If the Final Season of Breaking Bad Was Written by Dr. Seuss (Part II)
[Spoilers below. Also, click here if you missed Part I of my ridiculous poetry.]
When last we left Hank he was thrown for a loop
From a book that he read as he took a short poop
All at once the wool lifted from over his eyes–
Double W’s told of old Walt’s old disguise
Meanwhile, young Jesse had grown more morose
And no meth, or “blood money,” or cannabis dose
Could cure all the guilt or the anger inside
So he went for a midnight-ish charity ride
Which caused some alarm to both Walt and his lawyer
(Who longed for some distance from former employers)
Walt tried to “talk sense,” asking Jess’ to “believe him”
Intending, of course, to just mostly deceive him
Soon Hank is confronted by Walt at his place
Which predictably ends with a punch in the face
Yet in spite of Walt’s illness his eyes become sprightly:
“If truly you don’t know my name, then tread lightly”
Though Hank’s accusations made sense in his head
The trail had gone cold (with most witnesses dead)
But luck came along in the form of poor Pinkman
Who held the whole key for the hole Walter’d sink in
‘Cause Jesse got smarter than Walter expected
And punched through the lies Walter’s walls had erected
Then punched through the face of his lawyer until
He’d acquired the truth ’bout a poisonous pill
And Hank—until now all alone on his mission—
Soon found on his side a meth-headed addition
But ‘fessions from Jesse were far from airtight
When it came to the name of this one Walter White
Hank’s crew needed proof but weren’t sure how to get it
They needed a trap but weren’t sure how to set it
Then Jesse remembered his Heisenburg’s faults
And the millions in cash that one can’t keep in vaults
And soon it appeared that old Walt was defeated;
That Hank and his crew had the info they needed
To lock Walter up for the rest of his days
Then the Nazis showed up with their guns all ablaze
And Walter, despite his high-ranking IQ
Accident’ly began what he couldn’t undo
As he sobbed in the dirt near the motionless Hank
He had no one on earth but himself to un-thank
The damage he’d done just refused to reverse
And despite all the bullets the Nazis dispersed
Walter made the trek home in an old, battered truck
It had finally happened: he ran out of luck
His fam’ly: dismantled, his empire: done
It seemed an eternity since he had “won”
As a husband he’d lost all respect from his wife
Her hatred was voiced by the edge of her knife
And Jesse, for all of his bluster and brave’ry
Succumbs to Todd’s terribly tart taste of slave’ry
He’s forced to flash-cook the sky-bluest of meth
Lest his ex and her son get some-something’d to death
Meanwhile, Walt vanishes into thin air
As the world’s toughie-scruffiest, bald millionaire
His fam’ly gets threatened by Todd and his crew
And Walter, for once, has no clue what to do
So Jesse keeps cooking (and bruising, and bleeding)
Exceeding percentages Todd had been needing
But fine’ly decides that enough is enough
And escapes from his cuffs just to call Nazi bluffs
Alas for poor Pinkman, those bluffs follow through
And there wasn’t a damn thing in hell he could do
To keep Todd & Co. from their murderous reign
So he stayed in their basement with legs wrapped in chains
But Walt wasn’t done, he had plans of his own
He was still the damn king, and would not be dethroned
He had some loose ends that required some tying
And some of these ends would require some dying
But first Walter needed to say his goodbyes
To atone for his years of perpetual lies
He packed some supplies in a four-door sedan
Then he set into motion his last master plan:
He met with the Nazis to work out a deal
That allegedly might reinvent their meth’s wheel
But the Nazis don’t buy it, and all appears grim
‘Til their boss, Uncle Jack, fetches Jesse for him
With one final scream and one purposeful dive
Walter stops all the Nazis from being alive
Then he takes a step back from his scraggly friend
And grants the poor boy the most perfect revenge
Jesse screamed at the sky as he drove out of sight
As a final goodbye to the lone Mr. White
To the man who had caused so much personal pain
For an ego inflated by personal gain
And Walter, at last, reaped the fruits that he’d earned
Leaving every heart broken, and every bridge burned
But Heisenburg’s body’s collapsing regret
Was one cook—just one last, perfect, beautiful cook—that he never would get.
—
Fantastic.