Be a Lamp Unto Yourself

Thanks to years of meth and decades of inbreeding (Vera is his first cousin, as were his parents, and their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents before them; the great-great grands might have been a lot closer than THAT, and who knows what kind of genetic party favors THEIR forebears were), Cleetus has roughly the decision-making capacity of a severely brain-injured gibbon.

He runs around aimlessly in the back yard for a while, tripping over dead cars he'd intended to fix up and sell but never did, appliances and assorted hunks and chunks of garbage before he ducks into the first building he sees looking for a hiding spot--which happens to be his own meth lab. He tries to hide in a cabinet over the the window, falls repeatedly, and finally tears the whole thing down with his own weight.

Dazed and bleeding, he then tries to hide in a plastic kitchen garbage can, which is too small for him to get more than his legs into. He can hear the police coming outside. Oh no!

At the last second before they bust in, he pulls a lampshade off of a nearby lamp and puts it over his head. He stands there more-or-less motionless in his garbage can with a lamp over his head as the cops come in. From somewhere in the meandering recesses of his brain it occurs to him that the copy of the book in his back pocket (The Turner Diaries, of course) might look suspicious for a lamp to have, so he pulls it out and pitches it across the room.

1. Dramatic tension ensues!
2. And, not surprisingly, he's arrested.
3. One of the cops tries to plug the "lamp" in.
4. Chief Wiggum is there. He decides to take the "lamp" home
5. Somehow it works! Yay! Everyone's favorite meth-dealing redneck is safe!
6. Something dramatic happens.

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