Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Lost, The Long Con



Hell hath no fury like a man his beer purloined.

Charlie and Sawyer are going to start a neighborhood association. They're gonna call it the Bitch Kicked My Lyin' Ass Out association. Admission is open to anyone who tries to drown a baby or has Don Johnson-, circa Miami Vice, style stubble. Charlie's not happy with inclusion in the club. He wants back with Claire. Self-absorbed whining happens, Sawyer snarks, and then Charlie cheerfully points out that Jack is currently rummaging through Sawyer's tent.

Sawyer hurries over and Jack says he's just retrieving what belongs to everyone. Ah, Jack's not just God, he's a Communist. Jack leaves with Sawyer's little helpers and Sawyer vows sweet revenge. Then, via flashbacks, we learn that Sawyer, in full grift mode, is a force to be reckoned with.

Bedroom scene. Sawyer wakes up next to a pleasant-looking, but not pretty brunette. I didn't get her name, so let's call her Mousy Mary. Before she gets any crazy notions (tries to make him stay for breakfast, etc), he hops out of bed and gets dressed. He has a meeting. I sneer at the idea of Sawyer having a meeting and so does Mousy. Dressed and still unshaven--razors to Sawyer must be what garlic is to vampires--he scoops up a briefcase, only to have the case pop open. Funny money carpets the floor. He poses, the picture of startled innocence.

Mousy wasn't born yesterday or the day before. She knows Sawyer's a confidence man. Not only does she know Sawyer's out to get her money--600K--but she wants to attend the Sawyer School of The Grift. Sawyer hems and haws, hees and haws, and then agrees.

Back in Island time, Sawyer is sulking in his tent and Kate stops by for a visit. Sawyer notes that Jack hasn't asked her to help lead La Revolution, run by La Perra Loca, Anna-Lucia. Kate's face does the little, sad, pinched thing, and I think, Honestly, why bother? Jack's an ass.

Jack's having a hard time mustering the troops. He and Anna-Lucia are an army of two. Anna-Lucia thinks everyone isn't afraid enough. Jack's not afraid of nothin', except the idea of not being in control. He hates the idea that Locke is the Master of Armaments. Like myself, Locke hates the combination of Anna-Lucia and a gun, and reluctantly gives Jack the new combination to the weapons vault.

Hurley, ever the purveyor of happiness, brings Sayid a short-wave radio, hoping to save a few of the Island's coconuts. This scene illustrates Jack's total incompetence. He decides to build an army. So he enlists bat-shit crazy Anna-Lucia, whose only qualifications are being a trigger-happy cop with people skills worse than Attila the Hun's. He puts Sayid, the Soldier, on coconut cracking duty. No wonder the dark hunk is developing a renewed hankering for torture.

Sayid growls something at Hurley but I'm not listening because I'm fixated on his big, brown biceps. Yummy.

But technology is Sayid's catnip. Hurley lumbers away and Sayid's attention wanders from eviscerating hairy nuts to the radio that Hurley left sitting on a stump.

Sweet Sun is in the jungle, working in her garden. It's looking pretty good considering a few weeks back she went through that garden like a tornado through a trailer park. The sounds of something stomping around in the bushes ensues and Sun looks around nervously. Just then an enormous, yellow monster emerges from the jungle. Oh, wait, it's just Vincent the obese Labrador. What is it with Americans and their fat dogs, anyway? Everybody on the damned Island, including The Others, must be slipping treats to Vincent. Heart disease will kill him long before anything on the Island does the job. Vincent waddles over to Sun, gives her a perfunctory greeting and waddles away. She does the predictable sigh of relief that broadcasts the message, "Danger. Overly-relaxed woman in danger." A soft jungle rain starts to fall. Sun's eyes brim with precipitation-derived happiness and then somebody shoves a bag over her head and drags her into the jungle.

Sun may be a delicate Asian lily, but she's got some lungs on her. Sawyer and Kate hear her cries and run to help, finding her unconscious, hands tied, a few feet from the garden. Jack shows up, makes doctor noises; Jin shows up and does the fast talking thing in Korean.

Everybody hop, skip and jumps to conclusions. Half the gang wants to go all torch-y and pitchfork-y and march into the jungle. The other half--well, okay, just Locke--advises caution. The Others promised not to bother us, he says. The Others, right. A trustworthy lot they are.

Meanwhile in flashback land, Sawyer and Mousy are conning rich, white boys out of their hard-inherited cash. If rich people are this stupid, how'd they get rich in the first place?

On the Island, après Sun-napping, Kate and Sawyer are studying the evidence. Sawyer is now an expert in textiles. The bag on Kate's head was crafted in Tibet from Yeti hair. The one that bagged Sun, however, was made in China by political prisoners. "Details," says Sawyer. Just as fast as you can say, "He's playing you," Kate is convinced that Anna-Lucia is the perp.

Folks, I hate Anna-Lucia, but when the writers work this hard to make someone look guilty, you know it's probably the butler. The unshaved, ex-addict, hobbit-like butler.

Kate passes her suspicions on to Jack, who's still treating her like a pariah. He isn't convinced, but interrogates Anna-Lucia, anyway. A scene or so later, Kate is scowling at Anna-Lucia across the beach.

ME: Girl fight!
J-MAN: To bad this isn't on cable. We'd see breasts.
ME: We'd see tittage.
J-MAN: This should so be on cable.
ME: Then we might also see bush.
J-MAN: [glassy-eyed] Hmmm, bush.
ME: The good kind of bush, not the Bush in the Oval Office, tapping wires and such.
J-MAN: Bush gives bush a bad name.

The natives get restless and Kate tells Sawyer to go warn Locke: Jack and the madding crowd are headed for the gun vault. Locke, like a good little mark, asks Sawyer to look after The Button while he moves the gun. I don't know how he does it, but he somehow manages to get everything moved before Jack shows up. (Really funky time frame stuff going on, Mr. Writer.)

Jack stomps away to find Locke.

Meanwhile, in Flashback, Sawyer is teaching Mousy the "long con" the hard way. All the while he's been teaching her the grift, he's actually been creeping up on her 600K. A good grift is like magic, while the mark is looking over here, you got your hand doing something else over here.

On the beach, the torches are glowin' a-orange and Jack is yelling at Locke. They are interrupted by the arrival of the new sheriff in town, Sawyer. The long con is done and he owns all the killing toys. See, while Sawyer was off on the Raft of Love with Michael, Jack was looting his hoard. Sawyer's one angry dragon, especially since Jack made off with all the beer. It's payback time.

You don't spit into the wind. You don't tug on Superman's cape. You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger and you don't mess with Sawyer's beer.

Backlit by the torches, gun (rifle?) over his shoulder, Sawyer does some gloating and tells Sayid that not even torture will reveal the location of the guns. Really, Sawyer, it seems a mite foolish to tick off the already bitter, swarthy McGyver. We know he can kick your ass. Heck, I can kick your ass.

Me, I clap at the audacity of the unshaved hillbilly (is "unshaved hillbilly" redundant?). He played Jack, Kate, and Locke. Bwah.

A while later, he meets his accomplice, Charlie the vengeful hobbit, and pays him off with a Blessed Virgin. Guns n' drugs. This Island is an ATF agent's wet dream.

In the closing scene, Sayid emerges from the jungle and joins Hurley on the beach. Sayid's rigged up a contraption for the radio. In a few seconds, the Glen Miller orchestra sings out from the device. Then Sayid uses the word "ionosphere" and I get all wet in my nether regions. Talk mad science to me, you big, brown god.
***
Next week. The gang captures an Other. Sayid decides the Geneva Convention is quaint and opts for torture. Heck, I don't care, so long as I get some more Iraqi eye candy.

Is that wrong?

 

Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005