Post by forumfish on May 23, 2009 22:47:49 GMT -5
Author: CelleDuSoleil
As threatened, the PB Episodal Imaginary Finger-Puppet Theatre is pleased to present the PB Episodal Imaginary Finger-Puppet Theatre Meta-Meta-Commentary: all obscure references will be dragged kicking and screaming into the light, all excruciatingly scrupulous lexical choices will be painstakingly poked and prodded, all T-Babble (juxtaposition, what juxtaposition?) will be subtitled.
Meta-Meta-Com. 106
Michael: Count is interfering with my busy escape schedule -- it must be stopped.
[Is it completely goal-oriented and ever-so-slightly imperious? Behold the Planner in his natural habitat — utter certainty. That’ll last. You can practically hear the clock counting down on exactly how long.]
Sucre: I have ... wait for it ... an Idea.
[An Idea is like a lesser specimen of Plan and, thus, had by lesser strategists (ie. sidekicks) on-the-fly based on shockingly little research. An Idea can blow a Plan out of the water.]
Michael: Does it involve you singing again? [He so did not say.]
Sucre: If you want, [He also did not say — but would have.] but I was thinkin’ more along the lines of you turning off the A/C to rile-up Gen Pop and get us a lockdown.
Michael: Oblique. Thermodynamic. I like it.
[… which flows nicely into this little scene that also fulfills those three criteria and apparently takes place during high school Phys. Ed. (Prison -> Phys. Ed.: an effortless mental leap, no?)]
Sara: Record-setting heat.
Michael: Getting hotter by the moment.
Sara: With the not-being-as-cool-as-it-should-be.
Michael: And the hotness.
Sara: One might even say “the hot-osity”.
Michael: One might if one knew what we were talking about.
Sara: No idea. Bye-eee.
[… cuz she’s, like, late for Chem. and omg, Michael, is Coach gonna be real unhappy with you. Are we feeling all nice and squee-gy? Let’s spoil the mood:]
T-Bag: Ladies and gents, I have ree-t’rned! Let the may-hem com-men-sate cuz, whooo-ee, is it ev’r hawt in hee-re and Uncle T-Bag needs a dee-stract-tion.
{subtitles: Ladies and gentlemen, I have returned. Let the mayhem commence because, whooo-eee, is it ever hot in here and Uncle T-Bag needs a distraction.}
[Is it completely perverted and ever-so-slightly poetic? Why, yes, that is parallel structure for the sake of contrasting the character voices of Michael/Order and T-Bag/Chaos! Thanks for asking. Incidentally, T-Bag’s lines take twice as long to write as any other characters’ mostly due to my getting lost mid-word.]
Geary: Lockdown!
[T-Bag -> Lockdown. A mental leap so effortless even Geary could make it.]
Michael: I need you for this -- hang this sheet and let’s go.
Sucre: What? No. I, uhm, can’t. That sheet’s got holes in it and this weird stain and I don’t wanna be the wife!
Michael: Fine, I hereby pronounce you not-the-wife.
Sucre: Boo-rah!
Michael: Now hang the sheet.
[Even if this conversation took place with Maricruz, Sucre would still have ended up hanging that sheet.]
Bellick: Step aside, dickheads, and watch how a real pro single-handedly defuses this minor disturbance with professional tact and elegance.
[“Dickheads” is, of course, the antithesis of both tact and elegance, but fully the thesis of Bellick. Hence the funny.]
T-Bag: Chugga-chugga chugga-chugga whoo-whoo!
{subtitles: Chugga-chugga chugga-chugga whoo-whoo.}
Gen Pop: *riot*
COs: *flee*
[Cast Of Thousands? Death-defying Stunts Galore? Piffle. We can do it with one word and a couple of asterisks.]
T-Bag: Hey, Bellick, what’s sca-ree-er than a room full of an-gry cons? ... One wah-ly con with a key!
{subtitles: Hey, Bellick, what’s scarier than a room full of angry cons? … One wily con with a key.}
[This line is outright theft from Babylon 5: “What’s scarier than a locked room full of angry Narn? One angry Narn with a key!” Rock on, Great Maker, rock on.]
Bob: Don’t worry, that wing’s locked at both ends.
Linc: Lock. Key. *sigh* CHARGE!
[“Lincoln” is a dead president. “Linc” is not. Also, ever-so-slightly monosyllabic.]
Sucre: What if your math is off?
Michael: Then we get completely incinerated in approximately 2.37 seconds [Totally made-up number.] after we’ve breached the wall.
Sucre: Oh.
Michael: Never. Question. My. L33t. Math. Sk1llz.
{subtitles-for-n00bz: Never question my elite mathematical prowess.}
T-Bag: What T-Bag wants T-Bag gets, and li’l badge, T-Bag wants-- *gasp*
{subtitles: What T-Bag wants T-Bag get and little correctional officer, T-Bag wants— gasp}
[To the tune of “Whatever Lola Wants” and my sincerest apologies to perfectly innocent cabaret acts everywhere.]
Abruzzi: Problema.
Sucre: Your Idea: not so hot.
[“Idea”. “Hot”. See how it’s all being tied-up from the beginning concepts? But, wait, wasn’t it Sucre’s Idea?]
Michael: My Idea?
T-Bag: We do indeedy have a problem with our escape stra-teh-gery -- Bob hee-re’s seen the hole.
{subtitles: We do indeed have a problem with our escape strategy — Robert here has seen the hole.}
[Pointing out the Freudian imagery of this statement feels like an insult to the intelligence, but I’ll include it for completeness’ sake: “Hole”.]
Michael: Our escape?
Abruzzi: Dead men tell no tales.
T-Bag: Do you really bel-lee-ve, ev’n fo’ a mo-m’nt, that dah-ing would be een-nough to shut me up? Now, Bob, on the other hand ...
{subtitles: Do you really believe, even for a moment, that dying would be enough to shut me up? Now, Robert, on the other hand…}
[Ah, yes, then we would have all missed out on the rancid morbid fancy that is T-Bag.]
Michael: No one dies. The escape continues. The Plan does not change.
[Tick-Tock.]
Sara: Into every generation a prison doctor is born. She alone will stand against the social inequity and inner demons, yet she will not be too proud to occasionally ask for HELP!
[Referencing Buffy the Vampire Slayer: “Into every generation a Slayer is born. One girl in all the world…”, of course, thus handily evoking the lone female vs. horde of ravening males atavistic fear atmosphere and the knowledge that a well-placed stake often defends.]
Michael: Change of Plan -- I’m going to sickbay. Sucre take over.
[Tick-Clang! And so, certainty is lost. Hey, it was nice while it lasted.]
T-Bag: Whaaa?
Abruzzi: Welcome to the team -- here are your incomprehensible instructions.
[No, he did not say it, but his exasperated face did. It’s all fun and games until you realize you’re not the alpha anymore and fear is just not gonna work. Stupid engineers with their calculations and diagrams and knowing how stuff works.]
Meta-Meta-Com. 219
[Ep. 219 was one of the “high concept” performances — the double helix structure was meant to point out the beguiling symmetry between the two dialogue strands as they spiraled about their common axis of good and evil. It’s not a coincidence that it can be read as if characters that are not in the same scene are talking to either other.]
Sara: We broke up. What can I say? The thrill is gone.
Mahone: Oh, pul-eeze -- I felt the disturbance as if millions of voices rose up ... and went “squee”. Where are you meeting him?
[This Star Wars-inspired line has existed every since the first episode of the second season. Jedi-gone-wrong Mahone would obviously say it at some point it was just a matter of time.]
Michael: Someplace safe. You should call him -- you’ll find it very illuminating ... like a history lecture on Ancient Egypt or, perhaps, Rome.
[Because heavens forfend ugly words like “incest” and “politics” pass those beautiful lips.]
Reynolds: You don’t get to make “suggestions” -- I already have people for that.
Sara: The first step is admitting that you have a problem.
[Work that structure!]
Mahone: Have a problem or am the problem?
Michael: It’s time to make your choice.
[Yeah, Alex. Ooh, but Michael isn’t talking to him … or is he?]
Reynolds: Fine, you’ll get what you want. Leave.
Sara: Don’t presume to know what I want!
Mahone: Check.
Michael: And mate. It’s done!
[Just a little mind-mate stalemate and soul-crushing defeat …]
Reynolds: I am ... that is: I have cancer. I’m done.
[Freudian slip: “I am a cancer.” And so near self-destruction leads to excruciating self-awareness. That’s probably one of those “themes” or something since there’s only one participant in this sad scenario who isn’t proof of that … or is he?]
Meta-Meta-Com. 313
[As this was the last episode of the 3rd season, I felt it was rather appropriate that it should start with the guiding verb of the 2nd season ...]
“Whistler”: *Flee!*
Linc: *Thwack!*
[... followed by the defining verb of the 3rd.]
“Whistler”: I was just trying to save innocent lives.
Michael: You’re not innocent [“and neither am I”] and it’s far too late [“because she’s dead”].
Linc: And my plan’s shot.
Michael: We’ll figure something out.
[Because even at his bleakest, Michael is still more positive than Linc.]
Linc: Yeah, “we” always do.
Gretchen: If it ain’t The Brain.
[“It’s Pinky, it’s Pinky and the Brain Brain Brain Brain ...”]
Michael: Hello, Gretchen.
Blue Steel: COMMENCING FIRING SEQUENCE.
[When the words themselves are polite but the look is quoting choice passages from Dante’s Inferno, more than a single imaginary finger-puppet is required to communicate the subtle nuances.]
Gretchen: Y’know, my Company’s always on the headhunt for someone with your particular aptitudes.
[Many drafts were spent on trying to tactfully crowbar the word “head” into this phrase, then realization struck that it was Gretchen speaking so the effort was hardly required.]
Michael: Try Monster.com. See you in five.
[The Pun That Wrote Itself. The original intent was that Michael would obviously believe that you’d have to be monster to work for Them. Only on read-through did I remember that Monster.com is also an actual recruiting website.]
Blue Steel:[/] THREE.
Gretchen: Whaa-- I mean: you’re over-thinking this!
[“... Brain Brain Brain Brain ...”]
LJ: Someone is.
Gretchen: Shut up.
Sofia: So where are the coordinates? That was the trade, no? Whistler-if-that-is-your-real-name for the coordinates that were worth all our lives.
“Whistler”: Sofia, baby, pumpkin, please, you can trust me -- you know me.
[Oy, did that “pumpkin” cause the biggest finger-puppet debate since the whole Holy Priest vs. Retribution Paladin debacle. “But Whistler’s Australian, right? And she’s Panamanian. Why would he call her ‘pumpkin’? That’s so American!” In the end, cooler nails prevailed on the grounds that him calling her “cumquat” or “snuggle-koala” was just too distracting.]
Sofia: Sì, you’re James Whistler -- you just put your lips together AND LIE!
[ A play on Whistler’s (alleged) name of the movie quote variety: “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together ... and blow.” - To Have and Have Not. Indeed.]
Gretchen: That’s. It. I’m sick and tired of protecting your precious princess and what are you still doing here?
Michael: Loitering.
Blue Steel: TWO.
Gretchen: Drama queen!
[Pot, meet kettle.]
Gretchen’s Minions: *BANG!*
“Whistler”: Sof--!
Gretchen: *Yoink!*
Linc: Sofia!
LJ: Dad!
[In many episodes, there’s this point I like to think of as “The Knocking Down of the Pins” when a series of horribly exciting and succinct things happen very quickly after being very carefully setup. That was it. Just now.]
“Whister”: I could kill you for what you did to her!
Blue Steel: ONE.
Gretchen: How nice for her.
[Acid commentary on the self-indulgence and ultimate uselessness of macho retribution from the Wicked Witch of the West herself. Make of it what you will.]
Blue Steel: FIRE? Y/N
Michael: Yes/No.
[Inner conflict, take a bow.]
Soldier’s: *BANG!*
Gretchen & Co.: *Flee!*
Michael: Sucre, where are you?
Sucre: I’m fine.
[That would be that special 3rd season definition of “fine”.]
T-Bag: Don’ crah fo’ meeee, Sooooh-nah-mmh-mmm ...
{subtitles: Don’t cry for me, So-na-mmmh-mmmm ...}
[To the tune of Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina except that Sona falls short with only two syllables but then T-Bag falls short as a champion of the people so that’s okay. ]
Linc: It’s finally over. We’re fine. Right, Mike? Michael? Oh.
[He’s fine, too, Linc. Yeah, that fine.]
“Whistler”: Welcome to our little Company.
Mahone: On a scale of Identity to Ultimatum, it’s my professional opinion that Scofield’s at Supremely Pissed and I’ve been out-planned, out-maneuvered and out-drama-ed enough for ten lifetime.
[Yes, Mahone likes to relax with some Ludlum. He needs a good laugh as much as the next person. Probably more.]
“Whistler”: We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.
Mahone: Oh. Good plan.
[Not.]
As threatened, the PB Episodal Imaginary Finger-Puppet Theatre is pleased to present the PB Episodal Imaginary Finger-Puppet Theatre Meta-Meta-Commentary: all obscure references will be dragged kicking and screaming into the light, all excruciatingly scrupulous lexical choices will be painstakingly poked and prodded, all T-Babble (juxtaposition, what juxtaposition?) will be subtitled.
Meta-Meta-Com. 106
Michael: Count is interfering with my busy escape schedule -- it must be stopped.
[Is it completely goal-oriented and ever-so-slightly imperious? Behold the Planner in his natural habitat — utter certainty. That’ll last. You can practically hear the clock counting down on exactly how long.]
Sucre: I have ... wait for it ... an Idea.
[An Idea is like a lesser specimen of Plan and, thus, had by lesser strategists (ie. sidekicks) on-the-fly based on shockingly little research. An Idea can blow a Plan out of the water.]
Michael: Does it involve you singing again? [He so did not say.]
Sucre: If you want, [He also did not say — but would have.] but I was thinkin’ more along the lines of you turning off the A/C to rile-up Gen Pop and get us a lockdown.
Michael: Oblique. Thermodynamic. I like it.
[… which flows nicely into this little scene that also fulfills those three criteria and apparently takes place during high school Phys. Ed. (Prison -> Phys. Ed.: an effortless mental leap, no?)]
Sara: Record-setting heat.
Michael: Getting hotter by the moment.
Sara: With the not-being-as-cool-as-it-should-be.
Michael: And the hotness.
Sara: One might even say “the hot-osity”.
Michael: One might if one knew what we were talking about.
Sara: No idea. Bye-eee.
[… cuz she’s, like, late for Chem. and omg, Michael, is Coach gonna be real unhappy with you. Are we feeling all nice and squee-gy? Let’s spoil the mood:]
T-Bag: Ladies and gents, I have ree-t’rned! Let the may-hem com-men-sate cuz, whooo-ee, is it ev’r hawt in hee-re and Uncle T-Bag needs a dee-stract-tion.
{subtitles: Ladies and gentlemen, I have returned. Let the mayhem commence because, whooo-eee, is it ever hot in here and Uncle T-Bag needs a distraction.}
[Is it completely perverted and ever-so-slightly poetic? Why, yes, that is parallel structure for the sake of contrasting the character voices of Michael/Order and T-Bag/Chaos! Thanks for asking. Incidentally, T-Bag’s lines take twice as long to write as any other characters’ mostly due to my getting lost mid-word.]
Geary: Lockdown!
[T-Bag -> Lockdown. A mental leap so effortless even Geary could make it.]
Michael: I need you for this -- hang this sheet and let’s go.
Sucre: What? No. I, uhm, can’t. That sheet’s got holes in it and this weird stain and I don’t wanna be the wife!
Michael: Fine, I hereby pronounce you not-the-wife.
Sucre: Boo-rah!
Michael: Now hang the sheet.
[Even if this conversation took place with Maricruz, Sucre would still have ended up hanging that sheet.]
Bellick: Step aside, dickheads, and watch how a real pro single-handedly defuses this minor disturbance with professional tact and elegance.
[“Dickheads” is, of course, the antithesis of both tact and elegance, but fully the thesis of Bellick. Hence the funny.]
T-Bag: Chugga-chugga chugga-chugga whoo-whoo!
{subtitles: Chugga-chugga chugga-chugga whoo-whoo.}
Gen Pop: *riot*
COs: *flee*
[Cast Of Thousands? Death-defying Stunts Galore? Piffle. We can do it with one word and a couple of asterisks.]
T-Bag: Hey, Bellick, what’s sca-ree-er than a room full of an-gry cons? ... One wah-ly con with a key!
{subtitles: Hey, Bellick, what’s scarier than a room full of angry cons? … One wily con with a key.}
[This line is outright theft from Babylon 5: “What’s scarier than a locked room full of angry Narn? One angry Narn with a key!” Rock on, Great Maker, rock on.]
Bob: Don’t worry, that wing’s locked at both ends.
Linc: Lock. Key. *sigh* CHARGE!
[“Lincoln” is a dead president. “Linc” is not. Also, ever-so-slightly monosyllabic.]
Sucre: What if your math is off?
Michael: Then we get completely incinerated in approximately 2.37 seconds [Totally made-up number.] after we’ve breached the wall.
Sucre: Oh.
Michael: Never. Question. My. L33t. Math. Sk1llz.
{subtitles-for-n00bz: Never question my elite mathematical prowess.}
T-Bag: What T-Bag wants T-Bag gets, and li’l badge, T-Bag wants-- *gasp*
{subtitles: What T-Bag wants T-Bag get and little correctional officer, T-Bag wants— gasp}
[To the tune of “Whatever Lola Wants” and my sincerest apologies to perfectly innocent cabaret acts everywhere.]
Abruzzi: Problema.
Sucre: Your Idea: not so hot.
[“Idea”. “Hot”. See how it’s all being tied-up from the beginning concepts? But, wait, wasn’t it Sucre’s Idea?]
Michael: My Idea?
T-Bag: We do indeedy have a problem with our escape stra-teh-gery -- Bob hee-re’s seen the hole.
{subtitles: We do indeed have a problem with our escape strategy — Robert here has seen the hole.}
[Pointing out the Freudian imagery of this statement feels like an insult to the intelligence, but I’ll include it for completeness’ sake: “Hole”.]
Michael: Our escape?
Abruzzi: Dead men tell no tales.
T-Bag: Do you really bel-lee-ve, ev’n fo’ a mo-m’nt, that dah-ing would be een-nough to shut me up? Now, Bob, on the other hand ...
{subtitles: Do you really believe, even for a moment, that dying would be enough to shut me up? Now, Robert, on the other hand…}
[Ah, yes, then we would have all missed out on the rancid morbid fancy that is T-Bag.]
Michael: No one dies. The escape continues. The Plan does not change.
[Tick-Tock.]
Sara: Into every generation a prison doctor is born. She alone will stand against the social inequity and inner demons, yet she will not be too proud to occasionally ask for HELP!
[Referencing Buffy the Vampire Slayer: “Into every generation a Slayer is born. One girl in all the world…”, of course, thus handily evoking the lone female vs. horde of ravening males atavistic fear atmosphere and the knowledge that a well-placed stake often defends.]
Michael: Change of Plan -- I’m going to sickbay. Sucre take over.
[Tick-Clang! And so, certainty is lost. Hey, it was nice while it lasted.]
T-Bag: Whaaa?
Abruzzi: Welcome to the team -- here are your incomprehensible instructions.
[No, he did not say it, but his exasperated face did. It’s all fun and games until you realize you’re not the alpha anymore and fear is just not gonna work. Stupid engineers with their calculations and diagrams and knowing how stuff works.]
Meta-Meta-Com. 219
[Ep. 219 was one of the “high concept” performances — the double helix structure was meant to point out the beguiling symmetry between the two dialogue strands as they spiraled about their common axis of good and evil. It’s not a coincidence that it can be read as if characters that are not in the same scene are talking to either other.]
Sara: We broke up. What can I say? The thrill is gone.
Mahone: Oh, pul-eeze -- I felt the disturbance as if millions of voices rose up ... and went “squee”. Where are you meeting him?
[This Star Wars-inspired line has existed every since the first episode of the second season. Jedi-gone-wrong Mahone would obviously say it at some point it was just a matter of time.]
Michael: Someplace safe. You should call him -- you’ll find it very illuminating ... like a history lecture on Ancient Egypt or, perhaps, Rome.
[Because heavens forfend ugly words like “incest” and “politics” pass those beautiful lips.]
Reynolds: You don’t get to make “suggestions” -- I already have people for that.
Sara: The first step is admitting that you have a problem.
[Work that structure!]
Mahone: Have a problem or am the problem?
Michael: It’s time to make your choice.
[Yeah, Alex. Ooh, but Michael isn’t talking to him … or is he?]
Reynolds: Fine, you’ll get what you want. Leave.
Sara: Don’t presume to know what I want!
Mahone: Check.
Michael: And mate. It’s done!
[Just a little mind-mate stalemate and soul-crushing defeat …]
Reynolds: I am ... that is: I have cancer. I’m done.
[Freudian slip: “I am a cancer.” And so near self-destruction leads to excruciating self-awareness. That’s probably one of those “themes” or something since there’s only one participant in this sad scenario who isn’t proof of that … or is he?]
Meta-Meta-Com. 313
[As this was the last episode of the 3rd season, I felt it was rather appropriate that it should start with the guiding verb of the 2nd season ...]
“Whistler”: *Flee!*
Linc: *Thwack!*
[... followed by the defining verb of the 3rd.]
“Whistler”: I was just trying to save innocent lives.
Michael: You’re not innocent [“and neither am I”] and it’s far too late [“because she’s dead”].
Linc: And my plan’s shot.
Michael: We’ll figure something out.
[Because even at his bleakest, Michael is still more positive than Linc.]
Linc: Yeah, “we” always do.
Gretchen: If it ain’t The Brain.
[“It’s Pinky, it’s Pinky and the Brain Brain Brain Brain ...”]
Michael: Hello, Gretchen.
Blue Steel: COMMENCING FIRING SEQUENCE.
[When the words themselves are polite but the look is quoting choice passages from Dante’s Inferno, more than a single imaginary finger-puppet is required to communicate the subtle nuances.]
Gretchen: Y’know, my Company’s always on the headhunt for someone with your particular aptitudes.
[Many drafts were spent on trying to tactfully crowbar the word “head” into this phrase, then realization struck that it was Gretchen speaking so the effort was hardly required.]
Michael: Try Monster.com. See you in five.
[The Pun That Wrote Itself. The original intent was that Michael would obviously believe that you’d have to be monster to work for Them. Only on read-through did I remember that Monster.com is also an actual recruiting website.]
Blue Steel:[/] THREE.
Gretchen: Whaa-- I mean: you’re over-thinking this!
[“... Brain Brain Brain Brain ...”]
LJ: Someone is.
Gretchen: Shut up.
Sofia: So where are the coordinates? That was the trade, no? Whistler-if-that-is-your-real-name for the coordinates that were worth all our lives.
“Whistler”: Sofia, baby, pumpkin, please, you can trust me -- you know me.
[Oy, did that “pumpkin” cause the biggest finger-puppet debate since the whole Holy Priest vs. Retribution Paladin debacle. “But Whistler’s Australian, right? And she’s Panamanian. Why would he call her ‘pumpkin’? That’s so American!” In the end, cooler nails prevailed on the grounds that him calling her “cumquat” or “snuggle-koala” was just too distracting.]
Sofia: Sì, you’re James Whistler -- you just put your lips together AND LIE!
[ A play on Whistler’s (alleged) name of the movie quote variety: “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together ... and blow.” - To Have and Have Not. Indeed.]
Gretchen: That’s. It. I’m sick and tired of protecting your precious princess and what are you still doing here?
Michael: Loitering.
Blue Steel: TWO.
Gretchen: Drama queen!
[Pot, meet kettle.]
Gretchen’s Minions: *BANG!*
“Whistler”: Sof--!
Gretchen: *Yoink!*
Linc: Sofia!
LJ: Dad!
[In many episodes, there’s this point I like to think of as “The Knocking Down of the Pins” when a series of horribly exciting and succinct things happen very quickly after being very carefully setup. That was it. Just now.]
“Whister”: I could kill you for what you did to her!
Blue Steel: ONE.
Gretchen: How nice for her.
[Acid commentary on the self-indulgence and ultimate uselessness of macho retribution from the Wicked Witch of the West herself. Make of it what you will.]
Blue Steel: FIRE? Y/N
Michael: Yes/No.
[Inner conflict, take a bow.]
Soldier’s: *BANG!*
Gretchen & Co.: *Flee!*
Michael: Sucre, where are you?
Sucre: I’m fine.
[That would be that special 3rd season definition of “fine”.]
T-Bag: Don’ crah fo’ meeee, Sooooh-nah-mmh-mmm ...
{subtitles: Don’t cry for me, So-na-mmmh-mmmm ...}
[To the tune of Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina except that Sona falls short with only two syllables but then T-Bag falls short as a champion of the people so that’s okay. ]
Linc: It’s finally over. We’re fine. Right, Mike? Michael? Oh.
[He’s fine, too, Linc. Yeah, that fine.]
“Whistler”: Welcome to our little Company.
Mahone: On a scale of Identity to Ultimatum, it’s my professional opinion that Scofield’s at Supremely Pissed and I’ve been out-planned, out-maneuvered and out-drama-ed enough for ten lifetime.
[Yes, Mahone likes to relax with some Ludlum. He needs a good laugh as much as the next person. Probably more.]
“Whistler”: We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.
Mahone: Oh. Good plan.
[Not.]