Fade up on a nighttime shot of The Palmer House of Non-Ambiguous Daughter Murdering (um, spoiler?), accompanied by a soundtrack featuring a sustained, dissonant orchestral chord and prerecorded screams providing a similar amount of realistic terror to those pumped through the speakers behind your slowly moving tram car on "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." Dissolve to the following morning, where a shot of moodily, non-blowing (oops. Could someone get around to plugging in the machine that makes the…yeah, thanks) trees pans down to a slightly tighter shot of the house. And then we're inside, panning past the oft-filmed Laura shrine of framed photographs: Laura as a pig-tailed youth, Laura as a beaming prom queen, Laura smiling through the obvious humiliation of forgetting that the Twin Peaks Middle School annual "Dress as Your Favorite Cheryl Ladd Circa 1978 Haircut" theme day fell on the very afternoon as her family's Glamour Shots appointment (that shot is harder to find. It's there, but it takes some searching), Laura snorting blow with a fat Frenchman behind an abandoned train car while a scraggly long-haired demon man takes a club to the back of her head and tweezers to her fourth finger. Oh, wait, that last one actually never made it to the mantel now, did it? But if it had, buh-bye series, eh?

Continuing the pan over the Laura Ashley Couch of Once Domestic Bliss and the Smartly Placed Throw Rugs of Their Forgotten Sensical Past, into the frame enters a mess of golf balls and accompanying tees, littering said couch and floor while the sound of a sinister chuckle punctuates the fact that some eerie, eerie shit is going down in this house. Panning, panning, panning, over to a patch of green on the floor with a pile of golf balls next to it. A club raises on high and we cut back to see Leland "Too Happy Gilmore" Palmer, standing in the living room, hitting ball after ball. After ball. Leland is still wearing the suit he was wearing at the end of the last episode, which I believe is supposed to indicate that he's been actively and consistently vying for the golf legend title of "The Tiger Woods…of DOOM" for the greater part of the past twelve hours. Even though it's 1990, and Tiger Woods is, like, four. He's the only golfer I can name, so handle the hackneyed reference as best you can and we'll just move on, okay? Wait, here's another one: Arnold Palmer. I think he's a golfer. Either that or he wrote "Simply Irresistible." But I digress. For a freakin' change.