The California energy crisis continues its debilitating plague on the Bookhouse set, its plot-obscuring darkness attempting to tantalize the lazy recapper with promises of linear, fluorescent-soaked sets just a simple fast-forward button away. But alas, the waning days of Twin Peaks recaps are upon us, so I'll continue my intrepid task of humming a happy chorus of an appropriate tune contemporary with the original airing of this episode (I was thinking of something in the "I'm having a wonderful time, but I'd rather be recapping in the dark, recapping in the dark, recapping in the dark" variety), and charge back my ophthalmologist visits to the MBTV Health Insurance Claims Department. God bless 'em.

A pitch-black opening shot of a taxidermed deer head pans us across a bookshelf, the corner of a chair, and a lamp with a bulb just bright enough to successfully illuminate, well, itself. Some scary, scary pan flute accompaniment just barely drowns out the roar of directors and other technical advisors hurling swear words of frustration around the set as the cameras bump into concealed furniture and other soon-to-be-on-workman's-comp members of the Lynch/Frost payroll ("Ow! That's my foot!" "What in the name of Lesli Linka Glatter is that CHAIR doing there?" "I may be the best boy, but that doesn't mean I'm the best at SEEING IN THE DARK!" and so forth). Pan past (I think) the hand of the fallen officer commissioned to stand guard, and then we're over to the bed, in which our hero, Harry "Dewey Defeats" Truman lies, unconscious. Pause. Pause. Pause. Zzzzz. Oh, sorry. I'm up now. Two hands, rather mannish (though, to the touch, that's not wholly out of the ordinary for Truman), creep up Truman's back and into the frame, and we come to realize that, if we've ever watched this show before, that the mysteriously Bond-villain-esque, bizarrely-Nordic-in-her-proportions "Jones" has come to enact some horrific vengeance on Truman. Vengeance, apparently, of the sexiest, sexiest kind. She lies on his back and makes with the nookie, whispering, "You like that?" Is this vote open to the public? Because, no. She sits up behind him and pulls out a small bottle, the contents of which she dabs on her fingers and then rubs on his lips. Truman kind of moans the sleepy "guh" noise of pre-coital mischief that we as human beings have no need to hear, ever, unless we're inciting that noise in someone else or actually making it ourselves. Because otherwise it's just clothed porn with ill-proportioned actors such as these. And that's just not sexy at all. Guh, indeed.