dollars to donuts meaning, definition, examples, origin ...

Okay, so this is going to be riddled with spoilers, in all likelihood. I'm disposed to not spoil much, but this is, like, spoiler territory. Besides, you're here probably because you've already seen Part 3. Also, spoilers, but I ramble on for a long time. I debated putting this under Part 3 Discussion, but dang it long.
Overall, I liked Part 3, and Disenchantment as a whole. I laughed at jokes, I sympathized with characters' plights, I dislike the baddies and I like (generally speaking) the goodies. But I'm pretty sure I'm easily entertained. A lot of people seemed to not like it? Well, imagine the threshold for it being well-liked is around 75%, most people seem to be at a 60%. But I liked it, despite its fondness for bare buttocks.
That said, folks are right, it does feel properly disjointed. A number of jokes went on too long, and not just mug-stealing or inner monologue. Things like rolling down a flight of stairs takes twice as long. Only time running long in a joke ever worked was with Spam. They don't even have strict time limits on these episodes, so it's like padding for no reason! That said, I'm going to try to make sense of what's going on. That's never gone wrong, right?
Okay, Dagmar, the big baddie, the plot activator. What's her goal? Pretty sure it's to get Bean to Hell in a specific, controlled manner, and the Cliffhanger paid that off. A large amount of things seem to be out of her control; she's unaffiliated with the Secret Society and the Elves, she lost her relatives and allies, so she's only got the Trogs under her command. Well, she had them, past tense. But I'm pretty sure a not-insignificant part of the 3rd season was her meddling. I'm about 90% sure that she's zapped herself into Bean's mind and is living there rent-free and doing magicky stuff - like worsening Zog's insanity artificially and mind-controlling him to say what she wants to be said so that Princess Bean becomes Queen Bean. Why that factors into the plan, I don't exactly know. It's probably relating to something Dagmar can't do herself, and needs an heidaughter to marry off or something.
Oddvall and the Secret Society (of stagnation) want to be in charge - secretly. They're not good at it, but no-one seems to care. The fact that Oddvall hasn't lost his head yet even though he blatantly plots is becoming something of a joke. I'm not sure if he's even useful anymore. You could just ask Luci for advice, and do the opposite of what he says! But tangent over, the Secret Society wants to have a puppet ruler in place so that they may continue their secret work without interruption. I'm pretty sure that's finding Dreamland's mystery power. Folks say it's magic, I'm not convinced it's magic like 'You are now a wizard' magic. Seems more like 'Storm of Chaos and Destruction Sealed Inside A Jar' magic. Secret Society wants it, doesn't know where it is. It's probably in the old Elven kingdom, probably. Side Note: Oddvall and the Secret Society tricking Bean and Oona into helping them make Zog even more insane was, IMO, legitimately genius. That got a laugh out of me once I realized what had happened (and also compounded on the Karma Houdini this group has going on).
That Wallace-sounding fellow from Steamland is in the same boat, goal-wise. He wants Dreamland's secret power, and he's got a sweat act, but Dagmar is much better at twisting emotions than he is. He's oddly endearing, in a creep-stalker way. Maybe it's the nice-guy British Accent, maybe it's his remarkably ineffectual lightbulb robot minions. But we haven't seen him much. In fact, Steamland as a whole is underused. I thought they were going to do a "Most Dangerous Game" scenario where Elfo becomes a Rambo-style cool dude and takes down his human oppressors. Freeing the Freakshow Prisoners was nice and cathartic, but I did want to see them do The Most Dangerous Game. Also: Regarding the Arch-Druidess: I'm pretty sure she was just reveling in the power. She's not nice, power over people seems like something she enjoys too much. 50/50 on her returning.
The Elves were also really, really underused as well. Maybe it's because they accidentally were too one-note. You've got a fleet of sweet-makers with names that define their personalities and the suffix -o. But they're looking for the old Elf Kingdom, and I'd bet dollars to donuts that whatever mystery power Dreamland is sitting on is in the Elf Kingdom, because Dreamland seems to sit on a lot of things.
Also, what's this curse about? Did the Elves lay a curse on Dreamland and it's set to break soon because Bean is now Queen? Has the curse done anything? Or is perhaps the reason why Dreamland such a stangant, ho-hum medieval setting BECAUSE of this curse? There's a curse, but we're not really seeing it. If it's the rulers meet horrible fates, that's not much of a curse. As Granny Weatherwax said, "Assassination is a perfectly natural cause of death for a King".
I guess I'll go over cliffhangers next. It looks like Elfo got abducted to meet his mother. I got a bad feeling this is going to go nowhere, perhaps because it came out of nowhere. We thought the threat was green smoke advancing, but it's an ogre army who came up because just now the Ogre Queen wants her son home.
Luci's cliffhanger got a good laugh out of me, and might actually be more meaningful. He's in heaven because a: That's the worst place for a demon to end up, and b: There's a good chance that Luci will become a better person. I'm working under the theory that God thinks that Luci can become a better person. Who knows? Maybe he'll be sent down as Bean's guardian angel. But an episode concerning him in Heaven would probably be a good bit of comedy.
And next, Zog. Oh, poor Zog. You had a plan, it wasn't clever but it was more clever than most people would've given you credit for, but you saw the decapitated head of an ally and was buried alive by the Arch-druidess. You got sucked underground by grave-robbing trogs, saw two of your back-stabbing wife, and got turned into no more than a pawn and a figurehead to be used after a life wasted on terrible dietary choices. Gotta feel for the poor shmuck. Here's to hoping that things go well for him, but perhaps the last thing I want for Zog is the ol' Status Quo to miracle-cure him. There's something almost Shakespearean about what's happened to poor King Zog. He's in a tragedy not of his own making, and even as a King, he was just a tool for others to use or an obstacle in other's way, and only barely a parent to Bean and Derek and a husband to Oona. I want things to get better for him, for him to take back some power in his life, but at the same time, I want Bean to remain Queen. I'm conflicted on poor Zog's fate.
Lastly, Bean. Welcome to hell, it appears you're going to be married to Satan. I think we all know where this is going. She'll worm her way out of this one, somehow, and back to the surface world, rescue Elfo, and perhaps see Luci as a new Guardian Angel. Bean's cool, I really do like women of action, but it's strange how her cliffhanger is most important and holds my interest second-lowest. Elfo's last.
Now, I want to get to the quality of writing. It's strange to say this, because these are experienced creators, but the entire story feels.... very beginner. I've read a lot of fantasy, I've written some of it. I breathe this genre, mostly because Sci-Fi becomes disappointing when you learn that warp speed is highly improbable. Like, if I compare Disenchantment to Futurama (this old horse), you'd notice several things.
Firstly, the setting. Futurama has got lots of stuff going on, a constant mixture of the future melting-pot of the city and worlds unknown to us. It's nice and FULL. Meanwhile, Disenchantment's world is Dreamland and friends. Dreamland is a super-stagnatory paint-by-numbers kingdom. It's almost Un-Magical, funnily enough. You got odds and ends here and there, Oddvall's 3rd eye, that incompetent Sorcero, things here and there, but it doesn't feel as innundated with the genre as Futurama was. Futurama is High Science Fiction, but Dreamland is more Low Fantasy. Dreamland's neighbors lean more into the fantasy, what with the swamp kingdom and the richer-than-thou, heading-for-a-French-Revolution kingdom, but they don't feel as captivating. Steamland is wonderfully fleshed out in every scene we see, but I think that's more because Steamland is closer to Futurama conceptually, as Steampunk is retro-future Science Fiction, and Futurama was really strong in regards to the feel of the world and Steamland benefited from that by a lot.
The reason why i think this is is because of Pop Culture Osmosis. If you just skim the surface of Pop Culture, you'll dredge up a lot more science fiction than fantasy. You got your Star Wars and your Star Trek, your robots out the kaboodle, aliens left right and center, your megacities, your advanced technology, it's everywhere. Science Fiction is Popular, so there's a lot on the surface to work with. Fantasy, meanwhile, isn't as much. You got Tolkien, and I don't think most people have read the books. Generic, Surface-Level Fantasy is like, Medieval European Kingdom, you got a wizard and a scheming advisor. People are dirty as heck and dumb as a sack of potatoes. Angels and Demons, sure why not. Ogres, sure. Elves, sure. Mermaids, they're popular, in everything, so toss them in. But the by-the-numbers of Fantasy aren't as expansive as the by-the-numbers of Science Fiction, which shackled Disenchantment, incidentally.
I mean, look at the Elves. What are the Elves in disenchantment? They're the KEEBLER elves. They make edible sweets and have simple names. Look at the Elves in more deep-dive fantasy. What are they? More-perfect-than-perfect, more beautiful-than-beautiful, ancient masters of the world with incredible power and a history fraught with world-shaking events. That's just the standard elf, the Tolkien Elf, if you will. Disenchantment's got the Keebler Elves. Most people are familiar with the Keebler Elves when they buy a box of grasshoppers at the grocery store. Tolkien Elves aren't making anything you see in a grocery store.
And Fantasy does have that kind of over-the-top potential, which is what Steamland has while Dreamland hasn't. But Fantasy stuff isn't as wide-spread as Science Fiction stuff is, so Disenchantment doesn't get as deep a dive. Heck, I'm suprised the basis of Disenchantment isn't the most basic Fantasy Plot Ever: Main Character is the Chosen One, and will destroy the Satanic Archetype in a battle for the fate of the World. Basic as it comes, you see it it loads of fantasy stuff, not here.
That skimming-the-surface approach lets me circle back to my point about the plot and the writing, because it feels almost like a beginner is doing it. These writers are experienced, but it FEELS like this is the first time they're doing a sequential story. The Simpsons has no ongoing plot, Futurama has only the barest bones of an ongoing plot, and even that feels like it never changes, but Disenchantment does have a plot that changes characters and the world. Things matter more, so it feels like the Authors are stuck at 'where do we go next?' in a sheepish manner. I've not done the intensive research on the cast, but it does feel like that awkward stage of writing where you don't honestly know where the characters are going to go next.
And I noticed this problem because of the episode "Last Splash". I swear to the gods, I've read an 'erotica' that had the exact same plot, gender included. I've also read a number of queer romance webcomics that aren't as... teenage-hormonally driven. There's a certain immaturity, or juvenile wish-fufillment, or unresolved desires, that play into a story like Last Splash. You read enough of the things I've read, you start noticing what I could only call as beginner-level queer romancing. Queer folks I've talked to are a LOT better at expressing this than I am, but the beginner-level queer romance is, more or less, a fetish. It's "Let's get these two characters (who are the same gender) to shag", and that's what happens in "Last Splash". And I SWEAR the only time I've ever seen this happen is in starting authors writing what they want to see with little thought into deeper meanings, and authors who continue with little care into deeper meanings (which i classify as more beginner-level).
Reflecting back on it, I realized it happened with Bean's arc in Part Two. In that part, if you recall, she was all about affirmative action, and the menfolk around her were all about unaffirming that. It felt very beginner and super-basic. It felt like the first time someone was approaching Feminism without reading into the topic before hand. It was just super-basic, and that was frustrating. I remember, as a little me, I read the Tortall book series, in which every main character was a girl growing into a woman and fighting for their place in the world, doing things their way, one even disobeying a God of Death for something more meaningful to herself (reanimating dinosaur remains to wreck a palace instead of all the human remains for the same effect). Disenchantment just feels super-basic in regards to plots like these when compared to books I read in Elementary School.
....wow I've gone on for too long. With posts like these, I'm tailor-made for Youtube. Anyways, I like Disenchanted, probably more than I should, but it's outclassed by a lot of stuff I've seen and read. I'll keep on with it, just because I'm attached now. I don't think I mentioned any good points, but it's because the comedy is hit-or-miss HARD, the characters are divisive, and the plot isn't moving very fast. Anything I like, I know for a fact by evidence on this very subreddit is something someone else dislikes. Except maybe Oona. Pretty sure we all like Oona.
Also, you think this is long, you shoulda seen my posts on individual episodes of Tartakovsky's PRIMAL.

THIS IS OFFICER GRAY, REQUESTING FOR IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE! (Zombie apocalypse Police Officer P.O.V.)

Driving the cruiser along the eastern banks of the Colorado River, Chipper Ridge holds the richer inhabitants of the greater and wealthier area in Exodus, a heavily-populated and dense city, housing a staggering total of 65,000 people.
Carter leans back in the passenger seat and tilts his hat over the top of his eyes, visor-like. "The problem is…I don't drink. Ever. So a half-bottle of scotch with her father made me black-out drunk. I woke up in her old man's basement spooning the Doberman."
My partner rubs his hands over his clean-shaven face. Still a rookie, Carter is riding with me during his probationary period, which lasts another week. The report of his progress included the words: professional, eager, and timid.
"Nowadays, people don't typically ask for the father's permission to marry his daughter. That's a practice from long ago," i said.
"Their family practices those old customs. I was nervous. If Tara's father said 'no,' I actually think she would have called the wedding off."
Sighing in disbelief, i pulled the cruiser to the sidewalk just outside a Dippin' Donuts.
"Really? A donut shop?" Carter asks in an annoyed tone. "Kind of plays into the police officer stereotype."
"This place charges cops fifty cents a cup, and you need coffee." I replied, tossing to him a dollar.
"I won't argue with that point."
Stepping out of the cruiser and immediately blasted in the face with the sheer wrath of the heat on a friday afternoon, The sun beats down on Milford Avenue, parting the gray clouds. The snow has ceased to fall, but the remnants of it crust the edges of the curb in dirt-laced piles. Across the street sits the Allied Bank of Chipper Ridge. "With my luck, the bank will be hit on my first day back from vacation", i thought jokingly to myself.
The busy shop has two workers attending to a half-dozen customers in line, with double that at tables and booths. A group of high-schoolers sink deep into their seats as i entered; they must've been probably cutting class. A group of senior citizens take up a large table near the front window, and a team of laborers spread across several booths in the back. At the far corner, a bulky man with a full black beard, overalls, and work boots argues with a young worker behind the counter, though their voices haven't escalated enough yet for me to make out the details.
The line moves fast, and Carter pays for the coffees. I sat down at the only table left, the one by the door.
"I'm nervous about getting married. I love Tara; she means the world to me. But I already feel the pressure to be a husband, and we're not even engaged yet, technically. She's slowly moving me into her apartment." He draws out the word "slowly."
"How is she moving you in?" I asked, taking a half-mouthful gulp of the bitter coffee.
"Every time she's at my place, she takes something of mine back to her apartment. Almost everything I own is there now. She even has my dog, Benny." Carter takes a sip of coffee. He squeezes his eyes and twists his mouth. "Wow, I don't even like this stuff."
"Why don't you just move into her apartment?"
"She says we can't live together until we're married."
At the other end of the store, the argument intensifies, and Black Beard slams his hands on the counter and shouts at the manager, who has become involved in the situation.
Motioning to my partner, we rose from our seats and walked over with Carter by my side. By the time we've reached the counter, Black Beard and the manager are screaming face-to-face. One of his companions, a female laborer with "Bonnie" on her name tag, slaps Black Beard on his back and urges him to sit down with the group. Other customers have moved away from the scene, giving plenty of room for the two men should this turn physical. Stepping up to Black Beard and tapping him on the shoulder.
"Sir, you have to calm down," i spoke.
Black Beard turns, red-faced with spittle flinging from his mouth. "They tried to rip me off! Tenth one's free, the card says." He lifts a cardboard slip the size of a driver's license. Multi-colored stamps mark the card. "I come here every day and get the card stamped. They say ten stamps and you get a free coffee."
"And I said to the man that he gets the free beverage after the tenth purchase," the manager says, arms folded across his chest. "His card only had nine stamps."
"Look, I don't care about free coffees, stamps, or promo cards," i replied. "You're yelling like a lunatic and disrupting the peace. You gotta go."
Black Beard whips around. "I'm not leavin'. They cheat me every time the card's filled!"
Carter draws out his baton and steps toward Black Beard. "Sir, either calm down or we'll have to arrest you." His hand slips to his handcuffs.
"What? Arrest me? I'm not breaking any laws, jackass." As he says this, Black Beard leans in to Carter, and his chest bumps the rookie's, knocking my partner back a step.
"Yes sir, you're not breaking laws, and I know you feel cheated, but you have to admit, this has gotten a bit out of hand." I tried to reason, empathising.
Black Beard puts his hands on his hips and shifts left and right. "I just don't like being cheated." His voice takes a calmer tone, and his face drops a few shades of red.
"That's understandable. No one wants to feel cheated. What if I talk to the manager on your behalf and try to resolve this without all the yelling? Other people are trying to enjoy a snack or some coffee, and it's not fair to them."
Black Beard looks down at the floor and shuffles his feet. "Sorry. I just lose my temper sometimes." He walks back to the table his friends occupy.
"That was amazing," Carter says. His eyes go wide and mouth hangs open.
Returning back to the table with Carter and downing the rest of the coffee. "Well, how'd you like your first bit of action, Carter?"
"Sure got my blood pumping," he says while wiping his forehead with a napkin.
The radio screams to life with a static-filled voice. "Radio to all units. Multiple reports, 217. Check in."
"Car 21, go ahead," i said into the radio.
No answer came through. Waiting for a moment and repeating the call, as more time passes. Finally, the radio pops to life, but instead of static, a mix of screams, breaking glass, and gunfire emanated from the device. Clicking the walkie-talkie's button and yelling into it, i hoped for a response
"What's going on?" Carter says, staring at me in confusion and worry.
The front door of the shop swings wide and a man runs in, his face, arms, and chest covered in blood. He looks to be wearing a business suit, though it's drenched in the dark fluid. The tiny donut shop goes quiet except for the man's footsteps and excited breaths. He pauses near the counter, arms held out, blood dripping from his clothes, and ekes out a single word…"help."
From outside, the sounds of helicopter blades roar and gunshots ring out. A sedan zooms past the store front, swerving and beating its horn while dozens of figures can be seen wrestling on the streets, although it's too far to see what was going on with them.
Whispers and chatter fill the store, and most of the customers point out the windows and crowd together. The mood has changed to one of raw fear. Tables rattle. The manager rushes toward the front of the store and draws the shades down. A cashier runs into a back room and locks the door.
"Who did this to you?" Carter says to the blood-stained man, and he moves forward like he wants to help, but fear's gripping him.
"Men…their faces…eating…people." The man stammers out his words, eyes wide with shock. He glances around, an expression flickering across his face. "All dead," he says, then turns and runs from the store.
Carter chases after him.
"Okay, everyone calm down and stay seated while I figure out what's going on."
The crowd does everything but stay calm or seated. They stand at the windows and peer outside at what seems like a sudden war zone as emergency first-responders vehicles race by sirens blaring, people running through the streets with sticks and other makeshift weapons, and gunshots pop erratically. Dozens of police cars raced by, seemingly not caring for the crimes that are being committed right outside the shop.
The manager, a thin man who's a third of Black Beard's size, swings the front door wide. "Everyone out. I'm closing the place down."
Several of the older customers rush outside, though the group of laborers in the back, including Black Beard, stay pressed against the back windows and stare at the mayhem in the streets.
"Sir, we should all stay in here until we figure out the extent of what's going on," i said.
Tires screech, and an engine roars. There's a flash of motion in the corner of my vision, and i turn as a truck hops the curb and crashes into the side of the Dippin' Donuts. The store shakes, and a wave of force hits me, knocking the air out of my lungs. Glass shards fly, and i felt a sudden pain in my right arm as i toppled to the ground. The tires of the pickup truck squeal and spin, smoke rising from beneath the chassis. The driver is slumped at the wheel, and someone crouches by his side in the passenger seat. Cold wind blows through the shop, and the sounds of chaos from outside amplify and mix with the screams from around the truck.
The radio cackles, and an unfamiliar voice comes through. "Dispatch to all officers. Get to safety. All is lost. Save yourselves." The radio emits a high tone—the national emergency signal. Waving away the cloud of ash and white smoke rising from the wreckage. Peering at my shirt, which is cut and the right arm slashed near the bicep. Fortunately, the wound isn't deep. I stood, dazed, and cleared the glass away my body. Disoriented but otherwise unhurt, i stepped over broken table legs and smashed pieces of wall and make your way towards the truck. As i moved closer, the driver's body twitches and an odd noise emanates from deep inside the truck—halfway between a growl and chewing, like a dog gnawing on a bone. The driver slumps over, and a figure hovers over him, and as she cranes her head up, loose flesh falls from her mouth. Blood covers her hair, her face, and her clothes. As i stood there and soaked in the sight, her electric red eyes stared at me, and she crawls past the dead driver.
As the crazed woman crawls across the cabin, Black Beard and Bonnie rush along the side of the pickup truck, unaware of the threat inside.
"Get back!" I yelled, but the crazed woman leaps from the car and snaps her jaw at Black Beard. He catches her throat and holds her back, but the woman gouges his face with long fingernails. The two stumble to the floor, then Bonnie lifts a broken two-by-four and repeatedly bashed the woman's head.
More figures appear at the window, strange and twisted faces with bent bodies and twitching limbs like the walking dead. I've seen a dead person before at a crime scene, and these people all have the same vacant, glazed eyes. They push through the broken glass and climb into the shop. Customers stand aside to avoid the deranged humans, but as soon as they land in the store, they attack the nearest person.
I drew the Glock-19 pistol and aimed, but another figure appears at the window, and another, and another, and all of these dead-like figures eye the crowd.
"Stop where you are!" I yell, but the figures attack, grabbing the nearest customer and biting deep through her skin. Firing the Glock and emptying half of the magazine into the first one's back high between the shoulder blades, 9mm bullets tearing new bloodied holes into the flesh. No reaction—the man continues his assault, feeding upon his victim as if the bullets had never pierced his flesh.
At least half a dozen deranged figures have made it into the shop, attacking customers and chasing them as they flee. One spots me against the store counter and darts forward. I fired into his stomach, and though his body shudders from the bullet's impact, he keeps coming. I adjusted my aim and fired into his kneecap, sending him tumbling to the floor. Even this doesn't stop him, and the figure claws his way along the ground.
Another of the dead turns from the body of a customer lying on the ground, her neck torn open. The dead man eyes at me across the shop and cranes his mouth open with a horrific howl. Before he can attack, i rushed through the door leading outside—to find Carter and figure a way out of this mess.
Rushing outside into what can only be described as total chaos. The air-raid sirens blared in the distance and people scatter in all directions or lie bleeding on the asphalt. The bank alarm blares. Distant and close gunshots cut through the air. Emergency lights flutter overhead, and a Military black hawk helicopter can be seen in the distance with darkened-smoke spewing out of its engines and dozens of figures clinging on to its tail, spinning around uncontrollably before disappearing below the buildings in the horizon. Cars and ambulances race by, and i spotted many more of these altered humans, their bodies twisted, feral, and decomposed, versions of the dead come back to life.
Rushing around the side of the police cruiser, and just as I thought of searching for Carter, i stumbled across him. Lying in the street face-up in a circle of blood, his throat torn open, showing the pink flesh beneath it, and chunks of flesh are missing from his arms and shoulders. His head is sideways, and one ear has been ripped off.
Backing away in horror and fumbling out the car keys, keeping watch for any signs of danger.
My job is to protect and to serve, and to fulfill that duty, one must make contact with their fellow officers. Jumping into the cruiser, turning on the flashers and sirens, i sped off towards the station.
I turned the corner and sailed south down the avenue, maneuvering around cars and pedestrians. Everywhere i looked, laws are being broken: vehicles flying through red lights, looters breaking into stores, people running through the streets with weapons. Gunshots became constant background noise, and the cruiser takes its share of stray bullets, some pelting the bulletproof glass in loud thuds. I shuddered as i couldn't afford to pull over and help anyone or stop a crime since the primary goal was to reach the station.
And then i saw it up ahead—the police station plunged into the same chaos as the rest of the city. The first officer i spotted ambles past my squad car, his skin yellow, his limbs twisted, and fresh open wounds riddle his chest and arms. He screeches in the air, his voice inhuman, and he runs north along the avenue.
Jumping out of the cruiser and running towards the station entrance, i had spotted some movement in the parking lot on the side street. Up ahead, my sergeant is packing some bags into a black SUV. He wore civilian clothes and moves about with urgency. I hopped a short metal rail and rushed across the lot of parked cars.
"Sarge!" I call out. Sergeant Don Jacobs turns to me, his bald head wearing a smear of crimson blood. He's been my boss for years, since my first days as a police officer just out of the academy.
"Rogers, help me with this bag," he says and grabs the end of a packed duffel bag. Lifting my side; the bag is filled with rifles, shotguns, and ammo.
The side door of the station springs open, and my lieutenant, Malcolm Daniels, steps from the building. He wears his crisp, clean lieutenant's suit. "Don, what in God's name are you doing?"
My sergeant cranes his head to the side with a look of surprise. "Malcolm…the city is lost. We all need to get to safety—every one of us."
Lt. Daniels steps down from the building and stands up straight like he's addressing a crowd. "Sergeant Jacobs, I order you to return to duty, or I will have no choice but to place you under arrest."
Sarge glances around the parking lot. "YOU are gonna arrest ME? Malcolm, look around. The dead are walking the streets. People are looting buildings and killing one another. Even the mayor's office is out of reach. Your best bet is to get in your car and go home to your family."
Lt. Daniels walks into the parking lot towards him. "Sergeant Donald Jacobs, you are under arrest."
"For what?" Sarge snaps, turning to Lt. Daniels. "For trying to get to safety? For taking gear before we lose it all? For realizing hell is on earth!?"
"For dereliction of duty. For running from a city that needs you. Damn it, Don, we can fight this!" Lt. Daniels grabs Sarge's shoulders, but the bulkier man throws him off. Sergeant jams the last duffel bag into the back seat of the SUV.
Lt. Daniels turns to me and squints at my name tag. "Officer Gray, under my authority, arrest Sergeant Jacobs."
Drawing out my nightstick and approaching toward Sarge, He turns with a crooked smile. "Seriously? You're going to do this at this time, Rogers?"
"What choice do I have? I'm still a cop. Until I know all is lost, I have to do my duty."
"Don Jacobs, you have the right to remain silent," Lt. Daniels says, his voice booming over my own.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." From near the front of the police station come the shrieks of the dead.
"Of course you have a choice. You can turn and get in your car and head home. Or you can stand here and pretend we're still cops. Either way, I'm leaving."
"You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint you one. Do you understand these rights?" Lt. Daniels steps closer and takes out his handcuffs.
From a distance, several figures run towards us from across the parking lot. They maneuver around cars and scream in guttural tones.
"Playtime is over, Malcolm," Sarge says and draws his service sidearm, a Glock 19.
Lt. Daniels yanks out his own gun and aims it at Sarge. "Drop your weapon, Don, or I will fire."
The figures move closer, and now i could see a trio of the dead. Hearing a bang of gunfire, followed by another, and glance back at the two officers. Sarge falls over the hood of his car, a bullet hole in his shoulder, while Lt. Daniels slumps to the ground with a head wound. Sarge looks across the lot at the three dead closing in.
"Damn it, Rogers. Get out of here," he says as he hobbles over to the driver-side door. "You're a good cop, but don't die out of some misguided sense of responsibility. Save yourself."
"Sarge.. mind if I grab some gear? You seem to have more than enough."
As he hobbles into the front of his SUV, he hollers back. "Grab the duffel bag, close the door, and run!"
Snow is falling again, wetting the ground. Gunshots ring out in the distance, and deep throaty howls call out from different directions. Fighter jets and passenger planes soar overhead in desperate needs of evacuation, while military helicopters hang low in the air and sweep by Milford Avenue, side door machine guns tearing into the hordes by the dozens. Distant screams grow closer and then fade. Everything has changed.
Jumping into the cruiser and starting the engine, with a constant background screams of the fighter jets soaring by and dozens of transportation helicopters flying past the cruiser high enough to not crash into the low-sprawling buildings, as i tried to weave the cruiser past overturned firetrucks, bullet pockmarked humvees and a smoking wrecked Abrams tank, half lodged and stuck in a collapsed 2-story motel.
As i pulled the car through the first intersection, veering out of the way of an oncoming truck. hanging from the driver-side window, a dark-haired woman claws at the driver inside. passing by, i glanced back as the truck slams into a telephone pole, and the woman vaults off and collides with the windshield of a parked suv.
Wiping sweat from my forehead and turning my attention back to the road, i aimed the car in the direction of home.
Hands shaking, as i closed the door and cross to the center of my house. running to a side cabinet and taking out a six-pack of beer. One bottle later and the room is spinning, but the rapid firing of neurons dulls enough for me to think straight.
The things i've already seen—the infected, their victims, the chaos—all rattle my nerves and have me asking too many questions with no immediate answers. how do i stay safe? what do i do now? when will this end?
i am currently typing this out on my old laptop, but it's running low on battery. the electricity has cutted out an hour ago, and the water supply seems to be sputtering. i am not sure anywhere is safe anymore, and i will probably be plotting a journey to the nearest airport for evacuation. i hope this goes out to everybody, and please stay safe. i have got to go now, the world as we know it is ending, and the only least thing you and your family can do is evacuate. god, i hope there is still planes available at the airport..

I am a police officer in the outbreak of Exodus.

Driving the cruiser along the eastern banks of the Colorado River, Chipper Ridge holds the richer inhabitants of the greater and wealthier area in Exodus, a heavily-populated and dense city, housing a staggering total of 65,000 people.
Carter leans back in the passenger seat and tilts his hat over the top of his eyes, visor-like. "The problem is…I don't drink. Ever. So a half-bottle of scotch with her father made me black-out drunk. I woke up in her old man's basement spooning the Doberman."
My partner rubs his hands over his clean-shaven face. Still a rookie, Carter is riding with me during his probationary period, which lasts another week. The report of his progress included the words: professional, eager, and timid.
"Nowadays, people don't typically ask for the father's permission to marry his daughter. That's a practice from long ago," i said.
"Their family practices those old customs. I was nervous. If Tara's father said 'no,' I actually think she would have called the wedding off."
Sighing in disbelief, i pulled the cruiser to the sidewalk just outside a Dippin' Donuts.
"Really? A donut shop?" Carter asks in an annoyed tone. "Kind of plays into the police officer stereotype."
"This place charges cops fifty cents a cup, and you need coffee." I replied, tossing to him a dollar.
"I won't argue with that point."
Stepping out of the cruiser and immediately blasted in the face with the sheer wrath of the heat on a friday afternoon, The sun beats down on Milford Avenue, parting the gray clouds. The snow has ceased to fall, but the remnants of it crust the edges of the curb in dirt-laced piles. Across the street sits the Allied Bank of Chipper Ridge. "With my luck, the bank will be hit on my first day back from vacation", i thought jokingly to myself.
The busy shop has two workers attending to a half-dozen customers in line, with double that at tables and booths. A group of high-schoolers sink deep into their seats as i entered; they must've been probably cutting class. A group of senior citizens take up a large table near the front window, and a team of laborers spread across several booths in the back. At the far corner, a bulky man with a full black beard, overalls, and work boots argues with a young worker behind the counter, though their voices haven't escalated enough yet for me to make out the details.
The line moves fast, and Carter pays for the coffees. I sat down at the only table left, the one by the door.
"I'm nervous about getting married. I love Tara; she means the world to me. But I already feel the pressure to be a husband, and we're not even engaged yet, technically. She's slowly moving me into her apartment." He draws out the word "slowly."
"How is she moving you in?" I asked, taking a half-mouthful gulp of the bitter coffee.
"Every time she's at my place, she takes something of mine back to her apartment. Almost everything I own is there now. She even has my dog, Benny." Carter takes a sip of coffee. He squeezes his eyes and twists his mouth. "Wow, I don't even like this stuff."
"Why don't you just move into her apartment?"
"She says we can't live together until we're married."
At the other end of the store, the argument intensifies, and Black Beard slams his hands on the counter and shouts at the manager, who has become involved in the situation.
Motioning to my partner, we rose from our seats and walked over with Carter by my side. By the time we've reached the counter, Black Beard and the manager are screaming face-to-face. One of his companions, a female laborer with "Bonnie" on her name tag, slaps Black Beard on his back and urges him to sit down with the group. Other customers have moved away from the scene, giving plenty of room for the two men should this turn physical. Stepping up to Black Beard and tapping him on the shoulder.
"Sir, you have to calm down," i spoke.
Black Beard turns, red-faced with spittle flinging from his mouth. "They tried to rip me off! Tenth one's free, the card says." He lifts a cardboard slip the size of a driver's license. Multi-colored stamps mark the card. "I come here every day and get the card stamped. They say ten stamps and you get a free coffee."
"And I said to the man that he gets the free beverage after the tenth purchase," the manager says, arms folded across his chest. "His card only had nine stamps."
"Look, I don't care about free coffees, stamps, or promo cards," i replied. "You're yelling like a lunatic and disrupting the peace. You gotta go."
Black Beard whips around. "I'm not leavin'. They cheat me every time the card's filled!"
Carter draws out his baton and steps toward Black Beard. "Sir, either calm down or we'll have to arrest you." His hand slips to his handcuffs.
"What? Arrest me? I'm not breaking any laws, jackass." As he says this, Black Beard leans in to Carter, and his chest bumps the rookie's, knocking my partner back a step.
"Yes sir, you're not breaking laws, and I know you feel cheated, but you have to admit, this has gotten a bit out of hand." I tried to reason, empathising.
Black Beard puts his hands on his hips and shifts left and right. "I just don't like being cheated." His voice takes a calmer tone, and his face drops a few shades of red.
"That's understandable. No one wants to feel cheated. What if I talk to the manager on your behalf and try to resolve this without all the yelling? Other people are trying to enjoy a snack or some coffee, and it's not fair to them."
Black Beard looks down at the floor and shuffles his feet. "Sorry. I just lose my temper sometimes." He walks back to the table his friends occupy.
"That was amazing," Carter says. His eyes go wide and mouth hangs open.
Returning back to the table with Carter and downing the rest of the coffee. "Well, how'd you like your first bit of action, Carter?"
"Sure got my blood pumping," he says while wiping his forehead with a napkin.
The radio screams to life with a static-filled voice. "Radio to all units. Multiple reports, 217. Check in."
"Car 21, go ahead," i said into the radio.
No answer came through. Waiting for a moment and repeating the call, as more time passes. Finally, the radio pops to life, but instead of static, a mix of screams, breaking glass, and gunfire emanated from the device. Clicking the walkie-talkie's button and yelling into it, i hoped for a response
"What's going on?" Carter says, staring at me in confusion and worry.
The front door of the shop swings wide and a man runs in, his face, arms, and chest covered in blood. He looks to be wearing a business suit, though it's drenched in the dark fluid. The tiny donut shop goes quiet except for the man's footsteps and excited breaths. He pauses near the counter, arms held out, blood dripping from his clothes, and ekes out a single word…"help."
From outside, the sounds of helicopter blades roar and gunshots ring out. A sedan zooms past the store front, swerving and beating its horn while dozens of figures can be seen wrestling on the streets, although it's too far to see what was going on with them.
Whispers and chatter fill the store, and most of the customers point out the windows and crowd together. The mood has changed to one of raw fear. Tables rattle. The manager rushes toward the front of the store and draws the shades down. A cashier runs into a back room and locks the door.
"Who did this to you?" Carter says to the blood-stained man, and he moves forward like he wants to help, but fear's gripping him.
"Men…their faces…eating…people." The man stammers out his words, eyes wide with shock. He glances around, an expression flickering across his face. "All dead," he says, then turns and runs from the store.
Carter chases after him.
"Okay, everyone calm down and stay seated while I figure out what's going on."
The crowd does everything but stay calm or seated. They stand at the windows and peer outside at what seems like a sudden war zone as emergency first-responders vehicles race by sirens blaring, people run through the streets with sticks and other makeshift weapons, and gunshots pop erratically.
The manager, a thin man who's a third of Black Beard's size, swings the front door wide. "Everyone out. I'm closing the place down."
Several of the older customers rush outside, though the group of laborers in the back, including Black Beard, stay pressed against the back windows and stare at the mayhem in the streets.
"Sir, we should all stay in here until we figure out the extent of what's going on," i said.
Tires screech, and an engine roars. There's a flash of motion in the corner of my vision, and i turn as a truck hops the curb and crashes into the side of the Dippin' Donuts. The store shakes, and a wave of force hits me, knocking the air out of my lungs. Glass shards fly, and i felt a sudden pain in my right arm as i toppled to the ground. The tires of the pickup truck squeal and spin, smoke rising from beneath the chassis. The driver is slumped at the wheel, and someone crouches by his side in the passenger seat. Cold wind blows through the shop, and the sounds of chaos from outside amplify and mix with the screams from around the truck.
The radio cackles, and an unfamiliar voice comes through. "Dispatch to all officers. Get to safety. All is lost. Save yourselves." The radio emits a high tone—the national emergency signal. Waving away the cloud of ash and white smoke rising from the wreckage. Peering at my shirt, which is cut and the right arm slashed near the bicep. Fortunately, the wound isn't deep. I stood, dazed, and cleared the glass away my body. Disoriented but otherwise unhurt, i stepped over broken table legs and smashed pieces of wall and make your way towards the truck. As i moved closer, the driver's body twitches and an odd noise emanates from deep inside the truck—halfway between a growl and chewing, like a dog gnawing on a bone. The driver slumps over, and a figure hovers over him, and as she cranes her head up, loose flesh falls from her mouth. Blood covers her hair, her face, and her clothes. As i stood there and soaked in the sight, her electric red eyes stared at me, and she crawls past the dead driver.
As the crazed woman crawls across the cabin, Black Beard and Bonnie rush along the side of the pickup truck, unaware of the threat inside.
"Get back!" I yelled, but the crazed woman leaps from the car and snaps her jaw at Black Beard. He catches her throat and holds her back, but the woman gouges his face with long fingernails. The two stumble to the floor, then Bonnie lifts a broken two-by-four and repeatedly bashed the woman's head.
More figures appear at the window, strange and twisted faces with bent bodies and twitching limbs like the walking dead. I've seen a dead person before at a crime scene, and these people all have the same vacant, glazed eyes. They push through the broken glass and climb into the shop. Customers stand aside to avoid the deranged humans, but as soon as they land in the store, they attack the nearest person.
I drew the Glock-19 pistol and aimed, but another figure appears at the window, and another, and another, and all of these dead-like figures eye the crowd.
"Stop where you are!" I yell, but the figures attack, grabbing the nearest customer and biting deep through her skin. Firing the Glock and emptying half of the magazine into the first one's back high between the shoulder blades, 9mm bullets tearing new bloodied holes into the flesh. No reaction—the man continues his assault, feeding upon his victim as if the bullets had never pierced his flesh.
At least half a dozen deranged figures have made it into the shop, attacking customers and chasing them as they flee. One spots me against the store counter and darts forward. I fired into his stomach, and though his body shudders from the bullet's impact, he keeps coming. I adjusted my aim and fired into his kneecap, sending him tumbling to the floor. Even this doesn't stop him, and the figure claws his way along the ground.
Another of the dead turns from the body of a customer lying on the ground, her neck torn open. The dead man eyes at me across the shop and cranes his mouth open with a horrific howl. Before he can attack, i rushed through the door leading outside—to find Carter and figure a way out of this mess.
Rushing outside into what can only be described as total chaos. The air-raid sirens blared in the distance and people scatter in all directions or lie bleeding on the asphalt. The bank alarm blares. Distant and close gunshots cut through the air. Emergency lights flutter overhead, and a Military black hawk helicopter can be seen in the distance with darkened-smoke spewing out of its engines and dozens of figures clinging on to its tail, spinning around uncontrollably before disappearing below the buildings in the horizon. Cars and ambulances race by, and i spotted many more of these altered humans, their bodies twisted, feral, and decomposed, versions of the dead come back to life.
Rushing around the side of the police cruiser, and just as I thought of searching for Carter, i stumbled across him. Lying in the street face-up in a circle of blood, his throat torn open, showing the pink flesh beneath it, and chunks of flesh are missing from his arms and shoulders. His head is sideways, and one ear has been ripped off.
Backing away in horror and fumbling out the car keys, keeping watch for any signs of danger.
My job is to protect and to serve, and to fulfill that duty, one must make contact with their fellow officers. Jumping into the cruiser, turning on the flashers and sirens, i sped off towards the station.
I turned the corner and sailed south down the avenue, maneuvering around cars and pedestrians. Everywhere i looked, laws are being broken: vehicles flying through red lights, looters breaking into stores, people running through the streets with weapons. Gunshots became constant background noise, and the cruiser takes its share of stray bullets, some pelting the bulletproof glass in loud thuds. I shuddered as i couldn't afford to pull over and help anyone or stop a crime since the primary goal was to reach the station.
And then i saw it up ahead—the police station plunged into the same chaos as the rest of the city. The first officer i spotted ambles past my squad car, his skin yellow, his limbs twisted, and fresh open wounds riddle his chest and arms. He screeches in the air, his voice inhuman, and he runs north along the avenue.
Jumping out of the cruiser and running towards the station entrance, i had spotted some movement in the parking lot on the side street. Up ahead, my sergeant is packing some bags into a black SUV. He wore civilian clothes and moves about with urgency. I hopped a short metal rail and rushed across the lot of parked cars.
"Sarge!" I call out. Sergeant Don Jacobs turns to me, his bald head wearing a smear of crimson blood. He's been my boss for years, since my first days as a police officer just out of the academy.
"Rogers, help me with this bag," he says and grabs the end of a packed duffel bag. Lifting my side; the bag is filled with rifles, shotguns, and ammo.
The side door of the station springs open, and my lieutenant, Malcolm Daniels, steps from the building. He wears his crisp, clean lieutenant's suit. "Don, what in God's name are you doing?"
My sergeant cranes his head to the side with a look of surprise. "Malcolm…the city is lost. We all need to get to safety—every one of us."
Lt. Daniels steps down from the building and stands up straight like he's addressing a crowd. "Sergeant Jacobs, I order you to return to duty, or I will have no choice but to place you under arrest."
Sarge glances around the parking lot. "YOU are gonna arrest ME? Malcolm, look around. The dead are walking the streets. People are looting buildings and killing one another. Even the mayor's office is out of reach. Your best bet is to get in your car and go home to your family."
Lt. Daniels walks into the parking lot towards him. "Sergeant Donald Jacobs, you are under arrest."
"For what?" Sarge snaps, turning to Lt. Daniels. "For trying to get to safety? For taking gear before we lose it all? For realizing hell is on earth!?"
"For dereliction of duty. For running from a city that needs you. Damn it, Don, we can fight this!" Lt. Daniels grabs Sarge's shoulders, but the bulkier man throws him off. Sergeant jams the last duffel bag into the back seat of the SUV.
Lt. Daniels turns to me and squints at my name tag. "Officer Gray, under my authority, arrest Sergeant Jacobs."
Drawing out my nightstick and approaching toward Sarge, He turns with a crooked smile. "Seriously? You're going to do this at this time, Rogers?"
"What choice do I have? I'm still a cop. Until I know all is lost, I have to do my duty."
"Don Jacobs, you have the right to remain silent," Lt. Daniels says, his voice booming over my own.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." From near the front of the police station come the shrieks of the dead.
"Of course you have a choice. You can turn and get in your car and head home. Or you can stand here and pretend we're still cops. Either way, I'm leaving."
"You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint you one. Do you understand these rights?" Lt. Daniels steps closer and takes out his handcuffs.
From a distance, several figures run towards you from across the parking lot. They maneuver around cars and scream in guttural tones.
"Playtime is over, Malcolm," Sarge says and draws his service sidearm, a Glock 19.
Lt. Daniels yanks out his own gun and aims it at Sarge. "Drop your weapon, Don, or I will fire."
The figures move closer, and now i could see a trio of the dead. Hearing a bang of gunfire, followed by another, and glance back at the two officers. Sarge falls over the hood of his car, a bullet hole in his shoulder, while Lt. Daniels slumps to the ground with a head wound. Sarge looks across the lot at the three dead closing in.
"Damn it, Rogers. Get out of here," he says as he hobbles over to the driver-side door. "You're a good cop, but don't die out of some misguided sense of responsibility. Save yourself."
"Sarge.. mind if I grab some gear? You seem to have more than enough."
As he hobbles into the front of his SUV, he hollers back. "Grab the duffel bag, close the door, and run!"
Snow is falling again, wetting the ground. Gunshots ring out in the distance, and deep throaty howls call out from different directions. Fighter jets and passenger planes soar overhead in desperate needs of evacuation, while military helicopters hang low in the air and sweep by Milford Avenue, side door machine guns tearing into the hordes by the dozens. Distant screams grow closer and then fade. Everything has changed.
Jumping into the cruiser and starting the engine, I popped on the AM radio, which blares with the voice of an agitated reporter, with a constant background ambient noises of gunfire, military personnel shouting, explosions and planes taking off.
"…the National Guard are assembling to try to control the situation, but a massive number of reports are coming in of enraged, violent citizens wreaking havoc throughout the area. Many assume this change in behavior is due to infection from the virus spreading through Asia, Australia, and Africa…"
as i pulled the car through the first intersection, veering out of the way of an oncoming truck. hanging from the driver-side window, a dark-haired woman claws at the driver inside. passing by, i glanced back as the truck slams into a telephone pole, and the woman vaults off and collides with the windshield of a parked suv.
wiping sweat from my forehead and turning my attention back to the road, i aimed the car in the direction of home.
hands shaking, as i closed the door and cross to the center of my house. running to a side cabinet and taking out a six-pack of jack daniels beer. one bottle later and the room is spinning, but the rapid firing of neurons dulls enough for me to think straight.
the things i've already seen—the infected, their victims, the chaos—all rattle my nerves and have me asking too many questions with no immediate answers. how do i stay safe? what do i do now? when will this end?
i am currently typing this out on my old laptop, but it's running low on battery. the electricity has cutted out an hour ago, and the water supply seems to be sputtering. i am not sure anywhere is safe anymore, and i will probably be plotting a journey to the nearest airport for evacuation. i hope this goes out to everybody, and please stay safe. i have got to go now, the world as we know it is ending, and the only least thing you and your family can do is evacuate. god, i hope there is still planes available at the airport.

[SPOILERS FF7/FF7R] The ending of FF7R is perfect.

"BIDEN TIME" = WORST Takes WORST WORST WORST takes in LONG TIME

The Second Harvest

Time had flowed on around it since it wrapped the wild, second-hand part of itself into the swamplands and settled to wait for more fruit to blossom. It was oblivious to the passage of time, and only slightly aware of the silt and algae and microorganisms that came to filter through its salvaged self, moving in a slow, nearly stagnant collective circulation, a staccato pulse, not dissimilar from the rhythm of blood in veins and arteries urged on by a mud-soft and torpid heart. It possessed neither a need for a pulse nor a source for a heartbeat, so the similarity this muculent, nearly vestigial part of itself had come to share with biological life was purely coincidental.
Its senses, too, touched vibrations remote from biological life. Its organs—the substantive ones—were, in many ways,more primeval, more singular, than the sludgy, piecemeal soup it had wrapped them inside, and the sensations they collected were nothing even the most primitive life form would recognize, let alone share.
So, after witless passages of time had collapsed, a sensation piqued the interest of its highly selective and jelly-like intuitions. The whole of its self stirred. A particular sort of awareness overtook it, exciting something that might have been akin to an eye—if an eye could be said to open up and see over miles, and if sight could blaze stone and earth and bark and on through the membranes of leaves and into the workings of the mandibles of insects and further on through the veils of the material to witness the flowering of synapses inside a living brain—an eye like this flexed and dilated ...
And fixed ...
* * *
What was left of Jack Giltin's head was a bloody mess, but Jack kept on talking, and what he said was, "You stay righteous, Rob, you hear me?" His face had been sheared in half at a jagged angle by a shotgun blast. Pinked teeth ground up the ribbons of his left cheek, and his lower lip flapped loosely as he spoke, but he didn't seem to notice. He just kept talking. "On the job," he said, "you stay righteous and justified and true. Otherwise, it'll get the best of you and worry you up in its jaws and dump you in the gutter like bad meat. You hear me, Rob? You hear me?" Jack directed his one remaining eye, fish-dull, at Rob's hands. Rob followed his gaze and found in his hands a murderer's head lolling. The murder's eyes bulged, because Rob was wringing his neck to a pulp with an unyielding grip. "Rob, that ain't gonna do anybody any good," Jack said. But the hands tightened anyway. It felt good. "Rob," Jack's voice repeated, lower and throatier, "that ... ain't ... gonna ... do ...." Jack sounded like an imbecile repeating a phrase he'd just heard, by rote, without comprehension. "Any .... Good ...." The hands tightened on the dead murderer's throat. "Any ... good ..." Tightened. "Any... gooood ..." Jack's voice was slow and slippery and greased the air like an airborne slug. Because he wasn't Jack anymore. Dead or alive, he wasn't Jack Giltin. The eye that peered out from the shattered head was huge. It dominated what was left of Jack Giltin's face, and its appearance was less like like that of a fish's, now—less like any kind of eye, at all, now—and more like a swollen nest of coiled, living feelers writhing beneath a translucent, oily lens. The lens bulged under the pressure of the tendrils; the tendrils ready to spring free. "... any ... goooood ... ," the mouth continued to echo, and then a bruise-black mass peeked out from inside the cracked-open skull, where Jack's brains ought to be, and began to slip aside Jack's face, as if shucking off a ceramic mask. Still, the mouth kept uttering the two words, which seemed to have lost their verbal connection to each other, as well as any meaning of their own.
... aaayn ... nnneee ... guuuuuu—
The lens burst, and the feelers sprang forward ...
... and Rob Bodin jerked awake, hand falling to his sidearm, skin dancing at the tips of a million softened spider-legs. The wooden chair creaked under his weight, then careened broadly to the left, nearly spilling him to the floor. He braced the fall with a quick leg and snapped his head up to meet feigned innocent gaze of one Walt Cundey.
“Oops," said Cundey. "Bad chair.” The murderer's tone was immodest as his posture; he sat in his own rickety chair, skinny torso jutting forward, long legs spread, head cocked to one side, both arms clasped around behind the splats. “Bad dreams too, I guess? Huh, boss?”
Bodin's hand wavered steadily over the gun. Bad for you, he almost answered, remembering the dream of Cundey's wrung neck. He also remembered Jack Giltin's fatherly dressing down in his dream, too, and buttoned his lip. If Bodin was going to honor the man's memory—the man whom for the last decade-and-a-half had been his partner, his friend, and his mentor—he'd start now. Bodin wasn't one to believe in ghosts, but surely, Giltin had repeated that same faultless advice to live by in their shared career. Keep it professional, the old man would say. Don't let your emotions get to you, not on the job, at least. Stay true, stay righteous, stay justified.
Will do, Jack
Bodin's eyelids fluttered involuntarily; he remembered that other thing, too; the thing that had started to happen to Jack Giltin's shattered head at the end of the dream. But he could make no sense of it. Nightmare logic, he decided flatly. Senseless nightmare logic. He committed to the explanation.
Bodin stood from the chair and walked around behind Cundey. There, he stood at the window where he pretended to watch evening shadows outside creep over the cypresses and down veils of Spanish moss. Really, he checked the cuffs latching the Cundey’s wrists together behind his back.
“Oh, they still on, boss.” Cundey said, giving the links two quick snaps for effect. “You know I wouldn’t try to put the slip on you while you was fetchin’ a few winks.”
Bodin’s jaw tightened. Cundey’s voice could be honey-dipped and sugar-sprinkled when he wanted. To Bodin, those sweet tones were nothing more than the hypnotic gaze of a snake. To the runaway girls Cundey had lured into his car over the past ten years, they must have sounded like warmth and sympathy on a cold, lonely night. Bodin figured some of those girls might have known Cundey’s voice for what it really was—those who, over time, had become familiar with taking food and shelter in trade for loss of a few more notches of useless innocence. But none of them had known Cundey for what he really was, down under the skin. They found out, though, the hard way. A guy like Cundey would have probably used that honeydew voice even while he was taking the pliers to them.
Bodin spoke for the first time since the two had reached the cabin, his tone more exhausted than spiteful. “Do us both a favor,” he said, his voice creaking from disuse. “Just shut up.” He had some sleep to catch up on and a sickness to drain from his mind if he could. He didn’t look forward to tomorrow morning, when he’d have to pay a visit to Margot Giltin, Jack's wife, and tell her she was never going to see her husband again. A bad job, this one. It had started out lousy, and gotten about as nasty as it could.
“You wishin’ you pulled the trigger, boss?” Cundey was playing him, he knew, but an electric current still flowed up and down Bodin’s arm, like a bar of steel magnetized. His arm was the positive pole, the gun the negative.
“Devil’d forgive you if you did,” Cundey kept on. “Hell’s got its own peccadilloes.”
Bodin closed his eyes. They both knew what was going to happen once Cundey was in the hole. A child-killer enjoys no one’s mercy, even in prison. If Bodin planted a bullet in the back of Cundey’s head, he would in a way be buying Cundey a ticket to freedom.
Bodin opened his eyes to find the killer staring at him, head slung upside-down over the chair’s top splat, looking as if someone had loaded him wrong-ways into a stockade. His adam’s apple rode his throat like a blunt shark fin.
“Ole Jack, he was ready to retire anyway,” he said. “Bounty huntin’s a young man’s game. If I hadn't ended up quitting him, someone else would've quit him soon enough anyway.”
Bodin nearly slammed his fist down on Cundey's throat right then. Instead, he repeated stay true, stay righteous, stay justified to himself in Jack's voice.
“You know,” Bodin said, “I’m going to visit you in jail. I’ll make a bet with you, dollars to donuts, that you’ll be sporting a colostomy bag by week’s end.”
“Oh no, boss!” The killer laughed, his smile inverted into a froggy grimace. “Don’t you worry about ole Walt Cundey, boss. He gots friends there. He’ll be just fine. He’ll be livin’ like a prince!” Cundey guffawed and stamped one foot against the floor until Bodin began to worry whether the warped planks would give way and drop the sick fuck into the sour water below. But Cundey quickly tired of the performance and lifted his head from the splat to flop himself forward again.
Keeping his eye on the back of the killer's head, Bodin took the chance to slip the mobile from his vest jacket. Still no signal. It’s all right, Bodin reassured himself. Sheriff Band and his men are on their way here. Unless of course he’s managed to get the department’s boat high-ended on a submerged tree trunk like I did with the rental.
He tucked the mobile away and walked to the broken down cot at the far wall by the door. Let me just doze, he thought. Not sleep. Just doze for a bit so I can get some of my wits back. A cough of dust greeted him as he sat. He braced his elbows against his knees, dangled his hands between his legs, and bowed his head.
Images of the hunt replayed in his head, vivid, random, and loosely organized. He saw Jack Giltin sinking into a bog, head red and ragged. He saw Cundey’s head pinned to the twisted trunk of a cypress by the barrel of Bodin’s .45, just moments away from becoming more organic matter for the bayou. A spread of black-and-white glossies showcased pieces of corpses bound to beds. Other senseless images followed ... a man with an upside-down face ... and a hand clenched into a fist ... and ...
* * *
It quitted its place of stillness, leaving the roots sagging, the detritus swirling, and the invertebrates clambering to anchor themselves anew. It did not stride or swim or swoop so much as wind and unwind from one position, one shape, to the next.
It did not hunt, it was not a predator. It did not delight in blood. Rather, it was the delight of blood that drew it. This delight was a tang of nectar, and there were many vines.
Right now it tasted the thrill of dominance over the weak; sniffed the joy of fear.
But closer, it felt the pad of a finger curled around a sliver of curved metal, and the anticipatory punch of retribution.
Malice and vengeance, nearly side by side. It would get the one or the other, whichever was closest.
Its paced quickened.
Right now vengeance was closest ...
* * *
Bodin's eyes snapped open. His body jerked. A held breath exploded from his lips. His heart, high in this chest, drummed hard enough to make him wince.
He hadn’t dreamed, he realized. He hadn’t imagined a peril. He’d known exactly where he was, what he was doing: he’d been sitting on the bed, imagining in vivid detail the pleasure of emptying round after round into Cundey’s skull, the punch of recoil convulsing his hand and red blossoms lighting his eyes, until his skin started to tickle with a strange sensation, like some kind of displacement, as though a cloud of grit had rushed past him, driven forward by some fathomless surge, pitching him forward ferociously, as the pressure of something massive slouched toward him, opening to catch him if he fell.
“Hooo! Boss!” Cundey stomped the floorboards with his heels. “Hoooo, boss! Hee hee hee! That one was a doozy, wasn’t it!”
Bodin shook his head dismissively, but Cundey continued.
“Weeee! Oh, yeah, that one was a doozy! What was it, boss? Something chasin’ you?”
Bodin stiffened.
Cundey honked. “Yeah, is that what it was?” He tittered then quieted. “Something at your back, boss. Uh-huh, I know it.”
Then, with a coy sideways I-have-a-secret glance, Cundey whispered, “This ain’t a good place for harborin' wrath, boss. Not a good place for hatred in your heart. Not at all, not at all.” He inhaled deeply through his mouth, sat up straight in the chair and looked, not at his captor, but at the cabin door, drawing upon an expression worn by a charismatic orator delivering an important speech to an expectant audience. And when he spoke again, Cundey's had smoothed from his voice the affected hillbilly accent. “Fact is," he said, "a witch used to live in this swamp. Yeah. Long time ago. Right after they freed the coloreds.
"Now she wasn’t no witch like you think, you know, with the long nose and a pointy hat. She was a young thing, not yet thirty. Maybe not yet even twenty. And she helped people when they was sick, or when they crops wasn’t growin’, or some such. She was half-white, half-Indian, and half-colored. And the folks of the town that used to be set on the edge of this swamp—mostly white, but some colored too, ‘cause like I said this was after they was freed—loved her ‘cause of that. ‘Cause she’d aid ‘em in times of hardship.
“Well, it wasn’t too long ‘fore the old town pastor died and a new one was sent for. This new fella, he was a young buck. New man of the cloth and righteous as hell. Breathin’ fire an’ brimstone for the Lord. Yessir! I love my preachers fiery, don’ you?” Cundey threw his head back and guffawed, stamping one foot on the floor again and again.
Bodin felt his hackled rise. Since he'd collared the creep, Cundey had exhibited nothing more than typical madman’s bravado. But the laughter that accompanied Cundey’s remark about the preacher touched on fervor beyond swagger; it was the joy of camaraderie.
Finally, Cundey's guffaw died to a snicker, and Cundey raised his gaze to the middle distance again and continued speaking in that newly-fashioned pulpit voice.
“Well, he come in, and he find out about the witch. I don’t think I gotta tell you havin’ a witch in his parish didn’t sit too well with his holy outlook on life. Fact, it’s said in the Good Book that thou shall not suffer a witch to live, does it not?” Cundey paused a moment, then turned his head to regard Bodin with a look comparable to a stern rebuke. “You surprised I know my stuff about the Good Book? Hell, boss, preachers taught me everything I know.” Bodin heard not a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Cundey nodded curtly as if having settled an issue, then faced forward again. “Now you listen to me, an’ listen good, boss. That preacher he whipped up them townsfolk, tellin’ them that the witch was a blasphemy in the eyes of God, and the gifts she’d given were only—” his eyes rolled as he searched for the right phrase “—Trojan horses that the devil used to get into their hearts and homes.
“And that’s what I’m sayin’ ‘bout fiery preachers. Fella like that can convince you the sky’s alabaster when he gets rollin’. Fella blessed with fiery talk can make you give up your last dollar as quick as he can make you give up your friends and family, he takes a mind to it.
“And that preacher, he had that fiery way of talkin’ and he was one hell of a hater. He hated sin, and he hated wickedness, and he hated the devil. And most of all—most of all—he hated him that witch! That's why I know we ain’t come up from the animals; animals can't hate like a man. And ain't no man hates better than the fella with God standing beside him, hatin' right along with him.
“Don’t believe me?” One corner of Cundey’s mouth road up almost as if tugged by a fishing line. “Slay the unbeliever before me.”
He leveled his eyes briefly at Bodin to slash a curt told-you-so smile at him.
“It wasn’t long ‘fore he got that town all riled up. Folks who held no complaint against the witch feared speakin’ out against the preacher, ‘cause they might get accused o’ being in league themselves. And so one day the townsfolk crossed into the swamp, raring to do God’s work, the preacher at the head tying a noose. They was all ready, willin’ an’ able to do some righteous cleansing. Heh.
“Now, after it was all said and done, some folks who didn’t hold no grudge against the witch come forward and says they warned her to skedaddle ‘fore the mob set out lookin’ for her. That probably explains what happened to the preacher and his posse. See, accordin’ to these dissenters, the witch said she wasn’t gonna budge. And what’s more, she took right offense to those folks what turned against her. Right offense. She said anybody come into the swamp after her would be dealt with. Well, she musta heard the bayin' of the hounds and the hollerin’ of the men for her blood, and seen lanterns and torches lighting up the swamp like a stampede of will-o’-wisps. Now ain’t no one was there with her in those last hours, but I'll tell you the rest of it, and then we'll what we think she done.
“See, none of that posse, or the sheriff or the priest, come out of that swamp ever again. Their wives an’ children lined 'emselves up along the edge of the swamp, an’ they heard the calls of their men turn to screams, and the dogs yowl and yelp. They heard gunfire. An’ then it turned dead quiet. Only one of the dogs come out of the brush, and it was squealin’ like a pup, and went an’ crouched under a porch for days, snappin’ at folks what tried to coax him out. Pretty soon, they just put him outta his misery.
“A search party was called in from a nearby town, but nothin’ ever turned up. Not dog. Not corpse. Not even that witch. Not ever again."
Cundey paused a moment and searched the ceiling thoughtfully in silence. “See, I figger she called herself up a devil is what she done. That’s what I think. And it cost her pretty. A devil, see, it don’t just slip up into this world, all horned and winged like in paintings. A devil needs to be housed. It needs a shape, a mantel. Like a barnacle or a mussel. Sacrifices to summon devils aren’t for the blood. They’re to loosen the soul. You see? Can you imagine her fury?” His tone almost lilted in admiration. “Can you imagine her fury when I tell you that when she raised that demon, when she made that blood sacrifice, she was the only one in that cabin?”
Cundey took another breath to carry on, but his next words, whatever he'd planned them to be, were cut short by the jangle of loose steel. The killer’s expression faltered just as the significance of the noise struck Bodin. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the clank of dangling handcuffs knocking against the back legs of Cundey’s chair. Then a half-assed smile crept up the side of Cundey’s face.
“Whoops,” he said.
Bodin didn’t stop to wonder whether Cundey had found a pick for the lock sometime after the cuffs had been clasped around his wrists, or if he’d carried one purely as a contingency even before Bodin and Jack Giltin closed the pursuit. He didn’t bother to guess how the killer had concealed it for so long up his sleeve, or cupped in his palm, or between his fingers.
What Bodin did was shoot to his feet, hands scrambling at his side, desperately working the latch of the .45's holster.
But Cundey was a beast unchained; he was the fingers throttling Bodin’s throat; he was the irresistible force toppling Bodin backward over the cot; he was the weight emptying Bodin's lungs; he was wood dust blurring Bodin's eyes; he was the fire in Bodin's chest; he was the gasping for air; he was the dimming of sight.
Senses dancing, Bodin struggled to rise to his feet, already knowing it was too late. He didn’t need clear eyes to know Cundey had the .45 on him. All it took was the maniac’s honey-sweet tones.
“Aw, boss, you lookin' unhappy, now. Don’t you worry, though. Ole Walt Cundey didn’t take no offence about you lockin’ him to that uncomfortable chair. Not at all. He knows you was only doin’ you job.” Cundey’s smile spread like an alligator’s maw. “Tell you what. You apologize, and Cundey might just forget this little quarrel. He might just call it even 'tween you and me.”
Bodin dragged in a breath to clear his head. It cleared to a pinpoint when he felt the hard chill of the .45’s barrel crease the bridge of his nose.
“Tell Mister Cundey how sorry you are for treatin’ him as poorly as you did, and we’ll part ways. Hm?”
Bodin met eyes with Cundey. The killer smiled. Bodin figured Cundey saw weakness. Bodin was perfectly content to allow him to see whatever he wanted. Just so long as it was wrong. Just so long as Cundey neglected Bodin’s right arm.
Bodin twisted and caught Cundey's writst, slamming the gun against the cabin wall. The .45 discharged a single round, inches from Bodin's face. Small, sharp, hot stings pricked his cheek and temple. The shock and pain gave him impetus. He yanked Cundey forward by the wrist while his free arm drove two rapid blows into Cundey’s face. Cundey’s flesh yielded satisfyingly under his fist. Cundey collapsed onto Bodin, who rolled him hard into the cabin wall. He wrenched the .45 from the killer’s hand and tossed it away, then pulled himself upright. As he came to his feet, he caught sight of Cundey rocking onto his hands and knees. Bodin directed a sharp kick to the ribs to suggest that Cundey may want to stay on the floor for the time being. Cundey stayed.
Bodin checked the gun's location. It had skittered under Cundey’s chair and come to a halt. Fine, leave it there. Bodin wouldn’t need it.
Fuck money. Fuck justice. This murderer and child-killer was going to pay for what he was. Bodin was going to tear Cundey apart with his bare hands.
Bodin moved forward to murder Cundey. There was nothing else in his mind but that. And then Bodin’s momentum failed, his steps stuttered to a full stop, his rage shriveled, his volition wilted; in the corner of the room, just beyond Cundey's prone form, a face had begun to coil up from the floorboards.
* * *
The fruit shined. Sparks shot and clustered in ripe lobes.
It flexed apparatuses and spread armaments. It sought out angles and tested positions, readying for the harvest ...
Then the fruit began to wilt. As hate and anger soured into confusion and horror, the fruit began to fade.
It allowed the decline. To its senses, fear stank as corruption.
But it had pursued two quarries. The other, the softer and sicklier of the two, grew now and sprouted, flaring into fullness.
It sought a more strategic position from which to cull the new fruit; it wished to not sour this one, and readied for the harvest ...
* * *
The face rode on a screw of ribbons that spilled upward, into midair, from the wood grain. The ribbons were slick as snail shell and just as hard-looking. But they were pliable, piling together and smoothing into porcelain. Placid as a mannequin, the face paused before reshaping into clavicles and shoulders, while a new gust of ribbons blew upward to began a reformation of the face.
On the floor, Cundey moaned. He moved dazedly, dragging the pieces of the broken cot. But the killer might as well have been a hundred miles away. Bodin’s world had reduced itself to the sight of the third occupant's shoulders spreading into breasts and a waist, into arms pressed fast against the sides; then the head flattened to shoulders, and a new head spumed again above the newly-shaped torso.
Absently, Bodin wiped at his arms. A march of ants prickled his skin through his clothes; or, possibly, a cloud of grit pocked his flesh. This was the sensation of the cabin's third occupant’s approach—a storm front or, more accurately, rhythms on a membrane under which unwholesome things surged.
The cabin's third occupant eddied to chest-level and paused again. Bodin stared helplessly at the tableau as a line formed down middle of the woman and yawned, splitting her from forehead, to torso, to legs, and on down beyond the plane of the floor. A mass squirmed within the woman-shaped orifice, a wet-boned, tar-veined tangle that Bodin’s shaken mind could identify only as a system of webbing and hooks.
Can you imagine her fury; her hunger for their hatred ...
A fragment of Bodin's mind, the cool, analytical, automatic portion of it, understood that a coat of skin and flesh wasn’t the mantel a devil required.
Sacrifices are to loosen the soul.
Cundey, unaware of the monstrous growth just inches from his back, swooped in on Bodin, his attack a low-slung blur. The impact pitched Bodin backward hard against the floor. The shock freed him from the sight of the cabin’s third occupant and rattled some of his senses back. He rolled to his elbows and knees and skittered toward the cabin door.
The languid clack of the maniac's boots on the floorboards next to him followed his progress. “Scared now, ain’t ya?” came a breathless taunt. Then the mean edge of Cundey’s boot heal bit down hard into Bodin’s hamstring.
Bodin yelled in pain, but did not turn to face his aggressor, did not rise to fight. Desperate to avoid the sight of the cabin's third occupant, he locked his gaze on the door and drug himself forward.
“Look at me, boss man!” Cundey kicked the sole of his boot, then regained his honey tones when he addressed Bodin again: “Go 'head, scream. Cry. Beg. Don’t spare nothing. I like it all.”
Cundey kicked him again, sparking a flurry of pins-and-needles up and down Bodin’s leg. Bodin lurched forward one more pace on both elbows. The killer met the pace.
“Do me a favor, boss.” Cundey chewed on the words. Bodin chanced a look over his shoulder, instinct forcing him to assess his attacker. Cundey stepped forward, cocking his leg to direct a kick. “Tell me you like it too.”
Cundey’s blow never came, and a pale movement over Cundey’s shoulder caught Bodin’s attention: At the far corner of the ceiling, the third occupant wound upward into the air like the tip of a worm through soil, the visage taking shape for an instant before gashing open again, revealing a cavity that plunged deeper, far deeper, than the shallow hollow of a human body. Inside, a progression of cowls unfurled to form a system of bruised-flesh lobes and stems that shuttered forward to roil against thin curled points.
The killer stood still as a statue, eyes swollen as blisters. A wasp in a jar began to buzz, and Bodin realized the keening note was a pocket of air, a scream, trapped in Cundey’s throat.
Distantly, Bodin felt a gust brushing his senses; not a gritty wind, not ants, but the pressure of matter deformed. It touched Bodin softly, at odd angles, as though he were hunkered inside the lea of a pillar.
Cundey’s limbs sagged to his sides, slowly, like the limbs of a heated wax figure. His legs bowed, but the body did not fall, did not even slump forward. Behind him, the gaping woman-maw writhed in its spot, churning and flexing, working objectives on Cundey that were beyond Bodin’s comprehension.
Then whatever anchored Cundey upright began to lift the body into the air. The soles of his boots scraped the floorboards and then drifted upward to hang in empty space. His head bent backward, his spine arched. The shrill wasp buzz trilled sickly then stopped as Cundey’s scream squeezed the last of the air from his throat. His ascent continued until his forehead bumped the ceiling.
From this new angle, Bodin discerned the maw clearly. Floating well above the floorboards, the wide-open woman-form bent and swayed methodically in opposite directions at each end. He finally saw the extensions reaching from its cavernous recesses into the back of Cundey’s skull. Thick as fingers, they whirred like fly wings. Bodin felt the impossible speed of their motion over every inch of his skin: through his clothes, front and back; against palms of his hands pressed again the floorboards; on the soles of his feet inside his boots; and especially against his scalp under his unblown hair; his skull under his skin; and the gray, fleshy creases below the fused bone.
“Pay for it,” he hissed at Cundey through clenched his teeth. He squeezed his hands into fists; the splinters jutting from floorboards skinned his knuckles, but his flesh was numb. “Pay for it,” he said again, willing heightened plateaus of suffering against Cundey. He wanted to keep watching, but he felt his gorge rising. The agitations of the maw and the velocity of the thing it housed hurt his eyes and made the tentative support of the earth want to drop away.
Bodin rolled onto his elbows and tried to rise. His legs refused to work. That was fine. He’d crawl out of there. He’d crawl back out of this swamp if he had too. He might be able to live the rest of his life on his knees so long as he had the satisfaction of Cundey’s agony to keep him company.
He smiled as he dragged himself forward, huffing through the effort with a wide grin. Pay it, he sent to Cundey again, wishing, hoping the sick bastard heard his joy. Pay it.
* * *
After it sucked the last of the seeds it stroked the lobes, seeking to crack open memory, to squeeze more juice from delirium. But the drained rind dimmed and slipped away.
It nearly departed then, to sink back into the soft material, back into hibernation. But the eye flexed again, and dilated, and fixed.
Down below, the withered fruit had bloomed again. Shining with vivid hate. Ripe.
It moved in for a second harvest.
* * *
Bodin was almost to the door when he felt the direct pressure of that strange wind that was the deformation of the world. When he’d first felt it, as the woman-maw fed on Cundey, its full force had been blunted. But now the pillar had blown over, and the deforming wind and crawled up over his skin, and through his organs, and up his spine into his skull.
Behind him, Cundey’s body struck the floorboards with a loose-jointed thrump.
Bodin heard it—and he couldn’t help it: In spite of the hooks sinking into his mind, the sound delivered to him a savage grin.

Gilliverse VIII

<<< Timeline VII
2009, continued

March 21-28, 2009: Kafkaesque
- Gus meets with Hector and hints that he orchestrated the deaths of Leonel and Marco and Juan Bolsa out of revenge, infuriating the immobile Hector.
- Walt and Jesse are now in full production in the new lab and are easily producing the 200 pounds of meth each week, as per their quota. Jesse finds that they're even overproducing, and is resentful when Walt refuses to allow him to remove the extra pounds from the shipment, particularly since he has calculated that Gus will net at least $96 million by the end of their three-month contract, while the two of them are receiving only a combined payment of $3 million despite doing all of the work. Walt, however, is unconcerned by this and simply brushes off Jesse's complaints as him being unappreciative.
- Hank is still recovering in the hospital, and Steve Gomez shows up to tell him that the blue meth has made a comeback in several states, thus confirming Hank's suspicions that Heisenberg has not yet been captured. Hank is nevertheless dissatisfied, and reveals that the only reason he's still alive is because he got a warning call a minute before his would-be assassins attacked him. Instantly suspicious of Walt, Skyler asks him if they, and he, are safe. Walt assures her that they are.
- Though Hank is now conscious and functioning, his legs are mostly paralyzed, and the prognosis is that he may not be able to walk again, even with months of physical therapy. His doctor tells Marie that the therapy he needs is unlikely to fall within their insurance plan, and they would most likely end up having to pay out of pocket, which could end up costing them hundreds of thousands of dollars.
- Walt meets with Gus at his distribution center to "clear the air." Hank's revelation that he received a phone call before the attack has led Walt to the conclusion that Gus was the one who diverted the Cartel assassins away from him and directed them towards Hank instead so that an attempted hit on a DEA agent would get the American and Mexican governments to crack down hard on the Cartel and close off the distribution of meth from across the border, thereby granting Gus complete control over the market from within the States. Despite having put Hank's life in jeopardy, Walt nevertheless expresses gratitude towards Gus for saving his own life and commends him for his strategy, saying that he'd have done the same in Gus' position. He also brings up the issue of not knowing what will happen when his three-month contract has expired. Gus promises him security for his family, and also brings up the possibility of extending their contract to a year, which would increase his earnings to $15 million. Walt considers it.
- Saul encourages Jesse to purchase a nail salon with which he can use to launder the money he makes from the meth business. Jesse flatly refuses, especially since doing so would require him to report his income to the IRS and thereby pay taxes. Tired of having to adhere to the quotas and responsibilities within his new job, and wanting a larger cut of the profits, Jesse decides to steal the leftover pounds of meth that he and Walt produce in the lab to sell separately to the members of his rehab support group. He enlists Badger and Skinny Pete in this endeavor, and during a meeting, they pose as two new members and initiate a conversation within the group where they mention the blue meth, piquing everyone's interest in it.
- Marie becomes increasingly frustrated about being unable to find a means to pay for Hank's physical therapy, as their insurance will not cover the therapists. Skyler finally offers to pay their bills directly using Walt's drug money. She fabricates a story of Walt being a compulsive blackjack gambler, saying that this has been the cause of their recent marital problems. She explains that Walt took to gambling to pay his medical bills after his cancer diagnosis, and after some losses, his winnings have netted them an amount with seven figures. Marie is left shocked and appalled, but agrees to take their money to pay for Hank's therapy.
- Walt expresses surprise in Skyler's ability to come up with such an elaborate story on the fly. Skyler tells Walt that she believes he is somehow responsible for the attack on Hank, and that she is "not forgetting that."
March 29, 2009: Fly
- Walt, suffering from insomnia, stares up at his smoke detector's flashing light while trying to get back to sleep. Later, he arrives with Jesse at the superlab, where they begin making another batch of meth. At the end of the day, Walt calculates that their yield, while above what they are required to produce, falls short of what he expects. Jesse, who has been secretly taking small amounts for personal distribution, suggests it may be from other losses from spillage, but Walt insists there is another reason.
- After Jesse leaves for the day, Walt sees a housefly in the lab which he fears could contaminate the meth-making process. He tries numerous means to swat it, even dangling precariously from the lab's catwalk, from which he slips and falls to the floor. When Jesse returns the next day, he finds Walt still in pain from the fall and demanding that they cannot start cooking until they get rid of the fly. Jesse worries about Walt's lack of sleep and suggests they go outside to figure it out. However, when Jesse leaves, Walt locks him out of the lab and goes back to find the fly. When Jesse disconnects the main power to the lab, Walt lets him back in so they can work together. Jesse gets some flypaper which they hang around the lab, as well as some sleeping pills that he secretly puts into Walt's coffee. He then recounts a story about his late aunt, who experienced auditory hallucinations as a result of her cancer spreading to her brain. Walt asserts that he is still in remission.
- As they wait to catch the fly, the two talk about their families. Walt expresses that he should have died already and tries to think of the perfect moment to have done so: after he had enough money, after Holly was born, before his surgery and before Skyler knew what he'd been doing. He finally decides the perfect moment to die would have been the night Jane died, telling Jesse of his conversation with her father Donald. He tries to calculate the chances of meeting both father and daughter in different scenarios on the same night despite having never met either beforehand, but finds the odds too astronomical to calculate. Jesse is distracted when he sees the fly near the ceiling. As he tries to use a step-ladder to reach the fly, an increasingly-sleepy Walt seems poised to confess to Jesse about his role in Jane's death. Jesse tells him Jane's death was nobody's fault, but he still misses her. Jesse climbs back down and, seeing the fly land on the ladder, swats and kills it.
- Jesse takes a sleeping Walt to a couch while he cleans up the superlab and prepares for their next batch. They later leave together, but Walt warns Jesse that if he has been skimming from their product, he will not be able to protect him if Gus finds out. Jesse denies taking anything and states that he isn't asking anyone to protect him. That night, Walt is again unable to fall asleep, and sees a fly landing on the smoke detector's flashing light.
March 30 - April 7, 2009: Abiquiu
- Hank is frustrated with his physical therapy. Marie gives Skyler the therapy bill to pay as they previously discussed. Walt attempts to pay with his drug money, but Skyler insists the source must be "unimpeachable." Walt takes her to meet Saul, who laundered his money in the past. Skyler is put off by his flippant personality and his scheme to buy a laser tag facility. Instead, she suggests a more believable business investment: the car wash where Walt previously worked. Saul objects, as the owner of the laser tag facility would ask no questions about the deal, while the car wash owner, Bogdan, is an unknown factor. Skyler offers to help launder the money by managing the car wash. Walt worries that this would make her liable for his actions, but she reveals she never signed the divorce papers, and if married, cannot be made to testify against him.
- Meanwhile, Walt warns Jesse about skimming some of their meth product, which he continues to deny doing. Jesse takes what he has stolen to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting to give to Badger and Skinny Pete to help peddle. The two reveal they can't bring themselves to sell meth to recovering addicts, so Jesse shows them how easy it is by striking up a conversation with Andrea, a newcomer to the meetings. He soon becomes attached to Andrea while surreptitiously attempting to sell her product. Andrea invites him to her home, where Jesse discovers she has a son, Brock. From him, Jesse learns Andrea has a younger brother named Tomás, although she initially refuses to talk about him. Later, Andrea suggests they use meth, but Jesse declines now that he knows she has a child, and the two argue. Andrea insists she wants to avoid having Brock suffer from the same fate as Tomás, who, as part of an initiation to a local drug gang, shot a rival dealer at a street corner. Jesse recognizes the murder is similar to that of Combo a few months prior.
- Gus invites Walt to his home for a private dinner, telling Walt that he made many mistakes when he first began working in the drug business. He regrets that he did not have a mentor and warns Walt never to make the same mistake twice. Although Walt does not appear to understand what Gus is referring to, it later becomes apparent he is speaking of Walt's relationship with Jesse. The next day, Jesse travels to the corner where Combo was killed. He finds Tomás there, and confirms that not only is he working for a drug gang, but the gang works for Gus peddling the blue meth that he and Walt are making. Jesse quietly walks away, enraged.
April 8-14, 2009: Half Measures
- Skyler pushes Walt to accept her plan of laundering his drug money through the car wash. They continue to disagree, but are able to negotiate a plan that allows Walt to have some family dinners at home as a ploy to make the Whites appear reconciled. Meanwhile, Jesse begins to plot against those who killed Combo. He buys blue meth from the gang responsible, indicating that the people who killed Combo work for Gus. Jesse tells Walt about his findings and asks him to make ricin so he can exact revenge. Although Walt appears troubled by the gang's use of children, he dismisses the plan and tells Jesse to do the same. Jesse says, "I’m doing it. With or without you."
- Convinced Jesse is likely to do something rash that would endanger multiple people, including himself, Walt visits Saul and they hatch a plan to have Jesse sent to jail for a month to cool down. Meanwhile, Marie wheels Hank out of the hospital after winning a bet where she arouses him during a sponge bath. Mike makes an unannounced visit to Walt at home, telling him that he is not going to follow Saul's plan. He explains that Gus does not know of Jesse's intentions, but that if he follows through on them, he will find out and "take it as a problem." He then recounts an incident from his time as a cop, when he showed mercy by allowing a habitually abusive husband to live, only to have the man beat his wife to death shortly after. He tells Walt that he chose a "half measure" instead of killing the husband, and warns before leaving: "No more half measures."
- Jesse plants a poison of his own making in burgers his friend Wendy, a local prostitute, will bring to the gang members. However, Mike and Victor get to Jesse first, thwarting his plan and forcing him to go for a ride. They bring him to a meeting with Gus, Walt, and the dealers he was targeting. Jesse is furious to realize Walt has revealed his plan to Gus, but Gus tells him that Walt is his only friend in the room. After several tense verbal exchanges, the dealers agree to stop using children, and Jesse agrees to "keep the peace." It is implied that Jesse intends to drop his plans for revenge, although his relationship with Walt is damaged. He refuses to speak to Walt in the car after the meeting, and later won't return his phone calls.
- That night, Jesse hears about the death of Tomás, and rushes to the scene with his girlfriend Andrea. He realizes the dealers have killed Tomás because he is no longer of value to them, as they've agreed to stop using children. Jesse waits in his car near their territory, watching them and snorting meth for the first time since leaving rehab. He grabs a gun from under his seat, leaves the vehicle and starts walking towards the dealers. As Jesse draws his gun, the dealers begin to do likewise. Suddenly, Walt plows over both dealers with his car. He exits the vehicle with one still underneath, and another injured but reaching for his gun. Walt picks up the gun, shoots the dealer in the head, and tells Jesse to run.
April 15-16, 2009: Full Measure
- After Walt kills the gang members and Jesse goes on the run, Walt meets with Gus and Mike to negotiate for his and Jesse's safety, and for the continuation of his employment. Walt suggests Gus has two options: (A) kill Walt right there on the spot and eventually track down and kill Jesse, or (B) consider the incident a "lone hiccup in an otherwise long and fruitful business arrangement," let him return to cooking, and both agree to forget about Jesse. Gus leaves, appearing to have chosen option B, but informs Walt that he will be choosing Jesse's replacement.
- Walt arrives at the superlab to discover Gale Boetticher's car in the parking lot. Gale has been reinstated as Walt's lab partner, and Victor now shadows them everywhere, ensuring the two are never left alone. Gus informs Gale later that night of Walt's cancer. Gus says he intends to keep Walt on as long as possible, but must prepare for the "worst-case scenario." Walt, whose prior suspicions about Gale are soon reignited, correctly concludes that Gus is grooming Gale to replace him, and that he will be killed once Gale masters Walt's procedure.
- Acting on Gus's request, Mike visits Saul to find out Jesse's whereabouts. Saul refuses, claiming attorney–client privilege, but relents after Mike physically threatens him. Saul then allows Mike to look at a notebook containing a fake address for a trailer park in Virginia.
- Walt and Saul meet Jesse at a laser tag arcade; Victor is parked nearby and watches Walt and Saul enter. Walt informs Jesse of his situation, and explains that when Gale is confident enough to take over, they will be disposed of. Walt decides they must kill Gale. Jesse begs Walt, having made enough money from the venture to ensure his family are financially secure, to quit and go to the police or the DEA, but Walt refuses. He reasons that Gus can't stop production, and with Gale out of the picture, Gus would have no choice but to keep Walt. Jesse says he is not a murderer and can't kill Gale. Walt says he will do the job, and Jesse only needs to find Gale's address, as Walt is being heavily watched and can't manage it. Later that evening, Jesse calls Walt at home with Gale's address.
- As Walt is leaving his home to kill Gale, Victor arrives and informs him of a chemical leak at the lab. Suspecting a setup, Walt nevertheless goes with Victor. Upon arriving at the laundromat, Walt sees Mike, confirming his suspicions. Pleading for his life, Walt offers to cook for free and take them to Jesse. Mike, upon hearing this, demands Jesse's location, but Walt says he needs to call him and set up a meeting. Walt calls Jesse, who is sitting in the darkened laser tag building about to smoke meth. Jesse asks "Did you do it?" Walt says no, he can't now, and tells Jesse he is about to be killed. He urges Jesse to reach Gale and kill him first. Victor and Mike wrestle the phone away and when Walt quotes Gale's address to them, they realize what he has asked Jesse to do. Victor hurriedly leaves; Mike stays with Walt and attempts to warn Gale, but Gale fails to notice his phone ringing.
- Jesse arrives at Gale's house and pulls a gun on him. Gale pleads with Jesse, telling him that he doesn't have to do it. A tearful and shaking Jesse pulls the trigger as the screen cuts to black, with a gunshot being heard.
April 16-17, 2009: Box Cutter
- Jesse has just shot Gale to death on orders from Walt to foil Gus' plot to kill and replace them. Gus' henchman Victor arrives at Gale's apartment and finds him dead, surrounded by neighbors who have just called police. Victor finds a stunned Jesse sitting in his car and forces him to return to the lab, where Gus' employee Mike Ehrmantraut is holding Walt hostage. Mike, who is concerned that Victor was seen at Gale's apartment, calls to inform Gus. Victor, who realizes his own position is precarious because witnesses saw him at Gale's, has watched Walt work and starts cooking meth himself to prove that he has value to Gus, and that Gus does not need Walt or Jesse. Walt grows concerned when Victor proves better at the process than he expected.
- Meanwhile, Skyler observes his car in her driveway and, not wishing her son Walt Jr. to see it, parks it a few blocks away to conceal it. Concerned about Walt's apparent disappearance, she calls their lawyer Saul Goodman, but he has become paranoid because of Walt's falling out with Gus and is too busy checking his office for listening devices. Skyler hires a locksmith to break into Walt's condo, claiming she lives there. When he hesitates to do so without verifying her address, Skyler claims her purse was stolen and fakes a panic attack until he lets her in, but she finds little of interest. Elsewhere, Skyler's sister Marie struggles to maintain her composure while caring for her belligerent husband Hank, who is still bedridden after the attempt on his life.
- Gus arrives at the lab but says nothing. Walt launches into a nervous, rambling monologue of excuses and justifications, trying to convince Gus he needs him and Jesse alive. He claims it is Gus who is ultimately responsible for Gale's death, not them, and insists Victor cannot produce the high-quality meth Gus needs. Gus maintains his silence, even while changing into hazmat gear and selecting a box cutter from a storage shelf, while Victor grins in anticipation. Never changing his demeanor, Gus suddenly slices Victor's throat, startling the others. Through the killing, Gus simultaneously punishes Victor while delivering a stern message to Walt and Jesse. Gus drops the body to the floor and coldly eyes the duo to ensure his message was received. He quietly returns to his street clothes, then walks out of the lab, pausing only to say, "Well, get back to work."
- Later, Walt and Jesse dispose of Victor's body, the gun that killed Gale, and the box cutter in a barrel of hydrofluoric acid. During breakfast, Walt insists that Gale's death was necessary, but expresses concern that Gus will kill them at his next opportunity. Jesse doubts this, believing it will be too much trouble for Gus to find another drug manufacturer, and that both they and Gus understand the situation: neither can kill the other, so Gus might as well make them wish they were dead. The episode ends with police investigating Gale's apartment with the camera focusing on his lab notes, which have yet to be discovered.
April 18 - May 4, 2009: Thirty-Eight Snub
- Walt buys a Ruger LCR .38 snubnosed revolver from a black market gun dealer. Walt plans to use the concealable gun to kill his employer, drug kingpin Gus. Since falling out of favor with Gus, Walt believes Gus will kill him if he does not act first; when the gun dealer asks why Walt needs the gun, he insists it is strictly for self-defense. Later, Walt practices drawing the weapon. Elsewhere, Gus' henchman Mike drinks coffee at a bar and discovers dried blood on his jacket sleeve belonging to Victor, whom Gus previously murdered. Although Mike is silent, he appears to harbor conflicted feelings about what happened to Victor. Meanwhile, Jesse has purchased expensive gadgets, like a sophisticated sound system and the Roomba robotic vacuum cleaner, but remains miserable after having murdered Gale to save Walt and himself. After his friends Badger and Skinny Pete visit, Jesse has them arrange a wild party with dozens of people dancing, drinking and doing drugs to further distract himself.
- Later, while cooking meth at their lab, Walt waits for Gus to arrive so he can kill him. Instead, Victor's replacement Tyrus arrives with Mike, who informs Walt he will never see Gus again. That night, Walt drives to Gus' house and approaches with the gun, but before he can cross the street, Walt receives a call from Tyrus, who says simply, "Go home, Walter." The next day, as Walt approaches Mike at the bar, Mike tells Walt that he observed Walt tailing him to the bar. Mike then reveals he could tell that Walt was carrying a weapon in the lab. Walt suggests he and Mike are in the same danger, and Gus could easily kill Mike the same way he killed Victor. This visibly unnerves Mike, who appears to be aware of this. Walt asks that Mike get him in a room with Gus so he can kill him. In response, Mike punches Walt, knocking him to the floor, kicks him in the torso a few times and then leaves the bar.
- Skyler calls Walt to ask about buying the car wash where Walt once worked, which they plan to use as a front business for Walt's drug money. When Walt fails to act on the purchase, Skyler starts doing her own detailed research about the business's expenses and revenues. She later approaches the car wash owner, Bogdan, about the proposed purchase, but he angrily rejects her, making sexist remarks and condemning Walt for having insulted Bogdan when he quit the car wash. Meanwhile, Marie continues struggling to deal with Hank's deepening depression as he copes with physical therapy from having been shot. The bed-ridden and bitter Hank constantly ignores or insults Marie and, even after celebrating a successful session with his physical therapist, he refuses to share any of that excitement with Marie.
- After three straight days of partying, Jesse tries to keep hanging out with Badger and Skinny Pete, but they are exhausted and go home, along with all of the other guests in Jesse's house. Alone with his thoughts, a depressed Jesse breaks down and cries, sitting less than an inch away from his speakers at an extremely high volume.
May 5-6, 2009: Open House
- Walt furiously notices a motion-detecting surveillance camera that has been installed in the lab.
- Later that day, Skyler convinces Walt in a meeting with Saul to buy the car wash by mentioning how the owner insulted his manhood. She devises a plan to trick the owner into selling by having con artist Patrick Kuby pretend to be a water-tester who is shutting down the business out of concerns over contaminants. The owner promptly sells to her, agreeing to an even lower price than her original offer.
- Jesse is still feeling numb from recent events, attempting to clear his head with nostalgic go-kart trips. He continues to open his house up for all-night drug-fueled orgies, deliberately throwing piles of money in the midst of the chaos.
- Angry and frustrated by Hank's continuous cold shoulder, Marie resumes her kleptomania; she starts stealing objects from real-estate open houses, where she also makes up elaborate stories about who she is, but is eventually caught by a real-estate agent. A livid Hank pulls strings with a senior police officer to get her out of being charged. The same officer drops by the Schrader residence to seek Hank's help by giving him Gale's lab notes to look at. Hank initially shoves away the notebook, but begins to read it later that night.
May 7-17, 2009: Bullet Points
- Mike rides in the back of a Los Pollos Hermanos refrigerator truck on a meth delivery run. The truck screeches to a halt as it is forced off the road by a pair of hijackers. Mike pulls out his gun and listens as the gunmen pull the driver from the cab and shoot him in the head. Mike takes cover as the gunmen raise Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine guns and shoot up the trailer. After firing two volleys, the gunmen break into the truck, only to be promptly shot dead by Mike. Only after he steps out of the truck does Mike find that one bullet has grazed his right ear.
- Walt and Skyler prepare an elaborate story about Walt having a gambling addiction and a successful card counting method. They hope it will explain how they can pay for Hank's medical bills and purchase a car wash (that will actually be used to launder Walt's meth profits). Walt remains too distracted to put much effort into the charade and is worried how Walt Jr. will perceive him. During a family dinner at Hank and Marie's, Skyler and Walt tell everyone the gambling addiction story, but Hank and Walt Jr. turn out to be impressed by it.
- Later, Walt is shocked to learn that Hank is investigating Gale's murder. Hank says that he believes that Gale was the elusive Heisenberg and expresses regret that he was not able to arrest him. When asked by Hank to read about a chemical process written in Gale's lab notes, Walt notices a line from a Walt Whitman poem and a dedication: "W.W. My Star, My Perfect Silence." When Hank chuckles at the initials matching Walt's, Walt jokingly admits admitted to being "W.W," and says "you got me," before telling Hank that "W.W." refers to the poet, Walt Whitman.
- When Walt asks Hank about the investigation, he learns that the only leads are some fingerprints and an eyewitness spotted at the scene. Hearing about this evidence, Walt is spooked and worries that the police will connect Jesse to the murder.
- Walt goes to Jesse's house and is disgusted by its condition, as it is now being used as a drug den by addicts and vagrants. Jesse is adamant nothing can connect him to Gale's murder, but when he is asked if he picked up the shell casing from the gun (which could have his fingerprints on it), it is revealed he did not. When he is further questioned about the murder, Jesse starts to panic due to the memory of it and pays two druggies to kick Walt out of the house. Walt later laments to Saul about how the meth business is falling apart because no one is acting professionally, and rejects an offer to go into hiding.
- Jesse's detached complacence eventually leads to all of his meth money being stolen from his house, but Mike quickly recovers it and warns Jesse that he's on thin ice. Jesse is apathetic about the loss and recovery, leading Mike to tell Gus that Jesse's lack of professionalism is a problem for the organization, and they must intervene. Jesse does not show up to the lab the next day and Walter realizes that he has been kidnapped. The episode ends with Mike driving Jesse to an unknown destination. When he asks Jesse if he would like to know where they are going, the only reply is a simple "nope."
May 17-18, 2009: Shotgun
- Walt is racing to Los Pollos Hermanos to confront Gus about Jesse's disappearance. Worried about what will happen, Walt leaves a voicemail for Skyler and his children, saying only that he loves them. Walt learns that Gus is not in, and Mike eventually calls, explaining that Jesse is with him and will not be harmed, and tells Walt to go back to work.
- Over the course of the day, Mike drives Jesse to seven isolated drop-off spots all over New Mexico, where Gus's dealers leave the money from meth sales for pickup. Jesse assumes he was brought along to watch Mike's back, but Mike denies this and says he doesn't know why he was asked to take Jesse. While waiting in the car alone at the last drop-off spot, Jesse notices two robbers approach, one armed with a shotgun. He slams the car in reverse, rams into their car, and drives off. When Jesse returns, Mike hints that he is impressed. It is later revealed that Gus set up the entire scene so that Jesse would consider himself a "hero."
- Meanwhile, Walt and Skyler officially buy the car wash. After Skyler hears the voicemail Walt left earlier, the two passionately make love and she offers to let Walt move back in, but Walt leaves for the lab without giving an answer. Jesse has returned to the lab and explains to Walt that he will be working in the lab and also helping Mike with pickups from now on. Walt Jr. excitedly reveals to his father that Skyler already set the date for Walt to move back in, which seems to unnerve him. Seeing Walt Jr. drink from a Beneke Fabricators mug—whose boss, Ted Beneke, had an affair with Skyler—upsets him further.
- During dinner at Hank and Marie's, a brooding Walt gets increasingly tipsy on wine. Hank explains that he gave up investigating Gale further, having found a sense of closure in the death of the man he believed to be "Heisenberg," but lauds Gale's genius. A prideful Walt then insists that Gale was not a genius, and suggests that he was copying someone else's work. This convinces Hank to take another look at the case files, and he notices that the strictly vegan Gale had notes scribbled on a napkin from Los Pollos Hermanos.
May 19-20, 2009: Cornered
- Two guards ride in the back of a Los Pollos Hermanos refrigerator truck which is suddenly forced off the road by cartel hitmen, led by cartel member Gaff. They shoot the driver in the head, lock the truck, and use a hose to redirect the truck's exhaust into the ventilation system. They eat the driver's lunch while the hidden guards die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Gaff and his men then open the truck, and find a marked container of fry batter that contains meth for distribution.
- Skyler listens to Walt's voice message twice after researching Gale Boetticher's death on the internet. She wakes up a hungover Walt the morning after their dinner with Hank and Marie during which Walt suggested to Hank the genius who created the blue meth might still be out there. Skyler wants to talk to Walt about Gale. She suspects Gale's death is related to the meth operation, which leads her to pressure Walt to call the police due to the danger it presents their family. She suggests a hypothetical situation where one day an in-over-his-head Walt opens his front door and is shot in the face. Furious that Skyler does not understand the scope of his criminal operation, Walt responds that, in that scenario, he would be "the one who knocks." Skyler flees the house, taking Holly with her. She ponders escaping to Colorado, going so far as to drive to the Four Corners Monument, but ultimately reconsiders.
- Walt receives the keys to the car wash from Bogdan, and avenges his past insults by making Bogdan leave behind his framed first earned dollar, which Walt uses to buy a soda. Walt tells Walt Jr. he is not moving back home and buys a new Dodge Challenger to cheer him up. Jesse returns to the lab and Walt expresses doubt that Jesse was hired to help Mike due to stopping an earlier robbery, considering the whole thing a ruse by Gus Fring to create a wedge between them. Jesse is later called away by Mike before he can help clean the lab. Infuriated, Walt pays off three women at the laundry to do it, but afterwards feels guilty as Gus punishes them by sending Tyrus Kitt to deport them back to Honduras.
- Jesse and Mike scout a house selling the blue meth from the hijacked truck, but Jesse grows impatient and tricks one of the meth users into letting him into the house, where he knocks out the other. Mike notices the words "¿Estás listo para platicar?" written on the stolen container which translates to "Are you ready to talk?". Gus meets with Mike at a diner that night and decides to try and negotiate with the cartel. Outside of the diner, Jesse asks Gus, "Why me?" in reference to him being asked to help Mike during the previous several days. Gus responds by saying "I like to think I see things in people." Meanwhile, Skyler arrives home and demands that Walter return Junior's car, as buying lavish things threatens their cover story, saying "someone has to protect this family from the man who protects this family."
May 21 - June 4, 2009: Problem Dog
- ASkyler tells Walt that she's negotiated the return of Walt, Jr's Dodge Challenger to the dealership, Walt angrily drives the Challenger to a parking lot, burns donuts, and strands the car on a cement parking divider, then stuffs the ownership papers in the gas tank, lights them afire, and blows up the car. Saul covers up the outburst, which costs Walt $52,000.
- When Walt later drops off approximately $274,000 — his biweekly profits — to Skyler, she is stunned by the amount, unsure how she'll launder his annual meth-lab earnings of over $7 million, in mostly $50 bills no less, through their car wash. Meanwhile, Hank visits Los Pollos Hermanos with Walt, Jr. and manages to get Gus's fingerprints on a cup.
- Walt convinces Jesse to use his new position as a henchman in the organization to kill Gus, and concocts a ricin poison in the lab that Jesse hides in one of his cigarettes. Mike brings Jesse along to a sitdown between Gus and the cartel. Jesse is told to make coffee for the meeting and contemplates poisoning the coffee, but he is interrupted before he can act. Mike is surprised when the cartel sends only one man to the meeting, who delivers to Gus an ultimatum. Gus, who had been prepared for a negotiation, rejects the ultimatum. Jesse contemplates shooting Gus as the cartel representative leaves, but decides not to. Mike later tells Jesse that Gus is impressed by Jesse's loyalty, but that he thinks it's "for the wrong guy."
- Jesse returns to his Twelve-step program group. During his turn, he discreetly shares his feelings about killing Gale, saying he shot a "problem dog" that otherwise did nothing wrong. Jesse angrily disagrees when the group leader tells him not to judge himself, and reveals to everyone that he had used the group as a market to peddle meth. The group leader finally expresses disapproval of Jesse. Hank meets with Gomez and Merkert and explains his theory that Gus leads a large meth operation. Although Hank's investigation into Madrigal Electromotive GmbH — the German parent company of Los Pollos Hermanos — was stopped by its attorney, Hank reveals that Gus's fingerprints on the cup Hank had earlier obtained from Los Pollos Hermanos match fingerprints found in Gale's apartment.
June 5 - July 2, 2009: Hermanos
- Gus is called to meet with the police and DEA, where he is asked about his fingerprints in Gale's apartment. He explains that Gale was a recipient years ago of a UNM college scholarship in chemistry that Gus created, and says that Gale had invited Gus to his apartment for dinner to ask him for money. Hank asks if Gus Fring is his real name, as there are no records of anyone with that name in his native Chile. Gus says he immigrated at the time of Pinochet's dictatorship, which he claims was notorious both for human rights violations and poor record-keeping. The investigators are satisfied with his answers, except Hank, who is still suspicious. Meanwhile, Skyler begins to hide Walt's meth money in a crawl space below the house.
- Hank later asks Walt to drive him to a mineral show, but reveals en route that he's really going to Los Pollos Hermanos to plant a GPS tracking unit on Gus' car. Walt is nervous since he is already on poor terms with Gus and because Mike has appeared and is watching him, but Walt ultimately gives in to Hank. Walt pretends to plant the tracker and goes inside the restaurant, where Gus meets him at a register. Walt hastens to assure Gus that he didn't plant the tracker, showing it still in his pocket, but Gus tells him to "do it." Perplexed, Walt plants the tracker on his way back to his car and leaves with Hank. Later, Walt (on video) and Mike each assure Gus that Hank is acting on his own and not as part of the DEA's investigation, but Mike advises Gus that Hank may pose a problem if Gus and the cartel go to war. Walt warns Jesse about Hank's investigation and again urges him to kill Gus. While he is at Jesse's house, Walt intercepts a text message meant for Jesse and suspects that Jesse is becoming loyal to Gus.
- Gus goes to see Hector in the nursing home and asks him, cryptically, if today is the day. Gus tells Hector to look him in the eyes, but Hector refuses. "Maybe next time," Gus says, and leaves.

Timeline IX >>>

Yang or Destruction

what does the expression bet dollars to donuts mean video

Definition of bet dollars to doughnuts in the Idioms Dictionary. bet dollars to doughnuts phrase. What does bet dollars to doughnuts expression mean? Definitions by the largest Idiom Dictionary. What does bet dollars to doughnuts expression mean? The expression is also found in a number of variants, including dollars to buttons, dollars to dumplings, and dollars to cobwebs, each of these objects being considered worthless. Dollars to doughnuts as an adjectival or adverbial phrase is first found in the late nineteenth century in America. However, in the case of "dollars to donuts", you are so absolutely sure of an outcome in your favour (i.e. you won't lose and have to pay up) that you're willing to bet far more excessively than your opponent. Your opponent hopes he'll win but knows there's a reasonable chance he'll lose, so he bets small or insignificantly (1 donut). But you are dead sure you're going to win, i.e. you know ... They were replaced by 1890 with the more popular 'dollars-to-doughnuts' (a 1904 variation, 'dollars-to-cobwebs,' never became very common, perhaps because it didn't alliterate)." From Listening to America: An Illustrated History of Words and Phrases from Our Lively and Splendid Past by Stuart Berg Flexner (Simon and Schuster, New York, 1982). Definition of dollars to donuts in the Idioms Dictionary. dollars to donuts phrase. What does dollars to donuts expression mean? Definitions by the largest Idiom Dictionary. What does dollars to donuts expression mean? Dollars to doughnuts means something that is certain. The phrase dollars to doughnuts is an American idiom that originated in the middle 1800s and is still mostly seen in American English. The idea behind the shorthand phrase dollars to doughnuts is the sentiment that the speaker is so confident that he is right about something, he will put forth his dollars against the listener’s doughnuts ... bet dollars to donuts. 1. (idiomatic) To suggest that something is very likely to be true or that one has a strong hunch about something. 1996. "Now I'm willing to bet you dollars to donuts that out of every twenty stills in the county, the ATF boys know, personally, at least nineteen operators." Virginia Lanier, Death in Bloodhound Red, p. 38. As to why “dollars to doughnuts,” beyond the alliterative qualities, it was essentially just a way to say you’d bet dollars to something mostly worthless, relative to the dollars, emphasizing how sure you are that you’re correct. Going back to the 1840s, there was a very similar expression with the same basic meaning “dollars to dimes ... This expression is used mostly in bets where you are very sure about something and would bet for it. Examples Sentences. And I’ll bet dollars to donuts that he will have no strategic plan on how to effectively deny Clinton’s speech. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts she won’t accept his marriage proposal. I will bet you dollars to donuts that this time she will not top in the exam. I lost ... It is occasionally spelled as 'dollars to donuts', which only emphasis its US origin as, outside the USA, a donut is most definitely a doughnut. Even in the USA, the usual spelling is 'doughnut' - the 'donut' version came in well after this phrase. 'Dollars to doughnuts' is a pseudo betting term, pseudo in that it didn't originate with actual betting involving doughnuts, but just as a pleasant ...

what does the expression bet dollars to donuts mean top

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