Amanda makes her little prepackaged meal in the breakroom microwave, demonstrating just how easy it can be, and Betty retrieves her sweaty smelly balls from the fridge just as Daniel finds her and asks her to kidnap DJ. Betty does not care because she has manufactured a plan to waste most of Gio's day by ordering a bunch of sandwiches to her house of whoredom and then trapping him there until she can berate him into not hating her anymore. Good plan, Smellyballs. Daniel doesn't actually care about any of this, because only a lunatic would care about any of this, and Betty -- apparently having not learned her lesson last week -- bugs Daniel about explaining why she needs to kidnap the child if he's the real live MoPo daddy, but Daniel won't tell her and says it's a complex issue involving Freedom bullshit and how about you shut up and do your job, and if you don't, they'll take DJ away due to some manoeuvres compliquées and whatever. Mostly I want to know if the whole "Freedom soil" thing is literally true, like how Dracula had to bring Romanian dirt with him to England, because if so, let's get this done.
Gio brings the sandwiches to Betty's apartment, where she and the Freedom demon child are more than likely complimenting each other's hair in broken languages and generally talking about themselves as though they care about each other in any way. He spots the nameplate and realizes he's been hosed right before she drags him inside. DJ says hello, but in a way where you know he means, "The large American has kidnapped me and won't stop talking about the fucking frommage," and she shoves Gio up against the door so she can apologize the shit out of him, but then he smells the cheese, and tries to take the cheese without acknowledging her endless, pushy, slightly unnerving apology.
Just to be dicks she and the Freedom kid toss the smelly balls back and forth over his head. Which is just mean, because yes he is technically a "little person" as they're called these days, but he's also hotter than a summer barbecue on the sun and I think at that point the intense shortness is just not that remarkable a quality. He calls her an "Indian giver," and she tells him that is both outdated and culturally insensitive. Not to mention inaccurate, as the sweaty balls weren't a gift anyway, they were emotional blackmail, and they both know that. She and DJ nod to each other, because yes, a barely literate thirteen-year-old child with the haircut of a Kennedy compound rapist should be your first moral checkpoint when you're imprisoning a tiny broken sandwich maker in your own home.