The Power Rankings clean the carpet three times and attempt to mop up a rather messy liquid situation.
Walter ‘Mr Rogers with a lung tumour’ White
“Old Yeller has the scent. Abort.” Walt grumbles, sheathing an unseasonable umbrella, taking care not to depress the trigger hidden in its handle, wary of the deadly ricin payload within.
The message spreads out across the plaza. A suspiciously burly, hairy armed mother begins trundling her buggy away from the scene. The vicious, knife wielding midget sitting in the pram covers his stubble with a blanket and sheathes his blade. The sniper in the nearby clocktower packs up his 50.cal rifle and begins descending the structure as the bells which would have covered the sound of his shots ring out. Kuby, disguised as a living statue, emerges from stony lifelessness and moves with a professional alacrity to Saul Goodman’s crumpled Cadillac.
Kuby enters by the passenger side door, seating himself beside Saul, who is inexplicably dressed as a clown. “Crap!” Goodman exclaims, slamming his binoculars onto the dashboard and pressing his disgruntled face into his palm forcing his nosepiece to release a funny squawking noise. Huell’s rumbling snores emanating from the backseat seal the day’s operation as a failure.
Jesse’Old Yeller’ Pinkman
Jesse knows better than to walk onto Walter’s gameboard, playing by his house rules just because the south’s grumpiest DEA agent tells him to. Jesse understands that playing with Walt is playing with fire, that he’s the kind of man who would poison a child just as a move then convince you it had to be done. Hank’s overconfident bullying of Jesse is just indicative of his vast underestimation of his opponent. The more you learn, the more you come to realise how little you really know. Likewise, a truly wise man understands that no matter how smart he is, Walter White is still smarter and still 10 moves ahead of him.
What Hank doesn’t seem to realise is that he’s playing checkers whilst Walt is playing chess. Jesse is through with games, he’s going to light fire to the rulebook and use it to ignite Walt’s house. Of course it’s a much bigger house now that Walt has retired to a palace fitting for the king of meth kings. It’s going to require something more devious than a simple wire to damn this devil back to hell, and dammed if Jesse Pinkman 2.0 doesn’t know what it is. Can the student become the master? Looks like we may just find out next week.
The closer Hank seems to get to ensnaring Walt, the closer he seems to be to becoming Walt. To becoming ensnared in Walt’s realm of lies and grey areas and hazy morality. He’s come to the point of trying to bamboozle his family out of their own home with breezy lies and circular logic. Sound like any other determined bald ABQ’er to you?
“You know that thing with Walt? There’s been a development. No! Not in danger at all, no no no no no… it’s just a fluid situation and I think it might just go a little smoother if you’re not here.”
This exchange is a pretty clear echo of Walt. The constant caressing of the facts, reassurances, deft underplaying of the situation to his own ends. Hank even goes so far as to manipulate Jesse into recording a tell all confession (thus basically removing his personal worth in any criminal investigation while also making him a target) then trying to strong arm him into a meeting with Walt Jesse rightly thinks could be his end. On top of all this, he’s ambivalent as to Jesse’s wellbeing since the confession gives him everything he needs and a murder would only give him more. It seems the evil Walt has wrought is compromising everyone around him at this stage.
Your plan is to do his plan! Hank no, you’re not brainstorming, because you and Gomez don’t have two brain cells to rub together. Idiotas…
Saul Goodman Euphemisms:
- Going back to Cali – A drive by shooting
- Meeting Jack Nicholas – Assaulted with golf clubs
- Happy Meal – Being poisoned at a restaurant
- Office Masseuse – an asian prostitute
- Enroll in Clown College – beaten in an alleyway
- Measure for a new suit – Sue for everything you’ve got
- Paint David Byrne’s garage – burn down your house
A cold chill wafts across the Albuquerque plaza. As the breeze caresses his head, Grumbles shivers, feeling exposed. Grumbles plunges two large solid fists into his battered leather jacket and fixes his gaze. He’s been waiting around ten minutes now. He’ll wait as long as it takes.
A dishevelled young man comes into view. His eyes are tired. Bloodshot. Worried. He moves hurriedly, walking as if through a waking nightmare. Their eyes meet momentarily, and like a startled animal, the boy retreats to a nearby payphone.
An upset looking bald man passes by quickly. He wears glasses and is dressed conservatively. Grumbles exchanges a slight nod with him, a notice of solidarity shared between bald men. Then she appears. His sweet daughter, running into her fathers loving embrace. Smiling contently, he picks her up and carries her towards a popcorn vendor, who carefully stows a sawed off shotgun among his confections.
Dave the therapist
Dave, Marie’s new age, hippie wrist bangle wearing therapist is presumably, the world’s most patient man – purely because he’s been dealing with Marie ‘I can’t say what it is but it involves adultery’ Schrader’s antics for so long.
The last time Marie suggested her work organise a charity fun run to raise money for breast cancer awareness, they refused to take part and she spent a fortnight filing down metal shavings that she could slip into people’s lunches in the break room.
This is a man who’s been putting up with Marie’s numerous petty grievances, inadequacies, kleptomania and literal pillow talking for years. If you think Jesse’s overreacting by sloshing gasoline around the White living room, Marie set fire to at least four cars just last week over the egregious new parking dictat (family spaces forcing her to park slightly further away).
“Dave, can we simply just… focus on my feelings here? The details don’t really matter do they? There is nothing to be done, okay? He screwed us, and he won.”
Seriously, Dave probably just assumes that Walt has been stealing cutlery or something. Actually all this patient cardiganed listening is probably just enabling Marie’s petty bullshit. Dave you’re the worst TV therapist since Dr Melfi. FUCK OFF.
Gomez conspiracy theories:
- He’s the deepest Gus Fring mole.
- Is actually one of Todd’s white supremacist uncles.
- Was killed and replaced with a cipher Gomez while on assignment in El Paso.
- Is Gay.
- Owns a summer holiday home in Belize.
- Is Walter Junior’s biological father.
- Is a figment of Hank’s imagination.
- Is Tuco’s other cousin.
Ted angrily ends his call with the pharmacy. This is the third call he’s made this week attempting to get more overnight urinary drainage bags. It appears they have no stock of these bags, and can’t deliver them for two more days.
Ted shuffles around in his bedding – at least, to the extent that he still can – and sighs. Without his wife, or a close family member to help him, Ted will have to suffer this further indignity. Ted grimaces, fighting the hot, disgraceful moisture pooling around his crotch. His home therapist won’t arrive until twelve o’clock tomorrow. Ted settles into his own filth and glances at the upturned Ikea rug in the hallway.
Where in the world is Mike Ehrmantraut?
Teaching a class at the local dojo on self defence and how to defuse a workplace assault.
Well done Marie, you’re going to accidentally poison Junior – sentencing him to an inexplicable, unexplainable slow painful death. Then you can whisk baby Holly away to a life of paranoia, therapists and molehill mountains. Aunt of the fucking year.
Not Ranked: Beaver, Dojo Memberships, Old Yeller, Babylon 5, Ted Beneke’s fluid situation, Kuby, wrist bangles, Salma Hayek, Todd, Lydia, the roomba, saxitotoxin, Skinny Pete, Mr Rogers, the cleaning guys, petrol pumps, cipher Gomez.
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