We are now halfway through the 10-episode limited series run of Fargo, and everything is starting to come back together. Lester gave up Lorne to the hitmen in that jail cell; Molly convinced her boss that Lester might be involved in somewhere between one and three murders, and that one “Lorne Malvo” is probably the button-pusher for all/most of them; Gus is on the verge of discovering the ties between Lorne and Stavros (geographically, at least); and, hell, even sweet, slow Dmitri got to the bottom of the mysterious storm of crickets before his geeked-out, paranoid father shut him down so he count out $1 million of blackmail money in peace. Things are moving along quickly. As is STORMWATCH 2006. But more on that in a minute.
We start with Officer Molly Solverson, who has apparently embraced her Polite Loose Cannon role 100%. About 10 minutes after presenting her boss with a small mountain of evidence she was not supposed to be collecting about a case she was specifically taken off of, she was sitting in the back of an ambulance trying to extract a confession out of a clearly unwell, delirious man, whose blood was coursing with both infection(s) and all the medicine the EMT could get into him on the way to the hospital. And then she used that information as her excuse to show up at Lester’s empty house unannounced and warrant-less, let herself in with the key under the mat (because Minnesota), and start poking around the scene looking for hammers clues. I’ve just about had it with your devil-may-care, live-wire shenanigans Officer Solverson, but dammit, you get results.
Elsewhere, Gus is digging further into the Lorne Malvo/Frank Peterson enigma, with the assistance of his adorable, precocious daughter WHO NOTHING BETTER HAPPEN TO DO YOU HEAR ME PEOPLE AT FARGO I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT YOU ALREADY KILLED A DOG THAT WAS YOUR ONE FOR THE SEASON. Ahem, I’m sorry, where was I? Ah yes, Gus, who spent most of the episode battling a crisis of conscience and listening to stupid, unhelpful parables from nosy, across-the-way clergy. I mean, sure, I get what the parable is trying to say (When is it enough? Can it ever be enough? How do you handle knowing that?), but geeeeez, padre, couldn’t you come up with something a little lighter than “So then he committed suicide. The end.”
(Quick note: Yes, obviously the parable fit in with the tone of the show, and it got Gus to the “But ya gotta try, dontcha?” that it needed to get him to for the Lorne investigation to ramp up. I just mean, like, imagine going to your pastor for advice when you were really, really struggling with something, and getting a speech about a rich guy who died broke in a blood-splattered bathtub. No thank you to that.)
Which brings us to Lorne, who … Lorne has some problems right now. Or, at least, Lorne is developing problems. Lester’s festering buckshot wound has essentially become a valve the truth leaks out of, as the hitmen used the classic “squeeze wound, choke with disgusting gym sock” interrogation technique to get Lorne’s name regarding the Sam Hess murder (Lester should have given Mr. Wrench the name of his discount store afterward, because $55 for a bag of clean socks and a shotgun is a decent deal), and as mentioned above, Molly used its effect on his brain to get information for her case. It’s gotten so bad for Lorne — besides that million smackeroos that appears, for now, to be coming his way, if he can get it and get outta Dodge before the authorities, assassins, and winter storms converge on him — that even the shady drug dealer who hawks prescription pills, surveillance equipment, and, apparently, remote control trucks out of the back of a converted liquor store van feels bad for him because he only wants one (1) walkie-talkie.
Poor Lorne. I’d feel worse for him if he weren’t such a horrifying monster of a human who also gets to go to fun-sounding parties where tipsy ladies decide to let big mean dogs hump them for lulz.
- STORMWATCH 2006 UPDATE: – Up to two feet of new accumulation, winds as high as 60 mph. Gonna need more plows. And for the love of Pete, keep the chief’s driveway plowed. She’s got a baby now, okay?
- Lester’s wound was practically its own character last night. I mentioned the important stuff up top, but between the CSI-style look at how the buckshot passed through the chief and proceeded to turn his hand into a pile of puss-oozing ground beef and the thing where the doctor’s official diagnosis was “Real mess there. Super infected,” I feel like maybe it should start getting a “Special Guest Star” credit at the beginning.
- If this whole violent criminal mastermind thing somehow doesn’t work out for Lorne, he should consider teaching a community college class called What Wolves Do: A Peek at Modern Fiction Through the Lens of Ancient Rome. He’d probably end up giving everyone F’s just for his personal enjoyment, but still, the lectures would be fun.
- He can’t do it from inside that locked pantry, but in any event, the answer is yes: You can lay on $1 million, Fargo Dennis Reynolds. My man Huell taught us that.
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