"Let's just say I was a hell of a lot worse off than you." Back to Tara; he brightens. "She's a miracle worker. You'll see." Tara swears again she won't be there too long, and grins coyly to herself when he says it's a shame. "My Momma. When she thought something was too good to be true, she'd say, 'Satan in a Sunday hat.' That's exactly what this is," she says to his laughter. Eggs knows what she means: it's so hard to be loved, when you've never had much. To sit still for acceptance and compassion when they seem mythological; a family, a story in which you were never invited to star. He begins to play again, and her eyes close softly, and forgets to wonder where her phone is. "You know, it took me a long time to stop looking over my shoulder too. But there are good people in this world. Sometimes... Good shit happens." It is peaceful; she dares herself to believe him as he plays her a song without words. Is she strong enough to believe that the world is big enough for joy? That's the only question they ever ask you, at the crossroads.
The pig snorts, and watches Maryann. She sits in the center of palatial estates, a leviathan moving across the world. She vibrates, the world hums around her; she is synchronized and atypical, a strange attractor. She is many things at once. The universe shivers at her passing, so strong it affects the camera, your cable box, your television screen: her image shivers and the ripples pass out, and down on the ground her pig watches and remembers: he was taller once. Men become pigs and that's nothing new, but a pig changing shape and size? All men are beasts. Some beasts are men, sometimes. And then Maryann Forrester, holding onto the world like a tender smaller creature; a leviathan passing in the deeps, as you hold your nose closed and chuckle to yourself, all alone like a girl, and dive in. And the ripples move out again.
Without knowing it, Rene sings along: "Devil In Disguise," he howls and hollers, driving Jason's truck just a little less recklessly than its previous owner, toward Merlotte's. Inside, Sookie catches Andy telling a new story, a hero story, the story that saves him. "He don't remember doin' it. Like he had amnesia or something... Now, he's just sitting there, lookin' like a dog that lost his bone. And then he says, 'I did it. I killed those women. You were right all along.'" Bud corrects him gently, but Andy can't hear him. The story has control. "You should've seen the look in his eye. Ice cold. Like he was talking about roadkill." Bud finally leaves the table, and Sookie watches, disgusted, as Rosie the dispatcher squeezes Andy's arm and offers to buy him a beer, to show him appreciation. Rosie, who once wanted Jason Stackhouse as much as anybody else, flirting with Andy Bellefleur, making him a real Detective there with anybody else. This is the mystery he was trying to solve: how Jason, a hero to nobody, somehow earns more love and desire and respect than Andy, a good cop and a swell detective and a hero. How his virility was contested, demonstrated to be suspect, and Andy came out on top. Just as he's always known it would go.