As Bruce approaches his car, he hears a low growl nearby. Freaking out, Bruce drops his cane and frantically shoves himself inside the car. He's quite facile with switching between a wheelchair and a cane. I'm sure it's all just a scam so he can park closest to the grocery store. A wolf leaps onto the roof of the car, then lands on the hood and growls and spits at ugly Bruce, who'd better be wearing Depends. Bruce revs the engine and peels off down the street, shaking the wolf off the car -- but not out of his soul! Wait, that doesn't really mean anything. Dammit. I'm pretty sure this Hiatus of the Damned is coming just in time to save my sanity.
Lou escorts another misguided conspiracy theorist out of the sheriff's office. Bruce plows through the door, panting and peeking over his shoulder in terror. "I raped Miranda!" he screams. "I raped her! You gotta lock me up now." Lou isn't one to argue with cop stuff, so he slams big Bruce into prison and vows to Shawshank him 'til the cow comes home. When Ruby does finally return, though, he'll be much more lenient.
"You can't do this," Bruce sputters. "I got rights!" He's inside the wee jail cell, begging to see Lou but instead staring down Donner and Willard, who've tag-teamed on his inert ass and look primed to kick him clear past the full moon in a nod to E.T. Quietly, Willard thanks Donner for contacting him. "I know it was hard for you," he says. Sadly, Donner hands Willard the cell keys and exits. That whooping noise you hear? Is Tim Matheson being done with this show forever. Bruce shouts for help. "Shut up, Bruce," the world says, including Willard. As he unlocks the cell and moves toward his brother, Bruce insists that it's too late, because by now Lou has called the state troopers and they're en route to send him to the slammer. A bigger slammer. A Denny's Grand Slammer. "I'm gonna be dining cafeteria-style in a state correctional facility," he grins. Bruce, apparently, hasn't seen Oz. He gleefully notes that in prison, the name Willard Cates will mean nothing, and he'll be free of the family influence. "Human justice won't be your refuge," Willard says, handing Bruce back his flask. Bruce greedily takes it. Bruce is toast. Stupid ponytailed toast on wheels. "I might get eight years for this," Bruce says hopefully. "Sure beats our law." He guzzles alcohol and maligns the wolf code, saying that the death penalty for an "error of judgment with an ungulate," especially one who's already a whore, sounds overly harsh. If there's one thing I've learned in this whole mess, it's that maligning the wolf code can only end badly. Okay, so maybe I haven't really learned that at all, but it did sound reasonable. Bruce crows that, finally, he got dealt a manageable hand, and Willard has to suck it up. Willard scornfully tells his brother that the wheelchair has always been his excuse for self-pity and misbehavior. "Well, I'm gonna outlive you, Cancer Boy," Bruce cackles. "Ain't that a mother-nudger." Oh my God. Will someone please stop giving pen and paper to the psychiatric patients? Thanks. Willard patiently insists that he won't let Bruce escape to prison and endanger the clan, and begs his brother to do the right thing. Bruce bah-humbugs that and keeps chugging from his flask. "Finish it," Willard whispers. "It'll be quicker that way." And, sure enough, Bruce begins to choke, gasping for air and making a big ol' ruckus. Willard just pretty much watches this. He likes to watch. He cultivated that during years of undesired abstinence, when Viv was out boffing anything that moved on all fours. Bruce threateningly throws himself against Willard, but he's too weak, and sinks to the floor in a decrepit, dying heap. "I should've been a better brother to you," Willard says, apologizing to the corpse without a hint of emotion.