Congratulations to Ed and Kathleen on their occasionally shitty Done One.
It is a dark and stormy night. Well, I mean, of course it's dark, it being night and all, but it's also raining. Deep within Halliwell Manor, Raige orbs in at the foot of the stairs with Piper and Phoebe. Tiny Gay Chris perches on one of his mother's hips, breathing through his mouth. Tiny Gay Chris does a lot of mouth-breathing in this episode. If there were ever any question regarding his paternity, I suppose this answers it. "We don't have much time!" Raige blurts. "They're gonna follow us." "How are we supposed to stop them?" Phoebe babbles uselessly. "Well, we have to think of something," Piper asserts. "We can't just let them take [Tiny Chris]!" Down the hall a bit, a mottled white light dances across the floorboards. The camera pulls in close to Raige as she steps forward to gasp, "Incoming!" Two gentlemen in tailored white suits with matching satin ties materialize on the carpet. The leader of the two -- meaning, of course, the one with his real name prominently featured in the guest scroll after the opening credits -- steps forward to state what is apparently the obvious: "It's pointless to run." Obsessive X-Philes will recognize the actor as Agent Gene Crane. I never watched that show, so I'll be calling him "Harvey," as in "Keitel," and the other one's going to be "Jean," as in "Reno." The reason for this hits the script in about a half an hour, but fans of Nikita and its terrible American remake should be able to guess right now. Seriously, why the remake? Bridget, honey, if you needed the cash, I'm sure your Aunt Jane would've slipped you one of Ted's blank checks. Hell, pawning your grandfather's Oscar would have been a better course of action. You're pretty, you have a superhuman ability to avoid the ravages of time, and you're a good actress. You didn't need to be spoon-feeding beef ravioli to Dermot fucking Mulroney. What were you thinking?
Ooops. Episode. Right. "You can't have him," Piper growls, twisting her torso to shield Tiny Gay Chris from Harvey and Jean. Tiny Gay Chris stares blankly off-camera at the production assistant who's antically juggling stuffed animals to keep the kid quiet. Or maybe they slipped a couple of Valium into his bottle. I'm not sure which, but Tiny Chris's mind certainly appears to be elsewhere, and his tongue is lolling out of his mouth like he's just suffered a massive stroke, so you make the call. Piper flings a Hand Of Discontent at the boys in white, but Harvey just snatches the explosive mojo out of the air and snuffs it out in his fist. "You're only delaying the inevitable," he calmly states. Harve wiggles his fingers, and Tiny Gay Chris flares out of Piper's arms and into Jean's. Harve wiggles his fingers again, and the Glamorous Ladies' feet fly backwards beneath them, tossing them as one face-first to the floor. The force of the impact sends them sliding backwards on their stomachs into the dining room. Piper beckons the Dolt, who orbs in as she scrambles to her feet. "An [ever-useless] Elder," smiles Harve. "Good. Perhaps you can explain it to her." The Dolt tenses. "Do something!" Piper shouts. "I can't," the Dolt replies. "Nobody can." Piper shoots the briefest of supremely foul glares at her useless ex-husband, then turns back to Harve and Jean. "He's just a baby," she argues. "It won't happen again -- I won't let it happen again." "Don't worry," Harve breathes. "You won't remember any of this, anyway." With that, he wiggles his fingers one last time.
“ It takes a special kind of moron to engrave Tinkerbell on her snatch, doesn't it? Okay, fine. Tinkerbell's adjacent to her snatch, but you get my point. ”
The mottled white light washes over Piper, Phoebe, Raige, and the Dolt, then spreads throughout the Manor. Over on the sun porch, a festive wind-up toy carousel vanishes, followed by Tiny Gay Chris's playpen. A small lamp and a wicker ottoman pop up in their places. Up in the Bridal Boudoir, the Patricia Campbell Hearst Commemorative Child-Care Nook morphs back into a closet, and over on the wall, Tiny Gay Chris disappears from a framed family photo. Back down in the main hall, Harvey, Jean, and Tiny Chris vanish in a shimmering twinkle of Beam-Me-Up points of light. Now, that's what the motherfucking DUN! is all about, people.
Pause. Piper turns to the Dolt and snaps, "What are you doing here?" The Dolt, instantly sheepish, mutters, "I don't know. Better go." As he orbs out, Raige guhs, "What were we talking about?" "Dunno," Piper replies. Phoebe stretches and yawns and heads upstairs to bed. "Yeah," Raige absentmindedly agrees, "I'm tired, too." She crosses to the foot of the stairs, then turns to ask, "You all right?" Piper nods distractedly. "I just feel like I'm forgetting something." "Like what?" Raige perks as she bounces up the first flight to the landing. "Must not be very important," Piper shrugs. Piper tosses her glossy mane around and follows Raige up the stairs as The Ominous Oboe Of What Kind Of Shitty-Ass Mother Forgets Her Own Son? accompanies us into the opening credits.
By the way, I found a brief clip of Drew Fuller in that soft-core-gay-porno-masquerading-as-a-horror-flick travesty he appeared in three years ago. Enjoy, if you dare.
Manor kitchen, the following morning. On the much-abused white TV, a slap-happy weather guy who appears to be fashioned entirely from polyethylene predicts gorgeous weather throughout the Bay Area, adding, "If you're anything like me, you wanna forget aaaaall about yesterday." If I were anything like you, I'd stick my head in the oven. Piper putters around the center island, futzing with toast as Raige enters to snark something about stain removal sprays. Her hair's piled high on her head, and she's sporting a backless, knee-length, retro-style white satin dress with thin, mint-green stripes bordering the bosom-enhancing bodice. A bit much for an office temp job, I think, but staggeringly enough, it's an outfit that actually suits the character. Raige always struck me as the type of person who'd troll tiny independent resale shops for her wardrobe, and this looks like the sort of thing she'd pick out for herself. By the way, Rose McGowan's Varga Girl tattoo is visible on her right shoulder blade, evidently for the first time. I've read it's a replica of the image her grandfather painted on his bomber in World War II, and that, frankly, rocks, unlike the hiddy tattoos a certain other actress displays on a weekly basis. It takes a special kind of moron to engrave Tinkerbell on her snatch, doesn't it? Okay, fine. Tinkerbell's adjacent to her snatch, but you get my point.
“ I'm sure she's exaggerating, because I very much doubt a Bay Area temp agency would pay its clients $2.50 an hour. Then again, given the current state of the economy, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if that were indeed the case. Thanks a lot, George. ”
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Raige bitches that some dork at the office spilled coffee on the blouse she wore the day before, and getting it dry-cleaned should eat up half a day's pay. I'm sure she's exaggerating, because I very much doubt a Bay Area temp agency would pay its clients $2.50 an hour. Then again, given the current state of the economy, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if that were indeed the case. Thanks a lot, George. Piper wonders why Raige doesn't just bail, what with the rotten pay and the sexist boss she's been saddled with on her current assignment. Raige reminds Piper that her last crappy temp job led to a date with the embarrassingly hot Joe Millionaire. Raige intends to persevere, on the off chance her magical abilities will once again be needed. Piper whatevers, and I'm forced to inform her that anyone wearing a top as unflattering as hers has no room to criticize anyone else for any reason. From the side angles, she looks like she's pregnant again, and Holly Marie Combs is not a big woman. Whatever. Raige brushes it all off and, apropos of nothing save this evening's plot, concludes, "Sometimes you gotta ride a lot of different horses on the merry-go-round before you find what you're looking for." Were I Piper, I'd snort something unpleasant linking Raige's last remark with her spotty history with the slampieces, because Raige is a tramp. However, Piper chooses to focus on Raige's supposed merry-go-round error. "Carousel," she corrects, bustling back to the sink. "A merry-go-round has lots of different animals. A carousel only has horses." Raige frowns, perplexed. "How do you even know that, weirdo?" Piper, fetching a glass from the cupboard, pauses and admits, "I have no idea." I haven't a clue, either, because even the Smithsonian makes no distinction between the two. Shut up, Piper.
Just then, a faint, infantile whine echoes through the room. Of course, Raige can't hear it. The two puzzle over Piper's apparent auditory hallucinations before an infinitely louder infantile whine emanates from the basement below. "How long do you think she's gonna spend down there?" Raige snorts. "The rest of her natural life?" If only, Raige. If. Only. "Long enough to ensure she doesn't shove her tongue down the throat of the delivery guy," Piper sighs, hoisting the breakfast tray she'd been preparing and sailing over to the downstairs door. You know what's really vile about that line? It's not, as has been pointed out on the boards, that Phoebe's so sorely lacking in the pre-frontal-lobe department that she acts on every emotion she feels. It's that I'm supposed to believe every goddamn man in San Francisco wants to jump her bony ass. Drop dead, Kern.
Piper and Raige descend the rickety stairs to deliver Phoebe's breakfast. There's some tedious chatter about Phoebe's uncontrollable new power -- which is why Feebs set up a home office in the basement, don't you know -- before Raige notices a band-aid on Phoebe's forehead. "What happened to you?" Raige asks. "I don't remember," Phoebe confesses. "I've been so scattered lately, I must have bumped it." "Lately"? Phoebe then notices that Piper's trimmed the crust from her toast, cut her eggs into teeny bits, and added applesauce and a glass of milk to the tray rather than, presumably, coffee and a pack of Newports. Piper splutters that milk is good for strong bones. Raige is all, "What gives, freak? First with the carousels, then with the phantom infants, and now with the calcium? Get a grip." Piper expertly shuts down any discussion of her bizarre behavior as Phoebe's cell chirps. It's Elise Rothman, Girl Editor calling to order the Feebs into the office, pronto. In fact, she actually says, "You get your butt in here now, or it's your job -- do you hear me?" Phoebe, a bit dazed, hangs up and relates the conversation's details. She hasn't a clue why Elise would be so angry, as she doesn't recall heading into the office the day before. Phoebe steels herself to deal with the outside world, and she and Raige teeter up the rickety steps. By the way, Phoebe's jeans feature a gigantic appliqu butterfly on the ass. Idiot. "Don't forget your coats!" Piper calls after them. "It might rain." "Would you stop mothering us?" Raige snits in horribly overdubbed irritation. Piper blinks.