After that open invitation to visualize a San Francisco landmark molesting Rose McGowan, it's back to the Manor, where Raige and Chris orb into the main hallway with Raige's various leg-humping mutts. Phoebe notices the miniature kennel and arches a brow. Raige explains that her temp agency "screwed up" and sent her on a dog-walking assignment. Chris cuts through the blathering to urge the ladies to focus on the Trokster at hand. "Lighten. Up!" Phoebe bitches. "Sending us after all of these demons is getting to be a real drag." Speaking of real drags, there must be legions of female impersonators with now-worthless wigs cursing the day Alyssa slipped into the salon for a Halle Berry. Oh, who am I kidding? As if there's a drag queen in the world so desperate for material, she'd even consider doing La Milano. Chris snarks that Piper hasn't been complaining, to which Phoebe retorts, "Piper doesn't complain about anything anymore." "Ever since [the Dolt] left to become one of the [ever-useless] Elders," Phoebe continues, "all Piper does is walk around the house all�chipper." "It's unusual," Raige agrees, before adding, "and what's worse, it's not Piper." A bizarrely inappropriate musical cue hits the soundtrack just as Piper flutters down the stairs with Tiny Gay Chris tucked under one arm. Piper's blithely confirming a play date on the cordless, but I swear to God, the sound editors lifted the music out of that Kids In The Hall Buddy Cole skit regarding the proper care and feeding of male slaves. And what's even stranger is that as soon as Piper rounds out of sight into the kitchen, the music cuts out. The fuck is going on tonight?
God! Anyway, after retrieving the scribbled Trokster vanquish, Raige orders Big Gay Chris off to the attic with her leash of mutts. The pack lugs Chris headlong up the stairs, and millions of sharp-eyed viewers learn that Drew Fuller flies commando when his pants drop below his waist to reveal a yard of ass crack. I'd linger on that embarrassingly tantalizing image, but this motherfucker's two hours long, and we haven't hit the goddamn opening credits yet. Anyone mind if I just carry on, then? Didn't think so.
After Piper putters from the kitchen, clad in an eye-searing blue floral print apron evidently designed for maximum clash with her orange floral-patterned blouse, the gals arrange themselves in a neat line beneath the stairs for the vanquish. Phoebe takes summoning duties, and the Trokster presently appears in the center parlor, grunting and scowling as is apparently his wont. Phoebe orders Piper to freeze him. Piper promptly flings out her Hands Of Discontent and spite-bombs one of the heads instead. "What did you do that for?" shrieks the Feebs. "I don't know!" Piper giggles. "I didn't mean to!" The remaining Trokster head growls in the Glamorous Ladies' direction, emitting a series of vocal concussion waves that flings them against the stairwell wall. The gals bounce into a pile on the floor, where Phoebe quickly spits out the following verse:
From other worlds far and near,
Let's get him the Trok out of here.