Only if Eliza Dushku shows up as the head of Real A.I.M. in the third-season mid-season cliffhanger.

Solomon's done a lot of genre work over the years; he's usually a pretty solid action director, by TV standards.

So, bear trap inside Loretta's back door the next time he comes in without knocking then?

Meh, I've got a bottle of Bookers in the house that a friend brought. If we're doing top-shelf but still reasonable bourbon, I prefer Bulleit Ten Year or, yes Art fans, Blanton's. I like bourbon you don't have to water, and this semi-random proof business just looks like sloppiness to me.

Losing a forelimb like that to a meat cleaver is a quick trip to bleed-out heaven, unless somebody with a tourniquet is standing by with good intentions.

This season's been pretty blood-squib-spattered. Especially Walker's ambulance rampage, but also Katherine's ambush of Seabass.

The cool thing about that scene is that Mikey had made up his mind about Wynn, and then Katherine comes in and changes it. She makes the argument for loyalty, unconditional and final, and he buys what she's selling. Family's family, and no matter what Wynn did, he can't deliver him bound into the hands of his…

Signs are not good. This season's been murder on beloved, quirky ancillary characters. First Dewey, then Mikey.

We haven't seen them check, but they had the time and inclination to do so. Lord knows, if I had to haul that preposterous rig across a couple miles of pinebarren wastelands and ridgelines, I'd sure as shit check to make sure I wasn't dragging a big bag of rocks.

Well, heart of gilt, anyrate.

Reminded me of the climatic scene in Bujold's Barrayar. Never send Cordelia Vorkosigan to go shopping in the capital unless your conference table has been stainproofed. But then, she didn't promise it, she just delivered it. To a table full of general officers.

Wynn Duffy, the favorite cockroach of the God of Shitbirds. Saint of Rats and Snitches.

That shot of Raylan walking down the middle of a street is western code for his heading off to his "high noon" moment, even if it's the middle of the night.

And it was scary accurate for a TV death. I've read about instances where a guy soaks up a dozen rounds and just keeps coming, and they're not even always about somebody flying on something pain-deadening. Sometimes, the bullets just don't clip an artery, and if the guy is mean enough and tough enough not to give up…

Does she have the Racist Grandpa app on her phone? I'm picturing some sort of Princess Maker game…

They're increasingly modeling Alicia on Hillary Clinton, and this month in the political commentariat there's been a lot of talk about how being married to your generation's greatest intuitive politician does not, apparently, translate into any sort of leg-up in your own political acumen.

Since they were doing a pastiche of the Hillary email mess with this episode, it might have been a backhanded reference to Madame Secretary's ludicrous claims of being "dead broke" on leaving the White House. People don't assess financial need from scratch, but from peer expectations. Lord help you if your peers…

Where he'd meet that creepy psychopathic Armenian hitman from The Shield, no doubt. What was his name?

It's possible that there's some sort of unwritten rule in Chicago gangland politics that puts SAs out of the line of fire. Up here in the Appalachian backhollers, my county is still missing a District Attorney who just disappeared into the wilderness and left his car on the side of a state road. Most favored…

Exactly. Who sends nasty crap over their work email servers? It's just giving hostages to fortune whenever you get into it with your employers. They have custody over the contents of work email servers.