over any other suspect as another way of not dealing with weirdness. Either because he's more comfortable with it than he realizes, or because he's so very uncomfortable with it that he'd prefer not to acknowledge it, even as an active agent in murder and crime. The freakiness of humans preoccupies him: Sam, poor Jason, even Sookie. "Old Mrs. Stackhouse, on the other hand, now that's a real tragedy. Her and Dawn and Maudette Pickens, one right after the other... You fellas got any leads on that?" Don't look at me, look at the vampires and the things on whom they feed. Andy nods, lies that they've got leads, and Sam offers them encouragement. Bud drags Andy away to have lunch, and Sam breathes in their absence until Andy reappears.
"Hey, Sam?" he says, smooth as silk in his own mind, "One other thing. You recall spendin' any time out in the woods lately?" Sam nods, makes a production of it, admitting it: you got me. Your investigative tricks are too much for my simple mind. Andy crosses his arms, self-satisfied. Sam goes in for the kill. "Andy... If... If I tell you, you have to keep this a secret, all right? Nobody in town knows, but..." Andy's loving it; he leans closer. "I come from a family of naturists." Like birdwatchers? "No. No, not naturalists. Naturists. Naturists believe in a freer, clothing-optional kind of lifestyle." Andy looks at him almost cross-eyed, but it's honestly the only explanation you could give: "You're a nudist?" Oh, good Lord no. "But my folks were, I'm embarrassed to say. They spent most of their lives at a nudist colony... in Texas, just outside Beaumont. But uh... ever since they passed, I honor their memory once a year by... taking a run through the woods the way they used to. It's... It's my private way of mourning. I'm sorry if anybody had to see it." Andy grunts athletically, and smiles, and it's done.