Skyler was grouchy. The car wash smelled funny, like the chemicals they use to wash cars. Suddenly, Saul drove up and said something about a sandwich. Skyler just sort of stared at him, her soul being all dead and rotten from living with the terrible secret of Walt being a meth kingpin. She had a lot to think about, between the car wash and the kids and the dead rottenness of her soul, not that that was her fault. “Sandwich,” Saul said, snapping his fingers. “Sandwich.” And Skyler went to the place where the sandwiches were and got him one.
“Damn, Skinny Pete,” Badger said. “I never knew you had such a boss collection of lanyards!”
“You know it, bro,” Skinny Pete said proudly. “I learned how to make lanyards at Camp Watonka when I was eleven, and I was the lanyard king, yo.”
“What’s this one?” Badger asked, reaching for a lanyard that had a kind of metal thing attached to it.
“Don’t touch that one!” Skinny Pete shouted, but just then the metal thing on the lanyard sprouted steel pincers and stuck one through Badger’s face and pinned him to the wall, where he twitched for a while and then died.
“Damn, yo,” Skinny Pete said sadly. “Respect.”
Gus Fring came back to life a little bit after lunch, only walking wobbly on account of having no balance from the inner-ear damage he sustained when Walter blew his head up. He kind of lurched around for a while, yelling, “Hector-r-r-r-r!” Then he got sleepy, because he really didn’t have much stamina—the explosion had made him tired—so he lied down and died again. And this time he was dead for real. Or was he? (Because when the nurses or the orderlies or whoever looked for him, he was gone. Or was he?)
Jesse was sitting in his house playing Xbox when Mr. White came roaring up in his car and stopped. “Jesse,” he roared, jumping out of the car and running into the place where Jesse was. “You’re so stupid!”
“Whoa,” Jesse cried, “Mr. White, what are you—”
But it was too late! Because Mr. White was already punching him hard in the face, having run into the room just then. “You messed up some of the ingredients and now the cook is bad on account of the meth being all runny!” And he punched and punched Jesse, continuing the whole time he was punching him to tell him how stupid he was.
“But Mr. White let me expl—” Jesse cried.
“Explain?” Mr. White snarled, like a lion or a tiger or a bear. “You want me to explain why you’re so stupid?” And he punched him some more, punching and punching until his fist landed on a crunchy place and Jesse fell down and he (Mr. White) stopped.
“Wait,” Jesse said from the place where he was on the floor. “There’s something you should know.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t know already, because I’m so much smarter than you!” Mr. White roared, making a fist again with his hand.
“Yes, there is,” Jesse said.
“No, there isn’t,” Mr. White said and raised his hand, the one he’d made into a fist, to hit Jesse again.
“That’s enough!” Ted Beneke shouted loudly as he stepped into the room from another room where he had been the whole time. “Don’t hit my son!”
“Dad!” Jesse said.
“Give me some of the blue, which I have got to have,” said the meth-addicted guy to the other guy, the one with the thing on his face.
Everybody thought Mike was dead from that time Walt shot him on the riverbank, but what nobody knew was that Mike had amazing powers of recuperation, plus some secret healing techniques that he’d learned when he was a cop on an Indian reservation in the late seventies. So after he had crawled off into some bushes to recover, he managed to get back to his apartment on the bus and start planning his revenge. “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he told himself, looking at himself in a mirror. “Cold.” So he took his time and made a really smart plan involving a bunch of henchmen and some guns and a catapult that shoots puff adders and a thing that would blow up Walt’s car when he tuned to a certain radio station. “Now all I have to do is get Walt to tune to that radio station,” he thought ruefully, still looking at himself in the mirror, and then he went to do a Sudoku, which is how he relaxed.
Hank and Marie were at an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet when Hank suddenly stopped and stared off into space like he was thinking about something super-important. “Hey,” the guy behind Hank in line said grumpily. “The line. Move. Some of us also want pancakes.” And Hank was all, “In a second,” because he was thinking so hard. Was Walt really Heisenberg? But Walt was such a dipshit! Meanwhile, Marie shoplifted some of those little tubs of lingonberry jam into her purse.
It was amazing how Mr. White kept secret his other two identities: Heisenberg and Banksy.
[NOTE TO SELF: THIS ONE IS REALLY GREAT. WORK HARD ON THIS ONE.]
