That's right, Guillermo nods: trying to dig down underneath her placid calm, trying to assert himself over her another way: "You're all cunt, ain't ya?" It still doesn't work. Her smile turns steely bright: "Yeah. And titties." She fires off the word like a gun, insulted in spite of herself. She returns the serve, putting him back in the cage. "Speaking of which... Is it true that in prison, sometimes the bottom guys get tattoos of titties on their backs, so that the big daddies can imagine they're looking at a woman when they're raping you?"
He smashes his fist against the window and she giggles: mean, icy, plastic and fake. Full of hate, blaming him for the tunnel and the fear and the family, gone, the maternity store, the boxes full of guns, the little girls in the tunnel. "Do you know about that?" she asks, quietly, smiling like a best girlfriend, and he tries again to come out on top, staring her down. "I know you're the rat, and rats die." Trying to scare her with boogieman tales, big boy stories; she could laugh.
"The eating of burning brimstone is an entirely fake performance." -- Harry Houdini
"You might not want to cause me stress," she says meaningfully, trying to come out on top. "I'm in a very delicate state. Can't you see I'm glowing?" His jaw drops and she nods, grinning at him; on top.
"Oh, wow. You got me!" She nods meanly again, but he's on top. "I thought you were smart? You're a fool!" She has no ring, she's not the wife: she's the knocked-up puta whore rat. Her smile falls, and he pushes his advantage. "She end up in a landfill, lady parts all chopped out, face all unrecognizable..." She slams the phone against the tabletop, angry. He likes it. He wins. He keeps going, slamming it back at her, making her believe, eyes wide and nearly crazy as he screams hilariously, "You were an interesting person to know, Nancy Botwin!" He tells her to get her affairs in order, because he's not the one she needs to worry about. Not anymore. "Fuck off," she grits, and storms away. He took it all away, and stranded her in a desert without a key or a cuff or a single fact. It's all up to Esteban, now; the baby doesn't even matter. The baby is as worthless as her life.
"No performer should attempt to bite off red-hot iron unless he has a good set of teeth." -- Harry Houdini
Rudolfo is still freaking out, a very revolutionary activity, and throwing things around: he can't find his ammo or his other toys. Celia snarks at him -- "Buck up, sourpuss!" -- and 101's him that this is about Quinn, without whom he is so much better off. He's a rebel leader -- played by Kevin Alejandro, no less -- which women go wild for, so why would he care to be with somebody like Quinn, that treats him like shit? Because he loves her. Or, Celia suggests, he's just telling himself that he loves her; that's what she used to do, because she gave birth to Quinn and thought she was supposed to love her. And yet, Celia says, there is and was always this expression on her face, like she is and was always smelling bad cheese. Rudolfo has also noticed this face she makes, and they share the mystery of why Quinn is like that. The important thing, Celia says, is to consider all the hosts of "non-cheese sniffing girls" out there waiting for him. Suddenly he goes back to flipping out, asking why Celia is even there, sticking her pointy fingers into all his romance, and says she reminds him of Quinn. "I'm nothing like her! How dare you compare me to that little bitch?" Celia slaps him, as an object lesson in how much like her mother Quinn actually is, and he screams aloud. She apologizes, his eyes mad and hurt, and offers the idea that perhaps he's just built that way: he makes women want to hit him. He tells her to GTFO of his tent and his life, because she is a mean person, and for once Celia Hodes is caught completely off-guard.