A Constant Throb

Episode Report Card
Al Lowe: A | 7 USERS: A
A Constant Throb

Nutstomping Al, how we've missed you. "So," Al sneers, "you'd shoot at a fucking woman?" The HB groans on the floor. "Beat that poor newspaper bastard?" Al goes on. "Scare that Chinese with your fucking horses?" That's right, Al! Score three for the little people! Heng dai! He kicks the HB in the ribs, which causes the guy to scream, which just encourages Al to kick him again. "How many ribs you think you broke?" he asks. The HB grunts out that he feels like two or three are broken. "I'm talking," Al spits, "about that newspaperman's ribs, you fucking c*nt." With that, he gives him another good one to the groin and while the whole world cheers, we see Hearst step out onto his balcony, no doubt waiting for the HB to come striding cockily out the front door. Keep on waiting, beyotch!

Also waiting: Con Stapleton. He's outside Claudia's door at the hotel, imploring her to render her gigantic rack unto his loving care. Man. I just made myself gag. "I prayed it would pass!" he cries to her. "But it's a constant fucking sore spot and throb." This reminds him of his purpose and he pulls a prepared statement from his pocket. "Uh, you are a constant vision before me, you and your fabulous bosoms," he reads. "I beg you, release your man-stallion from his he-stable for another gallop round the ring." Y'all, are they trying to kill me? I mean, for one thing: man-stallion. And secondly: he-stable. And THIRD OF ALL: Do you see the banana they have stuffed down this man's pants? Frankly, we must pray it is a banana, for if it is an accurate representation of uh, reality, none of us are safe. Claudia, laid out on her bed, has had it. "Not today, Con!" she says, wishing he would vanish. She tells him to come back late the next day. "Perfect!" he says. "We'll be waiting!" And y'all know he means him and his gonorrheal man-stallion, right? I KNOW.

Al hasn't quite finished with the HB. "Listen to me, listen to me," the suffering man says, "and I'll tell you one fucking thing. Do you hear me?" Al: "I don't hear nothing." The HB groans again. "I'm telling you," he says, "that I'm gonna tell you one fucking thing." Damn, did my mother write this? Al says all right. "Do you hear me?" the HB moans. And Al, like his namesake over here, has had ENOUGH. "What the fuck?" he asks, sick of it. "I'm not fucking deaf." The HB rattles on and on saying he needs to know if Al is going to understand what he's saying and finally Al beats it out of him -- Hearst has already wired for more Pinkertons and that they're on the way. "If he finds out I told you..." he cries, as Al leans over him, thinking. "Don't worry," he says, quietly while the HB continues to sob in pain. Later, he is still crying as Al has a rejuvenating drink. "He's got twenty-five more guns coming, twenty-five Pinkertons," the man groans on the floor. "When they get here, he's gonna move on the camp." Al picks up the discarded gun and calmly asks if this will happen before the elections. "I don't know. I don't know," the HB says, begging for his life. "Please don't hurt me. It's all I fucking know." Al is moved. Not. He uses the butt of the gun to turn the loser onto his back. "Come on, come on," he says, almost encouraging. "Don't give up hope." He stands, puts the gun on the chair right next to the bloody HB, and steps out onto the balcony. Looking out over the thoroughfare, he looks up and pretend to just notice that Hearst is there on his roof. "Passing a little wind," Al calls, the picture of casualness.

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