Fade up on a shot of San Francisco in the evening. Storm clouds lower over the bay as lightning flickers across the sky. The closed captioning helpfully adds, "[Thundering]." Over in the Casa Del Sole, The Phoebeast perches on her four-poster across from the open French doors. She's wrapped in an embroidered silk dressing gown over a crimson nightslip with her hair up in clips as she taps away at her laptop. Gee, I hope she remembered to plug the fucking thing in this time. Sure wouldn't want those hundreds of thousands of Bay Mirror readers to go a day without her vital advice column or anything. As thunder rolls across the city once more, The Phoebeast glares through crusted layers of eyeliner and mascara at the billowing curtains. She rises from the bed to stalk over to the balcony. She shuts the doors, then glares some more at the rivulets of rain trickling down the windowpanes. Damn, woman. Lighten up. It's just rain, for God's sake.
A knock at the bedroom door drags The Phoebeast from her dark thoughts of vanquishing the weather man. She calls over her shoulder, "Come in," and the door eases open to reveal D'Eartha toting a small silver salver upon which stand two gilt-rimmed pieces of stemware containing a pale yellow liquid. In the living room behind D'Eartha, a variety of dark demonic forces sent from the flaming maw of Hell chant Craptin. D'Eartha sets the salver down on a low table near the bedroom door and carries one of the glasses over to The Phoebeast with a smile. "My queen," D'Eartha purrs, savoring each sound as it rolls up from her throat, "it's time for your drink." The Phoebeast lightly grips the proffered glass and grunts, "Can you do anything about this thunder? 'Cause it is making me nuts!" D'Eartha's face falls a bit. "I have no sway over the weather," she states with a tinge of disappointment in her voice. The Phoebeast snorts and strides past D'Eartha toward the bedroom door. D'Eartha trails behind her, adding hastily, "I do have a friend who works with wind, but she's out of town." Snicker. I don't know what's more amusing: The image of D'Eartha kicking back over a couple of Mai Tais with some chick who plays with the wind, or the idea of this wind chick trying to upgrade to first class at the airport ticket counter when she has to head out of town on business. The Phoebeast peers through the open door into the living room and asks, "What about demons? Any sway over them? Because I swear, if they don't shut up..." She lets her thought trail off as she sips at the pale yellow liquid in the glass. She shudders in revulsion at the taste, and wonders why she must continue drinking this crap when regular old vitamins should suffice. D'Eartha exposits that ordinary dietary supplements will most certainly not suffice, given the unique circumstances of The Phoebeast's pregnancy. The tonic D'Eartha prepares for The Phoebeast is meant to strengthen her ability to carry the brat to term. D'Eartha promises that the new power of flamethrowing is merely a precursor to much more dangerous physical challenges to come. I'm guessing that, as The Phoebeast remains for all intents and purposes human, she requires a bit of assistance to withstand the ongoing invasion of her uterus by the Spawn of Sole. The Phoebeast groans and flops on her bed, shrieking about the work she has to do for her column and how the incessant chanting of Craptin out in the parlor is driving her up a wall. A swart, leather-jacketed demon appears in the doorway for a moment with an almost imperceptible smile on his face before he eases the door shut.
D'Eartha attempts to reason with the unreasonable. "You are queen now. There's no reason to continue with this work at all." The Phoebeast's mood swings immediately from virago to kitten as she simpers that she likes her job. "It's a good distraction." D'Eartha calls her on this as she passes the tonic back to The Phoebeast. "Still struggling with your decision?" she asks as she settles onto the bed. The Phoebeast sips from the glass and blathers that she loves The Sole and being Queen of the Underworld is a kick and everything, it's just that..."Your sisters," D'Eartha finishes for her. The Phoebeast grimaces again at the taste of the tonic and babbles about how Piper and Raige are "stubborn" and don't "respect [her] decision." D'Eartha explains, with far more patience than I could ever muster in the situation, that "it's not in the nature of good to compromise." Piper and Raige will never accept The Phoebeast's decision, and the sooner The Phoebeast accepts this, the happier she'll be. Whoa. Back up there, D'Eartha. It's "not in the nature of good to compromise"? The hell? What crack-addled backwoods evangelical snake handler did you lift that sentiment from? Don't the Glamorous Ladies compromise about one damn thing or another every freaking week? Whatever. My head will explode if I try to make sense of that crap, so let's keep moving, shall we?
The Phoebeast takes a moment to look downcast at the idea of abandoning her sisters, then flares into a rage when the Craptin in the parlor increases in volume. D'Eartha rises with the now-empty glass and, in an attempt to placate the furious Phoebeast, explains that The Sole has much work to do if he is ever to mend the various rifts that erupted in the Underworld when the last Source was vanquished. The Phoebeast couldn't care less. As far as she's concerned, The Sole is working too damn much, and she refuses to have him continue to ignore her needs in favor of running his little kingdom. She snottily dismisses D'Eartha. D'Eartha pauses to remind The Phoebeast to drink the remaining glass of tonic in the morning, then flares out with an unnecessarily obsequious nod of her head. D'Eartha, sweetheart. Phoebe should be bowing to you. The Phoebeast glowers, then rises from her bed in a snit. She barrels out into the parlor, interrupting whatever Craptin game The Sole is playing with his minions. Just in time, too, by the looks of things. One of the minions is on his knees before The Sole, and The Sole has a firm grip on the back of the minion's head. I should probably add that they've hired some pretty damn fine tertiary demonic ass this week, and it's about time. Where were all these boys when we had to suffer through the likes of Andras and Eames and Vornack and Tarquin? The Phoebeast orders her husband to bed, as it's after midnight. The minion closest to The Phoebeast assures her that they've almost completed the ceremony. "Almost doesn't work" for The Phoebeast, so she opens her palm and directs a jet of fire his way, flaming his ass right on out of the penthouse. Another minion -- this one with flashing dark eyes, pouty lips, dangerous eyebrows, and criminal cheekbones -- wheels around to confront her. The Phoebeast flings out her other hand, and another fine piece of demonic ass fries its way to Hell. The minion kneeling before The Sole rises to squiggle out, followed by the remaining tertiary dark demonic forces. The Sole sighs, "I thought we talked about this." "Sorry," The Phoebeast doofs, promo-style. "Hormones." Credits.
Manor attic. Piper sits at a table in the foreground, funneling a mint-green opaque liquid into a vial as Raige browses through the Book of Shadows in the corner. Raige snorts in frustration that she's been through the Book a dozen times, and she still can't find a spell to rectify the Phoebeast dilemma. Piper, in an odd, vaguely disengaged tone of voice, reminds Raige that The Phoebeast chose evil for herself, so the Book is of no use in their current situation. Raige counters that The Phoebeast is merely "being influenced by the baby inside." Piper notes that they could have offset that influence had they learned of it earlier, but now it's too late. She gathers up various clinking vials from the table. Raige snits, "Will you just stop with the potions already? You've already overrun the kitchen. I'd say we have enough." Piper distractedly displays the mint-green vial over her shoulder and explains that it replicates her freezing power, but they should use it only in an emergency, as it also scalds flesh. Oh, Lord. I raise my hand. Piper, honey? Yeah -- over here. Are you on this potion bender because you believe you're about to die? Because can't you just freeze The Phoebeast yourself now that she's literally evil? Yes? No? Sigh. Fine. Don't answer me. Raige slams the Book shut with a furious "No! I will not scald Phoebe's flesh. She's still our sister!" She rises to her feet to storm over to Piper's side, and Christ on a stick, Raige. Your blouse. It's a black spaghetti-strapped halter, which wouldn't be so bad were it not for the rose-colored strip of satin threaded through broad loops above her breasts and knotted into a decorative necktie that dangles down over her cleavage. Where do they find this shit? More importantly, why does Rose McGowan agree to wear it?
Anyway, the Dolt orbs into the attic and calls Raige over for a consult. "How is she?" he murmurs, referring to the wife. "She's like Piper Lite," Raige replies. "All the personality without any of those messy emotions." The Dolt thinks real hard about this for all of a millisecond, then ignores it to reveal that "the rumor on the demonic grapevine is their new queen is killing upper-level demons," including those two fine gentlemen from the evening's midnight ceremony. The Dolt takes this as possible proof that The Phoebeast is working as a double agent. Raige is delighted with the news. Piper, however, is less than enthused. Resting her weary head on her hand, she mutters, "Since when do you guys believe rumors that are spread by demons?" Raige and the Dolt are struck dumb. Well, Raige is struck dumb, at any rate. The Dolt is just...oh, forget it.
Casa Del Sole. The Sole receives his weekly status report from a variety of black-clad demonic boy toys, led by the leather-jacketed gentleman from last night. The transparent three-dimensional bust of a twentysomething woman rotates in the middle of the glass-topped table as Leather Guy identifies her as "Alison Witt." "Among other things," he explains, "she's spearheading the movement to clean up Delores Park." A grungy runt of a frat boy engages in a territorial pissing contest with a scorching, full-lipped, dark-eyed colleague over who should have the pleasure of vanquishing Ms. Witt. The Sole out-pisses the both of them by noting that "it's all [his] territory." The boys quiet down as Leather Guy moves on to the target, one "Gregory Conroy," who works as a probation officer for juvenile offenders. The rotating bust hovering above the table spins quickly to morph into the gentleman in question. Apparently, Mr. Conroy is so good at reforming the kids in his care that "he's cost [the Underworld] several potential demons." The Sole nods to the scorching demonic boy toy, indicating that he is to kill Mr. Conroy. Scorchy smiles, and the love radiates outwards from my television screen. The Phoebeast, in form-fitting Eva Savealot pleather and precious little else, slams open the doors from the elevator bank, thereby dragging the meeting to a grinding halt. The various dark demonic forces eye her warily as she makes her way through the parlor. "Relax, boys," she grins as she slithers through the room. "I'm here to cook, not kill." Ew. Her left breast is about to pop out of her top. She fakes the guys out by drawing back her hand as if winding up for a flaming pitch, then giggles when they startle and jump in their chairs. The Phoebeast pauses to peck The Sole on his cheek, and continues into the kitchen with her shopping bags. You're telling me The Queen Of All Evil doesn't send an underling to the supermarket? What about D'Eartha, Feebs? She's halfway to being your own private pack mule, after all. Whatever. The Sole rises to his feet, shoots a look at Leather Guy, and follows The Phoebeast out of the room.
The Phoebeast blithely asks the husband if his "friends" are staying for dinner. The Sole glares at her and announces that he'd be surprised if they remain for the rest of the meeting, what with The Phoebeast threatening to barbecue them and everything. She insists she was kidding. He reminds her that she killed "five of [his] best demons" in the last week, and he hardly sees the fun in all that. He elicits a reluctant promise from her not to toast any more of his underlings. It's bad enough, he explains, that he's married to "a former Charmed One" without the minions thinking she's "playing both sides." The Phoebeast grimaces for a beat, then adopts a Donna Reed demeanor and glides back into the parlor to lay a little of the Feeble charm on the underlings. As she blithers on about how delighted she is to host their meetings in her apartment, she rests her hands on Scorchy's shoulders and is instantly flung into a premonition. Scorchy and Greg, in a graffiti-coated alleyway. Scorchy hurls a Flaming Ball Of Death into Greg's back. Greg howls. The Phoebeast snaps out of it as The Sole asks her what gives. She lies that she just had a cramp, and makes for the bedroom to "lie down." The Sole offers to summon D'Eartha, but The Phoebeast insists she'll be fine on her own. Before exiting the room, she glances quickly at Greg's rotating bust on the table to confirm that he's the same guy from her premonition.
The Sole eyes her suspiciously as she leaves, then returns to his meeting. The captioning helpfully identifies Leather Guy as "Dane," and then Dane even more helpfully identifies Scorchy as "Mallick." The Phoebeast eavesdrops at the bedroom door long enough to learn that Greg's based at the Mission Hill Community Center. She closes the door and turns to lift the glass of tonic D'Eartha left for her the night before. She gazes at it, then discards the liquid in a nearby potted floral arrangement. With her back to the camera, she strips off her top. As I suspected, the Phoebreasts are distressingly unfettered, and I'm now looking at more tattooed Milano flesh than I ever needed to see. The shot all-too-slowly pans down to take in the flowerpot, the better to draw out my discomfort. Because it's all about me, people. Miasmic tendrils of smoke emerge from the dirt to drift across the tabletop.
Back at the Manor, Piper describes the effects of various vials of potion she's arranged on the coffee table in the parlor, likening one batch to "magical mace" and identifying others as "explosives, paralytics, and garden-variety poisons." The Dolt furrows his entire face and asks, "You're going to poison Phoebe?" "[Dolt]," Piper responds, as if it requires immense amounts of self-control not to reach over and yank out his kidneys through his urethra, "she's carrying the spawn of The Source. She's throwing fire from her hands. If she shows up here, we'll do what we have to do to protect ourselves." Atta girl. Raige begs Piper to give The Phoebeast one more chance. Piper flatly refuses Raige's request, and oh, look! It's The Cleansing Burst Of Synchronicity! From the milky-white complexion of The Cleansing Burst Of Synchronicity, I'd say it's spent far too much time up in Vancouver over the last season, frolicking with the likes of Poppy Montgomery and Tom Welling. The Cleansing Burst Of Synchronicity escorts The Phoebeast into the parlor in a merry blaze of transport the beast nicked from her husband. The Phoebeast has shed her Eva Savealot togs in favor of an ensemble better suited to Reba McEntire in the recent revival of Annie Get Your Gun -- a fawn suede fringed jacket over matching suede leggings. All The Phoebeast needs to complete the look is stage presence, a singing voice, and the ability to charm an audience. And Tom Wopat, of course.
Piper, true to her word, hurls vials first and asks questions later, though I'm still at a loss to explain why she doesn't just freeze Phoebe as she would any other demon. The Phoebeast snaps open her hand, and a brief jet of flame meets the vial in mid-air. The vial explodes harmlessly above the carpet. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me," deadpans The Phoebeast. Raige immediately steps forward and greets her with a genuine, if desperate, "I'm happy to see you." Raige's satin cravat seems to have shriveled in the face of Piper's chilly reception of the errant P. Make your own joke about shrinkage, if you like. "[Raige]," warns Piper through clenched jaw before sneering in The Phoebeast's direction, "Unless you're here to tell us you filed for divorce, we don't have much to talk about." The Phoebeast natters something irrelevant about Piper's "rigid" nature. Piper lunges for another vial from the coffee table. Catfight! Or not, unfortunately. Raige places a hand on Piper's wrist as the Dolt steps forward to ask The Phoebeast why she came back. The Phoebeast settles into a chair and announces, "We have an innocent to save, and not a lot of time." Raige beams brightly for a moment before The Phoebeast orders her to cram it. The Phoebeast intends to relinquish neither The Sole nor her crown. She merely wishes to follow through on her premonition, much as she has done in the past. Piper can't quite wrap her mind around the idea of The Queen Of All Evil saving an innocent, and indeed gets quite pissy about the whole thing. Raige drags Piper and the Dolt towards the sun porch as The Phoebeast rolls her eyes and examines her manicure.
"Look," Raige explains once they're out of earshot. "This is what we've been waiting for -- a sign that there's still good in her." Piper begs to differ. She rather prudently points out that it could be a trap set by The Sole to take out his in-laws. The Dolt sides with Raige. "Maybe by helping her do good," he argues, "it might sway her back to our side." Piper heaves a mighty sigh and agrees to go along with whatever plan Raige has devised. Raige returns to the parlor to inform The Phoebeast that they'll join her to save the innocent in question. Piper scoops up an armful of vials from the coffee table. "What's that for?" The Phoebeast asks mildly. "Insurance," the poker-faced Piper replies. The gals stare at each other for a wee bit before the scene cuts to a grime-encrusted alleyway loaded with Convenient Shipping Pallets Of Grave Bodily Injury. Aw. It's like old home night on Charmed. Just don't strain your eyes looking for The Late Lamented. Raige orbs down on her own into the foreground, The Phoebeast blazes up in the middle, Piper and the Dolt orb their way into the back of the shot, and suddenly I'm recapping a transporter scene from Star Trek. Seriously, sling the Glamorous Ladies into one-piece velour micro-minis and black pleather go-go boots, and they'd be the first all-girl away team in Trek history. That is, if you ignore the Dolt. Which I do. Frequently.
Raige moans and whines for a moment, as she has orbed herself into a mud puddle. The Phoebeast growls at her to shut it before dragging the group into a huddle behind some abandoned crates. Presently, Mr. Conroy lopes into the far end of the alleyway, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Scorchy Mallick squiggles in behind him, and my brain shorts out, so novel is the sight of an attractive demon stalking an attractive innocent on this show. Scorchy's got some big feet, too, y'all. So, um, yeah. Piper flicks her wrist to freeze Greg in mid-lope. Scorchy spins on his heels, whipping his head around and peering into the sky for the source of the freeze. So hot, and yet so dumb. Sigh. Piper emerges from behind the crate all, "Hey. How you doin'?" Scorchy Mallick fixes his eyes on her and grins, stalking past Greg to her side of the alley. Piper raises her hands to blow him up, but The Phoebeast shoves Piper's arms off to the side. A ten-speed chained to a standpipe vanishes in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Scorchy conjures a Flaming Ball Of Death in the palm of his hand as he continues to advance on Piper. "What are you doing?" Piper shrieks at The Phoebeast. "You can't kill him," she replies, releasing Piper's arms from her grip. She slinks over to Scorchy, who immediately dissolves the FBOD and drops to one knee, murmuring, "My queen." The Phoebeast leans into Scorchy's scorching face to whisper, "Leave that innocent alone. Go." Scorchy Mallick rises to his feet while giving her the wicked side-eye before squiggling out. The Phoebeast turns to face the Manor Three, who gape at her in disbelief. "What?" she shrugs a little awkwardly. "He's one of my subjects." Phoebe's nervous half-smile drops into the commercial break.
Alley. Raige gives the frozen Greg the once-over, totally checking out his cotton-clad ass, as Piper wails, "How could you just let him go?" The Phoebeast splutters that "things are not as black-and-white as they used to be," and that she can't off her husband's minions as she once did in the past. "Killing Mallick would have been a huge betrayal" of The Sole on her part, she explains. "'Mallick'?" inquires Piper with an icy arch of a deadly eyebrow. "You're on a first-name basis with the demons?" The Phoebeast touches her temples in frustration as the Dolt notes that she could have stopped Scorchy on her own. Why did she enlist the aid of the Manor Three? "Because I missed you guys, okay?" she blurts. "Is that so wrong? I missed you." Piper's steely resolve softens a bit, and Raige allows the slightest trace of a smile to flicker across her lips. The Dolt, however, lays into The Phoebeast with the whole "you can't have it both ways" argument. "Why not?" Phoebe demands. "Just because it's different, doesn't mean it can't work!" Piper closes ranks with the Dolt, and after a bit more arguing, Raige does the same. While they managed to save Greg's fine cotton-clad ass from Scorchy's evil FBOD this time around, Scorchy is certain to return to complete his assignment. The Phoebeast dismisses their concerns, claiming that Mallick would never come back once she's ordered otherwise. "That's what [demons] do," Piper groans with a great sweeping of her arms. "They snarl, and they come back." Raige adds that because of the non-vanquish, she and Piper will have to continue protecting Greg's fine cotton-clad ass, rather than focusing their attention on saving Phoebe's soul. "You think I need saving?" Phoebe pouts defensively. Piper rolls her eyes and asks Phoebe if she's for real. "That baby inside you," she asserts, "has corrupted you more than you think." She finally lays it on the line: Phoebe cannot return to the Manor, nor enjoy the life she shares with her sisters, as long as she remains married to The Sole. The Phoebeast is outraged that Piper would demand she choose between her husband and her sisters. Had the Dolt any stones to speak of, this is where he would beat Phoebe over the head with a metal trash can lid. Instead, he mildly insists that she choose a side in the battle between good and evil once and for all. Phoebe backs down, examines the grime beneath her feet, and finally mutters, "I'm sorry you feel that way." Shooting daggers at Piper with her eyes, she blazes out.
Piper shakes her head around and pushes her satchel of vials into Raige's hand. "I can't do this," she insists, and stomps out of the alley. "What about Greg?" Raige bleats. Piper waves her hand around over her shoulder to unfreeze him and disappears. "Not again!" Greg whines when he spots the empty bike chain hanging from the standpipe. He turns and starts when he sees Raige and the Dolt hovering behind him. They offer a couple of dopey grins, so he asks them if they saw anyone wandering around with his bike. Instead of smacking him upside the head for leaving his bike in a freaking alley and still expecting it to be there when he returned, Raige is all, "No, but I got something you can ride right here, baby. Rrrwow." Okay, not so much. She just shrugs her shoulders helplessly. Greg mumbles something and stumbles off. "What now?" Raige asks the Dolt. "We follow him."
Hell. Dane escorts The Sole on a tour of "animal sacrifice" chambers that have fallen into disuse. As The Sole instructs Dane to have a team of hellish cleaning women scour them out for repurposing, Scorchy appears in an archway with news of his failed vanquish. The Sole approaches Scorchy and slings a too-friendly arm over his shoulder. "Did you tell anyone else?" he breathes, his mouth inches away from Scorchy's face. Scorchy reveals that he came directly from his encounter with The Phoebeast. "Good," The Sole soothes, leaning in closer so his forehead connects with Scorchy's. Scorchy beams with pride and delight. I wait for The Sole to hike his tongue down Scorchy's throat while ripping his shirt open, but instead I get a shot of Scorchy bursting into flame as reflected in The Sole's beetle-black eyes. The International Male model who had been accompanying The Sole and Dane on their tour as a bodyguard tenses. The Sole drives an FBOD into his stomach. Goddammit. They finally hire a posse of hot demons, and they vanquish them all before the half-hour mark? Bastards. Dane gazes coolly at The Sole and asks, "Am I ?" Nope. Dane is someone The Sole trusts, "unlike [his] damn wife." Dane suggests that The Sole finish off Greg himself before any others among the demonic horde hear of The Phoebeast's latest offense. The Sole wags his hand, and a demonic stoner squiggles into the chamber. "I have a job for you," The Sole announces. Stonie is way stoked.
Upstairs in another sort of Hell, Raige and the Dolt stand at the back of an auditorium as a mousy brunette delivers a lengthy and tedious PSA about Alcoholics Anonymous from the stage. The Manor Two are planted in front of a table laden with several large urns of coffee, which reminds me of this time in Ireland when my cousins and I moseyed into a country hotel at about noon to enjoy a liquid lunch after a lengthy discussion in the car regarding T. E. Lawrence, of all people, and we ran smack into a crowd of middle-aged chain-smokers huddled around similar urns, waiting for their AA meeting to start. Needless to say, we headed straight for the bar. Raige and the Dolt twitter quietly about Piper's state of mind, which, given events shortly to unfold, would be anvilicious were it not so very insulting to my intelligence. The camera cuts quickly to the stage, whereupon Greg sits casually in navy blue chinos and an open-necked shirt. Raige should totally date this guy. Unfortunately, she's too busy nattering with the Dolt to ask Greg out. As a lush in the audience rises to testify or whatever, Raige urges the Dolt to go find Piper in order to deliver one of those pep talks of his we all love so much. The Dolt bounces his head around and leaves. The camera pans across the assorted pathetic drunks to land on Stonie, giving old Greg the evil eye. DUN!
The Bay Mirror. The editor of The Phoebeast enters her office with the latest advice column, which Elise has rejected as unfit for publication. You'd think one of the Glamorous Ladies would have realized that Elise is really their Aunt Jackie. Though, you know, the gals haven't seen her since the beginning of the first season, so maybe they've forgotten what she looks like. Either that, or Aunt Jackie has gone deep undercover as an FBI mole for that impending storyline I've read so much about. Or maybe she's dead. What do I know? I didn't watch the first season. In any event, The Phoebeast takes umbrage at her boss's editorial decision, and prepares to torch her with a gout of flame from her palm. I suppose I should make it very clear at this point that I respect and admire each and every one of Sars's editorial decisions, and would never be so rude as to immolate her based on her suggested corrections. Then again, I'm not a simpering, pampered, blithering, traitorous, furry-armed fuckwit with a monstrous sense of entitlement and a rotten hairstyle, so perhaps that clarification was unnecessary. ["But I appreciate the thought regardless." -- Sars] The Sole pops into Phoebe's doorway just in time to prevent her from scorching Elise's competent ass. "You know," he says after Elise has left the room, "if you want to kill your boss, we have people who can do that." Incidentally, those of you who enjoy collecting Charmed trivia should note that Phoebe uses her maiden name for her byline, as evinced by the name on her door. The Sole shuts said door to suggest that Phoebe resign from the newspaper, then segues into expressing displeasure with her actions that afternoon in the alleyway. Long story short, he basically batters her with the same argument we heard earlier about choosing one side or the other and abiding by that choice. The Phoebeast basically delivers the same counter-argument as earlier, even going so far as to snark about The Sole's "rigid" nature as she did with Piper in the Manor parlor. "This is not a game," he tells her. "You walked through a one-way door. If you try to turn around now, they will destroy us." "My sisters?" she asks dully. "The Underworld," he corrects. "If they unite against us, I promise we will pray for death." The Phoebeast covers her eyes with her hands and apologizes. After a bit more of this, she takes his hand, and the two blaze out of the office together.
P3. The Dolt orbs in to find Piper making sweet, sweet love to a product-placed bottle of Jack Daniels. She wearily waves off her husband and his gooey pep chat. She feels she's failed her family, you see, and she'd like to indulge herself in a little bourbon-fueled bender in peace, thank you very much. "[Raige] could see that Cole clearly had turned evil," she admits, pouring out another shot. "And she tried to tell me over and over and over and over and over." "I didn't see that he was evil, Piper," notes the Dolt. "Yeah, but you're a fucking moron," she mutters, slugging back some Jack. Her eyes get a bit damp as she carries on about Phoebe being her baby sister and how she feels she led Phoebe into a demonic slaughterhouse or something. Whatever. All you need to know is that Holly Marie Combs plays drunk as well as she plays frightened, joyful, shrill, self-defeating, disinterested, playful, irritated, pleased, snide, sarcastic, wicked, wise, mortally wounded, and dead. The Dolt takes the bottle away from her while delivering a heroically tedious dissertation on how wonderful she is. She freezes his worthless ass and snatches the bottle out of his hand. She snorts back another shot, falling backwards off her stool as she does so. Piper realizes she likes the floor much more than she thought she would, and settles in for the duration.
Meanwhile, back in the drunk tank, the meeting's over, and various sots pour themselves out of the exits. We'll just ignore the juxtaposition of scenes here, okay? Raige, woefully alone, nervously glances around as Greg slides past her to head out into the street. Realizing that Piper and the Dolt are no-shows, she rolls her eyes and takes off after her innocent. Stonie ominously swishes coffee around in his mouth.
Out in the dank, forbidding alleyway, Greg hears the auditorium door open behind him and turns to confront Raige. "Are you following me?" "Hey, of course I am, baby," she smooths. "Have you checked out that ass of yours lately?" Oh, fine. She merely confirms that she is, indeed, following him, and pleads with him to return with her to the hall so she can explain herself amongst crowds of people. Oops. Too late. Stonie appears through the mist to shoot a blazing dart at Greg's back from his hand. Raige shoves the innocent to the pavement and screams for the Dolt. Greg pushes himself to his feet just in time to receive another blazing dart in his shoulder. He flies backwards through the alley to land face-first in a puddle of filth. Stonie, meanwhile, slides a dagger out of his waistband and raises it above his head. Raige summons the dagger into her own hand with her orbing telekinesis, then hurls it back into Stonie's chest. A fireball erupts from the wound to consume Stonie, dragging the demon down to Hell. Raige races to Greg's unconscious form to find blood seeping from the hole in his shoulder. "Dammit!" she bellows at the sky. "Where are my sisters?" Dunno, Raige, but someone at the WB thinks they've hidden themselves amongst the commercials.
P3. Raige orbs onto the empty dance floor with the still-unconscious Greg. She spots Piper lying on the carpet, and vaults over the railing to check for a pulse. Silly Raige. Piper's not dead. She's just blissfully unaware. Raige rises up and bats the Dolt on his shoulder, knocking him out of the freeze. The Dolt picks up right where he left off in his heroically tedious dissertation before realizing he's babbling at air. He "whuh?"s, and Raige explains the situation. The Dolt puffs out his lower lip to mope, "I can't believe she froze me." Heh. Raige orders him to heal Greg and orb him away to a supernatural safe house while she "put[s] this family back together." Idly, she wonders if the Dolt can "heal" Piper as well. The Dolt huffily replies that he "can't heal self-inflicted wounds." Oh, blow it out your ass, you sniveling pantywaist. She didn't open her wrists over a bathtub or swallow the business end of a pistol; she just got a little boozy, you tool. Raige smacks Piper around a little until she wakes up.
Casa Del Sole, Boudoir Of The Beast. The potted arrangement from earlier is now a blackened heap on the table. D'Eartha enters with another glass of tonic for The Phoebeast. Phoebe immediately peppers her with questions about Piper and Raige. If she promises never, ever again to go demon hunting with the Manor Ps, can she see them then? D'Eartha assures her that she'll feel better about the whole thing once she's had her tonic. Phoebe eyes the vanquished floral arrangement and puts two and two together as best her scattered little brain will allow. She claims D'Eartha is poisoning her. D'Eartha begs to differ. The tonic consists of "pure evil." "The baby feeds on it," D'Eartha adds, with a dismissive glance loaded with distaste at Phoebe's abdomen. Okay, that settles it. The tonic is D'Eartha's urine, isn't it? She's so disgusted with where she's ended up on this show that she's feeding Phoebe her purely evil urine, right? Right? Phoebe realizes that as the fetus grows in strength, she herself will weaken. D'Eartha avers that only the "good" in Phoebe will dissipate, and then we get round three of the "pick a side, any side" argument, which is unfortunate. I'd be far more interested if they dwelt on the idea of babies being alien parasites that invade their mothers' bodies to drain their hosts' lifeblood through umbilical cords or something. Miracle of childbirth, my ass. D'Eartha reminds Phoebe that she chose evil for the sake of her unborn child, and suggests she yank the ginormous pole out of her ass and just deal with it. "Drink the tonic," she warns one last time before raying out. Phoebe clutches her stomach and goggles through her many, many layers of eye make-up.
Hell. The Sole blazes into the middle of the same set they used last week for the coronation. Demonic underlings abound. He demands to know where Dane dredged up the gall to call a meeting and then summon The Sole Of All Evil to attend. Dane replies that while he may have summoned The Sole, he certainly didn't call for a meeting. The dark demonic underlings did so of their own accord. Seems that word spread of The Phoebeast's involvement in Scorchy Mallick's humiliation, and the minions are restless. The Sole attempts to fob off the same prenatal hormonal imbalance excuse that worked so well for Lili Taylor on Six Feet Under, but nobody's buying it down here in Hell. Dane darkly suggests that The Sole take care of the Gregory Conroy issue on his own, "for morale." The Sole glances around at the demonic throng, then slowly blazes out.
Bizarre cut to an overhead shot of Raige adding a raw egg to some tomato juice in a blender over in the Manor kitchen. Piper's zonked out on the kitchen table with the remains of three other varieties of Raige's hangover cures before her. Piper apologizes for sucking down a bottle of Jack through a straw. "It's one thing when your sister has a husband that you can't stand," she explains. "It's another when he is The Source Of All Evil." I'd comment, but I know my parents would kill me if they ever saw my true feelings about our various in-laws in print. All I can say is Piper, honey, I feel your pain. And so do Mom and Dad. Raige decides that Piper's recovered to the point where she can reach a decision on Raige's proposed plan of action. They still have the Source vanquish and The Mystical Crystals Of Demonic Entrapment from the last time they tangled with the ruler of Hell. Also, the "good in Phoebe is fighting to the surface," as was proved earlier through her actions regarding their innocent. Why don't they just orb over to the Casa and blow up The Sole? Because Phoebe still would never allow them to vanquish her husband, Piper replies. Raige believes Phoebe might, especially if The Sole tries to off Piper and Raige first. Raige is so convinced Phoebe's good side will prevail -- especially if her sisters are in danger -- that she's willing to bet her life on it. Piper pauses thoughtfully, then notes that Raige has come a long way from the orphaned only child they met less than a year ago. Raige vows never to return to that depressing life, and hauls Piper to her feet.
As they emerge from the kitchen into the hallway, The Phoebeast slumps towards them from the front door. "[The Sole] is going to kill Greg Conroy," she announces, "and I can't let that happen." Piper quietly asks what Phoebe proposes they do. Phoebe mumbles that she supposes they'll have to vanquish The Sole. "I knew it!" Raige enthuses, then quickly regains control of herself before her inappropriate outbursts get her into trouble with her flamethrowing sister. Which is why you will never hear a single complaint about my brother-in-law from me. Nope. Never. God knows what military ordnance those Pentecostal survivalist freaks keep in that double-wide of theirs down in Tennessee. At Piper's prompting, Phoebe suggests that the Dolt orb back to the Manor with Greg to lure The Sole into the house. Once The Sole arrives, the Dolt and Greg should orb back out, and the gals will then be free to kill her husband. Raige darts up to the attic to retrieve The Mystical Crystals. Once she and Phoebe are alone, Piper begins to offer her regrets. Phoebe puts a stop to it. "I can't get emotional about this now, Piper," she mutters listlessly. "If I do, I won't be able to go through with it." Piper averts her eyes and bites her lip. Raige and that damn satin cravat of hers jiggle down the stairs with The Mystical Crysticals in their decorative box. Piper calls for the Dolt, who orbs into the front hallway with Greg. Greg shoots a nervous glance over at the Feebs, who bleakly nods her head in his direction before turning back to her sisters. "How long 'til you think [The Sole] gets here?" Raige asks.
Phoebe morphs up into The Sole and smirks, "Sooner than you think." He flings an FBOD at Greg, who dissolves instantly in a haze of flame and smoke and teeny tiny bits of probation officer. The Sole, with a wicked gleam in his eye, blazes out of the Manor. Raige and Piper gasp in horror before we cut away to commercial.
Okay: That there? Kicked ass. Granted, my expectations may have been beaten down into the dirt with all the crap that came flying out of my television from this show over the last season, but damn. That was almost as good as the haiku.
Anyway, back from the break, The Sole blazes into the penthouse to find the one true Phoebeast scratching away on a piece of stationery. I probably should make it clear that The Phoebeast is using a pen, and not just clawing away at the paper with her paw, right? A glass of D'Eartha's purely evil urine rests on the table nearby. The Feeble One turns halfway in her chair and asks The Sole if he knew what D'Eartha was giving her to drink. He evades the question by peering over her shoulder to inspect the paper beneath her hand. It's a "Dear Sole" letter, and he wonders aloud if she's planning on running away. She reluctantly admits that she's penned two letters, one to him, the other to her sisters. She hasn't quite decided which one to send. She repeats her question about the tonic. The Sole did indeed know of D'Eartha's foul plan to fill his wife with purely evil urine. Phoebe's -- dare I say it? -- pissed. The Sole wanders away from her towards the fireplace, blathering on and on about the coronation and choosing sides and knowing what you're getting into before you get into it and wah, but good God does he look good doing it. His black jacket is padded out a bit at the shoulders to accentuate their breadth, then tapers in as it moves down towards his waist, where its line joins perfectly with the line of his black pants. The resulting effect turns him into this hulking, brooding presence that seems to rise up from nothing into the air. If you watch Samurai Jack, he's like a three-dimensional human Aku hovering in the middle of the living room. Or maybe I'm just still buzzing on the high from the end of the last scene.
Anyway, The Phoebeast and The Sole snipe at each other about the nature of good and evil for far too long. She feels betrayed and conflicted and confused. He tells her that Piper and Raige will die if Phoebe doesn't partake of D'Eartha's purely evil urine. Phoebe finally gives in and downs the tonic in one gulp. He pulls her into an embrace, whispering of his love for her in her ear. Then he off-handedly mentions the whole "Greg is now probationary Baco Bits" thing. Phoebe pushes away, shuddering that if he killed the innocent, then Piper and Raige will head to the penthouse to kill him. Yes, Phoebe. Which is why I don't understand why you two are still living in the same damn city as your sisters. I realize The Sole Of All Evil and His Queen might have a few problems getting past a New York City co-op board, what with the smoke from all that hellfire and brimstone wafting through the ventilation system and everything, but couldn't you have at least considered moving to the opposite coast? Boston? Miami? Baltimore? Hell, if I were you, I'd have been in Asia weeks ago. Anyway, The Sole picks up on Phoebe's fears regarding her sisters and leads, "Phoebe, if it comes down to them or us..." "Oh, God," Phoebe splutters with her hand at her mouth, and she dives through the bathroom door. In the faint bluish light creeping in from the city sky outside the bathroom's windows, Phoebe drapes herself over the toilet and vomits up D'Eartha's purely evil urine into the bowl. The Sole raps at the locked door, repeatedly calling her name. Phoebe collapses over the sink to splash handfuls of water onto her face. Panting, she lifts herself up to stare at her garish reflection in the mirror.
Out in the living room, The Sole backs away from the bathroom door as Piper, Raige, and the Dolt orb in. The Sole crosses in front of each of them, silently daring them to make the first move. Raige, seething, spits, "You evil son of a bitch!" Piper flings out her hands, and The Sole dissolves into a whirling, buzzing cloud of Sole bits. Before he can reconstitute himself, Raige kneels to place The Mystical Crysticals in their proper places on the floor. Piper screams, "Phoebe! Get out here and help us, dammit!" Um, how'd she know Phoebe was in the can? Never mind. The Sole bits coalesce, and he backhands Raige across the room into the wall above the mantelpiece. She drops unconscious to the carpet as the remaining Mystical Crystical rolls across the floor from her limp hand. "Don't make me kill you," breathes The Sole. Piper blows him up again as the Dolt applies the tingly touch to Raige's neck. The Sole bits whiz around in the air while Piper screams once more for Phoebe. Huddled behind the door, Phoebe whimpers, "Forgive me," before emerging from the bathroom. The Sole coalesces once more as Piper and the Dolt help Raige to her feet. The Sole conjures an FBOD into his hand. Phoebe retrieves the final Mystical Crystical from the floor and crosses with it to her husband's side. He attempts to apologize with, "I'm sorry -- it's for the best." "I know it is," Phoebe replies, and shoves her tongue into his mouth. The Dolt is a-feared. Shut up, Dolt. Phoebe draws away from The Sole, whispers, "I'm sorry, too," and places the final Mystical Crystical in position on the terrazzo at his feet.
Oh, like you really thought she'd let him kill them. Please.
The Mystical Crysticals Of Demonic Entrapment flare up, as is their wont. Piper chants, "Prudence, Penelope, Patricia, Melinda." Flames lick at The Sole's expensive loafers. Phoebe continues, choking back sobs, "Astrid, Helena, Laura, and Grace." The Sole's getting mighty warm in there as the flames leap up to his chest. "I'll always love you," he sweats. Raige chimes in with, "Halliwell witches, stand strong beside us." Phoebe begins the final line herself, but is quickly joined by Piper and Raige: "Vanquish this evil from time and space." The Sole explodes. The force of the blast shatters the glass in the French doors, then blows the doors themselves outwards off their hinges. The Dolt is sad. Shut up, Dolt. Phoebe brushes hair from her face, gasps, and wanders over to the little pile of Cole ash alone.
Manor. An ovary who thinks she's Joni Mitchell but is sorely, sadly mistaken warbles something unintelligible about a tiny dancer that has nothing to do with holding said dancer closer. I think. Piper gazes up the stairs from the hallway below. The Dolt approacheth. "Why don't you go up and see her?" he asks. Piper, fretful in a low-key sort of way, doesn't know what to say. Raige walks in through the front door and sets her purse on the much-abused marble-topped entry table. "How's she doing?" Raige asks. "I don't know," Piper lames. "She hasn't come down yet." "How long you been standing there?" counters Raige, raising her eyebrows slightly. Piper concedes the point. The gals head up the stairs. Piper makes it to the landing before spinning around and nervously blurting, "What if she wants to be alone?" "She's going to be alone a lot," Raige notes gently. "Maybe right now she needs us." Piper and Raige lock eyes for a moment. Piper, perhaps realizing Raige could teach even Piper herself a thing or two about grief, agrees with a sharp "Right." The two disappear upstairs. Nice little scene there, with the glaring exception of the Dolt, who even now broods at the foot of the stairs, all silent pillar of manly flannel strength in this, their time of need. Shut up, Dolt.
Bimbo Boudoir. Piper and Raige slip quietly through the door. Phoebe lies sobbing on her bed, her face turned towards the window. Piper wordlessly eases herself onto the bed behind Phoebe, wrapping her arms around her from behind. Raige hesitates, then lies down in front of Phoebe, taking Phoebe's hand in her own and drawing Phoebe's arm around her waist. Piper strokes Phoebe's hair and kisses her head. Raige remains silent. Phoebe blows snot all over the back of Raige's head as the shot shifts to an overhead of the three women embracing and we fade to black.
Damn. If the first forty-five minutes had been as good as the last fifteen, this might have merited an A.
week: References to movies galore as Phoebe's demon spawn goes all Rosemary's Baby on the Glamorous Ladies' collective ass, with a little bit of The Omen, The Bad Seed, and The Village Of The Damned thrown in to spice things up. Have fun.