Episode Report Card Demian: C | 1 USERS: A+ YOU GRADE IT Welcome To Fantathy Thithtern!
By Demian | Season 6 | Episode 6 | Aired on 10.25.2003
Outside the cable access studio, Phoebe waxes enthusiastic about her just-completed taping as she and Chronic amble down the walk to his car. A muscle-bound enforcer trails a few paces behind them until Chronic sends him on ahead to fetch the limousine. "Who was that?" Phoebe asks, finally focusing on something other than herself for a moment. "Your bodyguard," Chronic smiles. "Guh!" Phoebe exclaims. "I thought he was a grip!" They greet a line of Phoebe's freakish fans, who squeal and shriek behind a row of police sawhorses. The yammering about Phoebe's Phabulousness is endless, but one brief moment of note does occur. When a gentleman insists that Phoebe's column saved his marriage, she shoots him a look that indicates even she can't believe that level of bullshit. After Phoebe signs a few autographs, Chronic takes her arm to lead her away, noting, "It's like walking with Gandhi." Sure, Chronic. If Gandhi had been a boneheaded fame-whore with mounds of saline in his chest. Though I can't rightfully bust on Phoebe's appearance in this scene and those that follow. She's wearing a professional-looking, sleekly tailored black dress suit over a deep-pink blouse with strappy stiletto pumps, and she looks fantastic. Better than she has in years, in fact. Still, though -- shame about the hair, honey. In any event, Chronic guides her over to the waiting limousine, which is white, as in, "Only white trash like Chronic would buy one of those tacky things." Once they're safely ensconced in the back seat, Phoebe hesitantly gives voice to her increasing sense of unease. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me," she tells him, "but a lot of this doesn't make sense. Like, I swear those people weren't there a few hours ago, and that elaborate stage?" "Hey!" Chronic interrupts. "You promised." "I know," she sighs before quoting him. "'Just sit back and enjoy the ride.'" To her credit, she still clearly realizes that something is desperately wrong. The limousine glides past the throng of admirers, and there's a moment that's obviously aiming for the creepy, but ends up nailing the hysterical right between the eyes. Phoebe gifts the crowd with little princess waves through the limo's back window, spotting in the process a scruffy twentysomething holding a sign that reads, "MARRY ME PHOEBE." As Phoebe smiles despite herself, the scruff flips the sign around to reveal the "OR DIE" scrawled on the back. HA! Stalkers are funny.
Back at the Manor, Big Gay Chris snips a few pieces of Thimon's bloody rag into a copper bowl up in the attic. As he adds other ingredients to whatever he's mixing, the Dolt orbs in to glower, "We need to talk." "Sorry," Big Chris perks dismissively. "Now," the Dolt insists, advancing upon his wayward son with the purloined Valkyrie amulet. Big Chris eyes the necklace for a second, then snickers, "I don't have time for this," as he goes back to his potion. "You had time to kill a Valkyrie," the Dolt accuses, before reminding his son that Whitelighters don't kill people. "But it's all right for an [ever-useless] Elder?" Big Chris sasses. "You have Valkyrie blood on your hands, too." That's my boy. The Dolt protests that he was protecting the Glamorous Ladies, which Big Chris was also doing when he telekinetically squeezed that woman's heart to a pulp, so cram it, Dolt. The Dolt puffs out his chest to announce that he's convened a hearing up in Whitelighterland to decide Big Chris's fate, and he fully expects Big Chris's "soul" to be "sent back down to earth for recycling" by that evening. Big Chris is all, "You do what you have to do, asswipe, but I've got a fucking vanquish to finish." "Why are you making a vanquishing potion?" the Dolt dumbly wonders, as Big Chris siphons some of the mixture into a turkey baster to transfer it to a small vial. "To help the sisters," Chris duhs, turning his back on the Dolt. "Why aren't they making it?" the Dolt demands. "They're busy!" Chris snits, glaring at his dimwit asshole of a father. Hee! The Dolt tries and fails to locate the gals with his supernatural radar. "If I can't sense them," he growls, "that means they're not in this world." "I'm on it!" Chris yells, exasperated. He moves to orb out, but the stupid Dolt restrains him, so Big Chris gets all up in the Dolt's gargantuan face for what follows. "If I don't show up where I'm supposed to be -- alone -- they'll die," Big Chris explains, his patience long gone. The Dolt glares, but he allows Big Chris to orb up through the ceiling. Once Chris is gone, the Dolt spots Thimon's bloody rag on the table, and snatches it up to examine it more closely. Which somehow involves sniffing at the embedded gore. The Dolt is gross.