Bones

Come on.

Come on.

Oh. Oh.

All right. Oh, yeah.

Oh, yeah. That's the stuff.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh...

Oh, no!

What is...

Wow.

Oh...

Is it me, or are we louder stateside?

There are no bombs to drown us out.

Right? Right.

Are you serious?

It's 3:00 a.m.

It's my boss. Your boss?

Hannah here and annoyed it's the middle of the night.

At 7:00?

That's only a few hours away.

Do they have my name at the gate?

Okay. Thanks.

All right.

What's going on?

Oh, breakfast at the White House.

Hmm.

Only five of us were invited,

so maybe I can get some real questions answered.

Breakfast at 4:00 a.m.?

7:00. 7:00?

But I have to change.

These are the only clothes that I have here.

Okay. I got to go.

You got to go? Yes.

Right this second? Yes.

Bye.

See you tonight.

Seriously? You got to be kidding me.

Look. Why can't they

find these victims at a reasonable time of the day, huh?

Oh, just look at that.

Look how beautiful that is, Bones.

Wouldn't it be great to come to work every day at the beach?

No. The sand and the salty air would make research

and accurate forensic analysis impossible.

The victim's decomposing at an accelerated rate.

Could the acceleration be

a result of something chemical

or radiological?

No sign of radioactivity and no chemical

that I'm aware of that would cause

catastrophic cellular necrosis.

Whoa-ho! What's going on with the maggots?

They're, like, freaky happy. Yeah, and they're everywhere.

Oh, whoa! Okay! Maggot!

Right on the leg. Right there.

Can I squash him, or does Hodgins

have to interrogate him? I'll get him.

Dr. Brennan, can you help me lift the victim?

Gently. Where are you going?

Uh, you know, ID'ing the victim takes forever.

I'm going to go get a cup of coffee.

Richard Dominick Genaro.

Born September 25, 1986. Six-two.

195 pounds.

Or you could just check to see if he has a wallet.

Decomposition is accelerating,

perhaps because of the sunlight.

Okay, so what do we got here, huh?

Vampire from New Jersey?

Before we answer that, I'd like to get him back to the lab.

And we'd better do it quickly.

Bones S06E03 "The Maggots in the Meathead" Original Air Date on October 7, 2010

On three.

One, two, three.

You're stronger than you look.

Why, thank you, Dr. Saroyan,

and I appreciate your effort

to help me feel comfortable at work

after my stint at the loony bin.

Are you being sarcastic?

No. It's hard to tell, isn't it?

Are you being sarcastic now?

My-my shrink told me

that sarcasm is not earnest communication

and that I should try to live joyously

and genuinely in every moment.

Whoa, okay, okay.

Everybody, move. Or just-just freeze.

Wow. Piophila casei.

More commonly known as " cheese skippers."

Under certain circumstances,

they jump up and they grab their butts with their mouths.

I met a guy at the hospital that could do that.

Yeah? They have him hopped up on stimulants?

'Cause that's what's causing this.

We'll screen for amphetamines,

ecstasy, cocaine...

Ooh.

That might account for the rapid decomposition.

This was one big, muscly guy.

He had only four-percent body fat.

Really? Jeez. How much did he weigh?

89 kilos.

Really? This dude was shredded.

Tooth veneers over the central and lateral incisors.

This guy must have had a brilliant, engaging smile.

Yeah, I'm sure he lived joyously in the moment.

Um...

No, we're really, really happy

that you-you didn't kill yourself.

Oh, I was never suicidal.

What happened was, I slept 20 hours a day for two months.

My shrink said it was a warning sign.

Sounds great to me.

There's a depression fracture at the cranial vertex.

No sign of remodeling.

Smashed on top of the head?

I guess I'd better map these microfractures,

which will be a satisfying and productive use

of my training and abilities.

Okay, this one here

is our victim, Ritchie the V.

I assume he's called "Ritchie the V"

due to his body shape.

What up? This is Ritchie the V.

Today, you're going to learn how

to get my signature V, baby.

Boom. Boom.

Oh, Ritchie the V. What's going on? Hello, ladies.

Okay, so this one is Li'l Frankie Costello.

He's in most of these videos.

These are what are known as "Guidos."

Yeah, Sweetie,

I don't think they actually like to be called that.

But they do. That's what they call themselves,

although interestingly, not all Guidos are of Italian descent.

Really?

While the styles and mannerisms

are based on Italian-American tropes,

the Guidos can be of any ethnic background.

They gather at the Jersey Shore.

The male bonding is near homoerotic.

The friends or "bros"

are more important to them than family.

Right. And how do you know all of this?

I stumbled across a compelling documentary about them.

The anthropologist in me was fascinated.

I've been studying their language and customs.

A documentary?

Yes. On television.

Sweetie, just because it's called "reality television"

doesn't mean that it's a documentary.

I-I'm quite certain you are incorrect about that.

Okay.

You sure it's my Ritchie?

Yes, ma'am.

Madonna mia.

Um, the autopsy also shows that he may have been assaulted,

knocked in the head.

Who did this to my Ritchie?

You tell me that right now.

Can you think of anyone that would want to hurt your son?

No, Agent Booth.

I cannot think of anyone who would want to hurt my Ritchie.

Not anyone. And if I did think of such an anyone,

I would go out there and I would kill them myself,

before they ever got anywhere near my kid!

Any reason for him to be in trouble?

What kind of trouble? Girlfriends...

Um, fighting? No.

Gambling.

No. Booze?

No, nothing like that.

And any trouble he ever did get into

was at the urging of that Li'l Frankie, three to one.

Li'l Frankie, three to one. Does he have a last name?

Yeah. Costello. Costello.

Ralphy's boy.

Any trouble my Ritchie ever got into,

it was because of that Li'l Frankie.

What kind of trouble?

Oh, they both got kicked

off the high school football team

for using steroids.

The urging of that Li'l Frankie, just like I said.

But I tell you what.

I put the fear of God into my kid, and he stopped.

I didn't go through 44 hours of labor

so my kid could grow up and stick poison in his body.

And you sure he stopped?

Yes, I am. How is that?

Because he told me.

Ritchie never lied to me.

Not twice, anyway.

When was the last time you saw your little Ritchie?

About a month ago,

with Li'l Frankie.

Uh, down at the Shore.