Wild Turkey bourbon bottleGeez, Cybele, obviously Cohen is a whiskey/bourbon guy, nothing so pedestrian as beer.

(…I say, as if I know anything about the subtleties of Which Alcohol Means What. All of them just make me sleepy and unfocused. And not in a “pleasantly relaxed” kind of way — if I want that, a way-more-successful tactic is to lie down on a sunny patch of carpet around mid-afternoon.)

Is this the first appearance of high-tech security on Cohen’s holding cell? Gotta love some nice blinky green lights, they make every system seem cooler.


Bennett (thinking): But I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if not for that meddling Cohen!

(MUAHAHAHA)

. . . who seemed like a perfectly pleasant guy the last time I sat down with him in person.

Cohen (flashback): Are you sure you don’t want a bite of this cake? It’s pretty delicious.

Bennett (thinking): But who knows what he’s doing to her right now . . . ?

Dr. Lopez: It’s no use. I can’t get anything out of her. No matter what I do, she isn’t cracking.

Cohen: Don’t worry about it, Lopez. I’ll take another shot at her.

(BEEP)

(PING)

Cybele: Ninety million a hundred and seventy-four thousand three hundred an’ twenty-six bottles of beer on the wall, ninety million a hundred and seventy-four thousand three hundred an’ twenty-six bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around —

Cohen: Is this supposed to be some kind of comment on my drinking habits?