Easterson: “Well, at least you have the decency to confess Doctor, but don’t think I wont crush you all the same.”
Gnarlhawk: “And you’d be right to. Turning a blind eye to your wife’s kidnapping goes against everything I believe in – as a doctor and as a private detective.”
Easterson: “Kidnapping? Are you dense? My wife is right here!”
Gnarlhawk looks at Guinevere, furrowing his brow. Suddenly, as if finding the final piece of a puzzle, he rejoices.
Gnarlhawk: “Oh thank God you’re ok, Mrs. Fortuna. How did you escape?”
He turns back to Easterson.
Gnarlhawk: “I’m so sorry about this Mr. Fortuna. I only hope you can for-”
Easterson: “What in blazes are you talking about man? I’m not Stockton Fortuna, I’m Easterson de Butugenhausen, and this is my adulteress wife Guinevere de Butugenhausen.”
The doctor is overwhelmed. He staggers back in a way that, if you saw an actor do it, you’d think it was good acting.
Gnarlhawk: “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on living a lie! I’m a prosopagnosiac! There I said it.”
For the first time since Easterson’s dramatic entrance, Guinevere makes eye contact with her husband. In that subtle mode of communication known only to husband and wife, even those plagued by crises and infidelity, they exchange a simple sentiment: what the hell?