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.
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.
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 appliqué 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.
In an office high above the city, Raige perches at the reception desk, answering line after ringing line with, "Ritzteukolskyandruben, please hold." Her garbled enunciation of the firm's name and her too-chipper manner remind me of both Rosalind Russell in Auntie Mame and that goddamned chirpy fat chick in Office Space. Heh. Raige promptly abandons her post, however, when a glum colleague mopes by with a box of her belongings. "Flo" has been fired for rebuffing the lecherous boss-man's latest advances. Raige wonders why Flo didn't ask for help. Oh, but Flo did, Raige -- yesterday. "Obviously, I don't rank high enough in importance for you to remember," Flo guilts, and adds that as it's now a matter of "[her] word against his," she's screwed. Figuratively speaking, of course. Lecherous Boss-Man, who couldn't look more like Ed Rooney if his name were Jeffrey Jones, appears to hurry Flo along. Lecherous Ed then smarms something about Raige's "pretty ass" before sliming away. Raige gets huffy.
P3. Big Gay Chris lounges on the sofa in the back office, sucking on a product-placed beer -- it's a Corona! -- at nine o'clock in the morning. Atta girl. He's also rather immodestly clad in a grey t-shirt and black boxer-briefs. The nosy Dolt orbs in to stomp all over Big Chris's buzz. "What are you doing sitting around here?" pisses the Dolt. "Aren't you supposed to be getting to know your new charge?" On cue, Chris's new charge Nate pops into the room, also rather immodestly clad in his button-down dress shirt and nothing else. Good thing it's an oversized button-down dress shirt, or we'd all be spotting some dangly bits right about now. "Um, hi, [Dolt]," stammers the abashed Nate as he feels around to make sure the shirt's covering his ass. Big Chris drops his head in his hands. "Look, before you get mad," Chris groans, "you were the one who wanted me to have a charge in the first place, remember?" "To protect him," snips the Dolt. "Oh, he was using protection," Nate insists. Don't you mean you were, Nate? I mean, not to be telling tales out of school or anything, but Chris is a total bottom.
In any event, the Dolt blusters about The Rules, so Chris wisely smirks, "Yeah, you're one to talk." Heh. Nate politely excuses himself so father and son might continue this prissy catfight in private. "I was just having a little fun," Chris protests once his little blond boyfriend roams out of earshot. "It's not like I have anything pressing to do." "Then why, exactly, did you come back from the future?" demands the Dolt. Chris can't remember. Just then, a faint, infantile whine echoes through the bar. Of course, Chris can't hear it. The Dolt threatens to confront Chris regarding his supposed transgressions at a later time, and orbs out. Nate tiptoes back in all, "Let's do it again!" Chris's gaze drops below waist level, and he wiggles his eyebrows.
By the way, don't bother with the emails. I know the character's name is "Natalie," and I know Natalie's played by a girl. Far more important? I don't care. Chris has sex with men. Got it? Good. Also, our marital arrangements are none of your damn business, so you can shut right up about that, too.
The Bay Mirror. Phoebe edges through one of the swinging glass doors and glances around in surprise. By the way, I didn't notice this the first time through, but there's a glazier fussing with the other door. Hee. In any event, all of Phoebe's colleagues are battered to one degree or another. Black eyes. Neck braces. Broken noses. Sprained ankles. You get the picture. Some twit named Frank spots the Feebs and hobbles over to congratulate her. "I don't care what she says," he insists. "I always wanted to do what you did, and man, it was good to see you do it." As I already know what he's talking about, I find this speech more than just a teensy bit inappropriate, and believe that not only should this twit be fired, but he should also have his woman-beating ass thrown in jail. Elise Rothman, Girl Editor With A Shiner glares at the Feebs from across the room, then curtly orders Phoebe into her office.
"Sit!" barks Elise the moment Phoebe's closed the door. "I wanted to talk to you alone before I involved any lawyers," she begins, barely suppressing her rage. "I'm not going to pretend that the only reason you're still working here is because you're an asset to the paper, but what the hell came over you yesterday?" Hmmm. Interesting choice of words for a newspaper editor, Elise, and I'm sure their underlying meaning sailed straight over the dimwit's head. I'm convinced that were she not worried about her own job security, Elise would have come right out and said, "I'm not going to pretend the only reason you're still working here is because you're an asset to the paper, because everyone knows that's a lie, because everyone also knows the owner's been fucking your hack ass on his desk. So, what the hell was yesterday about, you brainless slut?" And this is why I love Elise. Brava. Anywho, Elise elaborates as follows: "Three workers are out with injuries. Jackie has a broken nose! Not to mention --" and here Elise points rather vehemently at her bruised eye. "Elise, I'm sorry, but I honestly have no idea what you're talking about." "Phoebe!" Elise cries, latching onto the halfwit's arms and hurling her into a pastel-colored premonition. Phoebe wallops some guy in the jaw, then pitches another face-first into the copier. When Phoebe snaps out of it, she immediately feigns consumption, and tries to bark up a lung as she scampers out of the office. Elise folds her arms and fumes.
Elsewhere in the city, Piper's loading supplies into the Grand Cherokee when she spots a harried Latino struggling with a mewling infant in one arm and an overstuffed bag of groceries in the other. Latino Man drops a jumbo pack of product-placed diapers -- they're Huggies! -- on the sidewalk, so Piper scurries over to help. She instructs Latino Man to jiggle his brat a little bit and make shushing sounds. Latino Man does so, and the kid shuts up. "How'd you calm him down so fast?" Latino Man asks. Piper notes that "the shushing sound's supposed to remind them of the womb," which I think is total bullshit, but whatever. I'll not be opening my apartment to any pants-wetting imbeciles anytime soon, so it's not like this information would be of any use to me even if it were true. Moving right along, then. Piper and Latino Man natter for a bit about parenting, and he's surprised to learn she has no children of her own. Piper admits that she always wanted one but never got around to it. Realizing she's oversharing, she hastily mumbles her goodbyes and absently turns to leave, still clutching the Huggies. Latino Man clears his throat. Piper apologizes profusely, returns the diapers to their proper owner, and heads back to the car, a little freaked.
Manor. The Dolt gazes "thoughtfully" at Piper's closet. Piper enters, reminds him of their decision to break up, and notes that it's awfully hard to miss him if he never goes away. Word, Ms. P. Word. The Dolt stutters and stammers and makes to leave, but pauses to stare once more into the closet. Piper arches a brow, and, admitting she understands that what she's about to say sounds insane, hesitantly asks if he's been hearing phantom infants that morning. Relieved he's not going nuts alone, the Dolt confirms he has. "Maybe we just regret never having children," Piper sighs before adding, "Why didn't we?" "We both wanted them," shrugs the Dolt. "I guess it just wasn't meant to be." Um, hello? Alonso What's-Your-Face who wrote this evening's script? Yeah, over here. If all memory of The Done One has been erased, then they never had children because Piper's insides are a rocky place where the Dolt's seed could find no purchase. Come on. That's a criminally easy bit of continuity you could have slipped into the dialogue at this point, and it would have made this memory-wiping scenario that much more believable. How much do they pay you for this shit again? Rrrgh. Anyway, Phoebe calls down from the attic. The Dolt offers assistance, but Piper frostily reminds him that they have a new Whitelighter before spinning on her heel and heading upstairs. Snap! The Dolt pouts. Shut it, git.
Up in the attic, the three ladies compare notes on everything they've forgotten from the day and realize that something demonic's afoot. Raige and Phoebe have composed a spell to offset their faulty collective memory, and after securing Piper's permission to cast it, Raige recites the following:
Moments lost make witches wonder:
Warlock's plot? Or demon's plunder?
If this is not a prank,
Help us to fill in the blanks.
The camera's been slowly tracking away from the women during all this, and once Raige finishes the spell, the image of the gals smears, flips upside down, and spins. When the shot refocuses, the Glamorous Ladies have magically morphed into the outfits they were wearing at the top of the hour. Piper's surprised to note rain pelting against the attic's windows. She's even more surprised when Tiny Gay Chris starts wailing far below. "Oh, my God!" Piper breathes, and darts for the stairs, followed shortly by the befuddled Piper and Phoebe.
Down on the sun porch, Piper retrieves Tiny Gay Chris from his playpen and gasps, "I remember now!" Raige and Phoebe hang back on the stairs, all, "Yes, and?" "I'm a mom!" Tiny Gay Chris stares all foggy-brained as the stealthy commercials arrive on cats' feet to steal his breath away.
Sun porch. Aftermath. Phoebe tosses a newspaper onto the wicker coffee table and announces, "Today is yesterday." The ladies process through that statement's implications as Tiny Gay Chris squirms and mopes in Piper's arms. Piper places her son in his playpen so she and her sisters might continue the summit in the relative privacy of the parlor. Piper presents Tiny Chris with a cute stuffed bear, but Phoebe, channeling her nephew's emotions, bitches, "We hate that toy. It's yucky and crusty and gross." I'd ignore my seething hatred of Phoebe to wonder if Oscar The Raige-Humping Bulldog in any way contributed to poor Teddy's crustiness, but that thought's even more disgusting than Phoebe's psychotic grandstanding, so I'm led back to this familiar sentiment: Blow it out your ass, Feebs. And shut up while you're at it. Phoebe ignores me to determine that Tiny Gay Chris wants to watch some TV. Atta boy. Just don't watch this show. It'll fry your brain, and, knowing that your Dolt of a dad's responsible for at least half of your grey matter, I think it's safe to say you can't afford to be wasting neurons, kiddo. Raige grits something about the media's pernicious influence on fragile young minds, so Piper proceeds to find the dullest educational programming available. Seriously, it's some disembodied chick s-l-o-w-l-y spelling out colors as those colors flash on the screen. Tiny Gay Chris sneakily bides his time through "R. E. D." and, like, "V. E. R. D. I. G. R. I. S." until Mom's gone, then blinks. The channel flips up to ESPN Classic, where Nadia Comaneci's battering her husky frame against the uneven parallel bars. Scantily clad women already bore Tiny Chris, so he blinks again to land on a Discovery Channel documentary on dragon mythology. Or something. It's just two prehistoric, CGI'd raptors flapping through the air with no voice-over, so I'm making assumptions here. Tiny Gay Chris is pleased.
Out in the main parlor, Raige takes quick control of the processing summit, and insists that they must carry on as normal in order to identify the specific events that led to Tiny Gay Chris's disappearance. If they forgot everything about that particular day, her reasoning goes, then everything, potentially, is of import. This includes her coffee-stained blouse and Phoebe's office riot, so she and the Feebs prepare to head off to work.
Meanwhile, back in the product-placed playpen -- it's a Kolcraft! -- Tiny Gay Chris mouth-breathes at the TV for a bit before conjuring one of the dragons out of the set in a stream of glowy orbs that passes through a crack in the sun porch's windows. Out on the rain-swept lawn, the orbs coagulate into dragon form, and that's one big, fake-looking motherfucker the ladies now have on their grass. However, I can forgive the flawed animation because the kid did yank this thing out of the TV. I mean, if he had pulled a triceratops out of Walking With Dinosaurs, it would look just as bad, right? So the effects team gets a pass tonight, and they can thank context for that. Anyway, the dragon bashes its head against the French doors, breaking the lock and allowing them to swing inward on the breeze to jostle a vase-laden end table. The dragon growls softly for a bit, then lifts off into the air. Tiny Gay Chris stands there with his tongue hanging halfway down to his knees.
Over in the parlor, the Ps catch the tinkle of shattering porcelain as one of the wobbling end-table vases finally crashes to the floor. Piper briefly wonders how locked doors could open of their own accord before Raige and Phoebe leave, instructing Piper to call "if anything weird happens." Piper spies the remaining televised dragon flapping about on the screen, and shoots a worried look at her tiny gay son.
P3. Big Gay Chris confers with his worthless father at the empty bar. Long story short, the Dolt wants Big Chris to assume responsibilities for an additional charge. Big Chris suggests Pops rot in Hell, because Big Chris time-traveled to protect Tiny Chris and Tiny Chris alone from as-yet-unspecified dangers, and that's that. Big Gay Chris huffs away from the bar, nearly ramming right into scruffy Nate. Yes, Nate is a bit scruffy. I've just decided. Shut up. Nate greets the Dolt with a warm smile and apologizes for being late. "That's all right," the Dolt kindly replies. Nate gifts Chris with a shy look and hesitantly extends his hand. Chris grasps it in his own, smitten. Aw. Young love. Sniff.
The Bay Mirror. Phoebe warily crosses the threshold into the main room and is immediately set upon by her harried assistant. Seems the server crashed, and everyone's frantically searching for hard copies of their otherwise-lost work. Frank The Violent Misogynist Twit storms past, bellowing something unkind at Elise Rothman, Girl Editor, who follows close on his heels with a few choice words of her own. Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in when she catches Frank's eye, so she taps Elise on the shoulder, then socks her in the eye once she's turned around. See what I mean about slinging Frank into jail? Sure, it'd be a bit extra-constitutional, but no one seems to give a damn about the Constitution anymore, so what's the big deal? We can just say it's a preventive measure and lock him away for life. Everybody happy? Also: Cram it, Phoebe. Just because you channel the intense emotions of others doesn't mean you're allowed to act on them. Hag. I hope Elise tosses your worthless ass into jail alongside Frank's. Anywho, Elise flies backwards from the impact and takes out a courier. The Violent Misogynist hoots and howls with glee, so the courier clocks him in the jaw. Hooray! The Violent Misogynist slams into another gentleman, and a tussle erupts. Phoebe attempts to intervene and for her trouble is thrown into a filing cabinet, upon which she gashes her forehead. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Slow-forward.
Ritzteukolskyandruben Please Hold. Fiesty Flo relates her tale of woe over a couple of mugs of steamy Joe. If I keep rhyming, it's going to blow, so why don't I simply recap the show? Seems Lecherous Ed grabbed her ass and threatened to fire her if she told anyone. Now he's demanded that she meet with him in private to discuss her future with the firm, and Flo's worried. What if he makes another pass? If she slaps him away again, will she lose her job? Raige promises to accompany Flo to the meeting the following morning, then mutters, "How could I forget this?" The answer's roaring past your office windows, Raige. Yes, Tiny Gay Chris's dragon flaps by as the two women obliviously babble away at each other. A gawky sort in a suit, however, does manage to spot the prehistoric bird before it disappears around the building's corner. Thus distracted, he bumps into Raige, spattering coffee down the front of her flimsy white blouse. Noting the strange, unsettled expression on the gawk's face, Raige asks him what gives. He stutters and stammers and eventually directs her attention to the fire-breathing dinosaur winging its way past the Transamerica Pyramid. "Oh, [fuck]," mutters Raige.
Manor sun porch. Piper abuses the Book of Shadows, no doubt searching for clues to their current situation, until Tiny Gay Chris unhinges his maw and lets loose with a red-faced, screamy temper tantrum. Piper sets the Book aside and tries to placate him with Crusty Ted. She holds Crusty Ted in front of his face just long enough to capture his attention, then sings, "Oh, that's right -- you hate this! You hate this, don't you?" Hee! Passive-aggressive bitchery directed at simpering underage morons never fails to amuse me. Piper gathers Tiny Chris up from his playpen, and he instantly stops crying. After a beat, he starts orbing them up through the ceiling. "What are you doing?" Piper's voice echoes as her body dissolves. "[Chris]!"
The Bay Mirror. Raige swings through the glass doors to find herself right in the middle of an office-wide smackdown. It's actually pretty amusing -- far too amusing, in fact, for something so cheap and cartoonish, but whatever. After last week's assfest, which followed the season-ending assfest, which followed all those late-season assfests, I'll take my giggles wherever I can. Especially here, when a tiny female extra hoists a two-hundred-pound man over her head and slams him onto a desk, after which he swings a foot around into her face. Or this quick bit, where another random gent spins like a top straight through one of the main doors, sending shards of shattered candy glass cascading to the carpet. Hee. Raige yanks Phoebe off yet another gentleman -- whom Phoebe's beaten unconscious, natch -- to fill her in on the whole dragon thing. As the two bolt through the shattered door, a tremendous glass pitcher flies through after them, smashing into the wall. Heh.
"[Chris]," Piper warns as her son orbs her onto the side of a road, "you're making Mommy very nervous." Tiny Gay Chris fidgets as Piper's cell phone bleeps in her hand. No, she wasn't holding that damn thing back at the Manor, but at this point, I'm too tired to care. She answers to find Raige on the line, and informs her half-sister, "I'm standing outside the Presidio Tunnel, where your nephew just orbed me." Raige immediately orbs in behind her with Phoebe. "Are you out of your mind?" Piper howls. "What about exposure?" Shyeah. Like any of you nimrods seriously worried about that in the past. Pull the other one, hon. Raige starts to inform Piper that she called because of a possible exposure, but the conversation shudders to a halt when an unearthly roar blows out of the tunnel. The gals turn to gawp just as a fiery four-door careens out of said tunnel to crash into the guardrail, followed by a billowing cloud of smoke and flame. The dragon rears up out of the blackness, hovers above them long enough to hawk a tremendous, streaming loogie of flame in their general direction, then flaps away. The gals gape as we merrily blaze our way straight down into the commercial break.
Back from the break, Raige grimly eyes the sun porch television as a sleek journalist files a live report from the mouth of the Presidio Tunnel. "[Officials] haven't ruled out terrorism, of course," she notes, "but at the moment, they're focusing on some rather bizarre reports of a 'giant bird' which 'shot fire out of its mouth at cars like a dragon.'" Raige snaps off the TV and spins around to pout, "As far as clues go, I'd say that's a pretty huge one." Over by the windows, Piper gingerly applies a band-aid to Phoebe's battered skull. Phoebe's empathy silently activates -- and thank God for that silence -- and she wonders why Piper's blaming herself for that afternoon's events. Piper gets in a good one when she shoots Phoebe a smoking side-eye and purrs, "Okay, I haven't actually verbalized guilt yet, so in the future? Let me confess before you analyze." With that matter so deftly handled, Piper moves on to the larger issue. She's put everything together, and has come to the conclusion that Tiny Gay Chris is responsible for the fire-breathing beastie now terrorizing the city. The three glumly mope about their options for a bit until Harvey and Jean mottle their way into the main hallway. Harve steps forward with the introductions. "We're known as The Cleaners," he informs them. "When magic is exposed, we're the ones who cover it up, remove all evidence, erase any memories -- whatever is necessary." So where the hell were you when The Late Lamented slammed through a support pillar, huh? No, we'll never receive a satisfactory answer for that from these clowns tonight, so I'll toss this out for everyone to chew on: The Cleaners never mopped up that particular mess because Alyssa had Shannen fired. Got it? Good. Moving on: "You're the ones who are going to take [Tiny Gay Chris]," Piper realizes. "We won't have to," Harve assures her, "if you can eliminate the exposure risk." Piper's all, "Expose this, jackass," and flings her Hands Of Discontent at the boys in white. Once again, Harvey just snatches the explosive mojo and snuffs it out in his fist. Harve patiently explains that he and Jean are "neutral" entities, and only take action as a last recourse. "Based on your past success in covering up your own magic," he continues evenly, "we've decided to give you a chance to take care of the problem yourselves before it gets out of hand." "Clean it up," he warns them. "Or we will," Jean finishes, thereby earning his SAG card. Harvey wiggles his fingers around, and the boys mottle away.
The Ps glance grimly at each other before Phoebe mentions their one advantage: They know they're reliving the day, whereas The Cleaners seemingly haven't a clue. Raige rolls her eyes and starts to gripe, but Piper, leaping into action, orders them both to zip it. "Go to the Book and work on the dragon," she tells them as she bounds up the stairs, "and don't take your eyes off [Tiny Gay Chris]." "Where are you going?" Raige asks. "To call a higher power," Piper yells, disappearing. Phoebe and Raige frown.
Bridal Boudoir. Piper storms in, bellowing for the Dolt. The bastard makes her beg for a little while, then finally orbs in when Piper screams that Tiny Chris is in trouble. She quickly fills him in on the situation, and the Dolt immediately gets pissy. "How could you let this happen?" he demands. Piper loses it, and it is indeed a thing of beauty: "How could I let this happen? You take off, and suddenly I'm responsible for every little thing? Where the hell were you? Why weren't you watching over his every little move from your lofty perch?" You know, if this whole divorce thing leads to a season full of Dolt-bashing, I'm all for it. Speaking of Dolt-bashing, what the hell is up with his hair? They spackled some gel onto it but neglected to brush it out, so he's got this immensely stoopid claw jutting up from the crown of his head. Jesus Christ. Whatever. Holly's acting the hell out of this scene, and I can't waste any more time on this asshole than I already have. "I'm beating myself up enough already about this," Piper continues, "and I don't need you beating me up, too." When the Dolt interrupts Piper's tirade to insist that she doesn't understand The Cleaners' purpose, Holly gets in a terrific line reading with, "No, you don't understand. I cannot do this! I cannot lose Wyatt too!" See? So good was the line reading, I used the brat's real name. The Dolt drops his attitude to deliver one of his endlessly boring pep talks, "you weren't put in this position to lose [Chris]" and "there is a way" and "maybe it's a maternal solution" and you know what, Dolt? If you're going to be so fucking useless in times of crisis, you might as well orb the fuck back to wherever it is you came from and leave us all the hell alone. Piper bites her lower lip and seethes.
Attic. Piper enters and basically admits that the Dolt was no help whatsoever. Huge surprise there. Raige contributes some bad news of her own: "Dragons predate the Book," so no help there, either. She and Phoebe have brewed their most powerful vanquishing potion, but they'll still need "a tooth or a scale" to ensure its success. Suddenly, Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in, and she doubles over in agony. This time, she's pretty much channeling the fear of an entire city neighborhood. In fact, she's channeling it so hard, the Fun Bags are about to pop out of their strappy salmon-colored sling for some air. Piper immediately collects Tiny Gay Chris from his playpen and urges, "Whaddya say we find the dragon?"
Jump cut to forked lightning zigzagging through the sky above a blasted city street. Various frantic extras race past the charred hull of a city bus as the Glamorous Ladies orb into the middle of the street. Nice work on the shadows in this effect, by the way. They've actually made note of the various sources of light hitting the women once they materialize, and the resulting collection of shadows gradually materializes as they do, rather than simply appearing once they've landed. It's the little things that bump up an episode's grade, you know? Admittedly, one can never rely on the big things, because the douchebags responsible for this mess always manage to fuck those up, but whatever. The gals plus Tiny Chris stride past various gutted and flaming cars to find the dragon hunkered down in a jerry-rigged nest on the far end of the boulevard. Tiny Gay Chris slobbers with glee. Raige pinches her eyes shut and calls for one of the beast's scales with her orbing telekinesis. A chunk of dragon flesh starts to dislodge itself from the tail, but the dragon shrieks, propels itself forward before the orbing completes, and rises up on its hind legs to roar. Tiny Chris giggles as his mom stumbles across a cunning plan. Piper passes the kid off to Phoebe, instructs her sister to ensure that Tiny Chris sees her, and darts out of the frame to confront the dragon. The beastie propels itself violently into the air, swings around over the wreckage in a great arc, then dives straight for Piper's head. The second Tiny Chris realizes what's going on, he slobbers some more and twists his chubby wrist. The dragon instantly vanishes in a cloud of rapidly dissolving orbs.
Unfortunately, the dragon's last flaming loogie had already been unleashed. The force of that blast sends Piper sliding backwards down the asphalt on her ass. She presently ends up at Raige's feet. "I'm okay!" she insists, still cringing a bit. She quickly collects herself and rises to natter cooing congratulations at Tiny Gay Chris. Speaking of nattering, Phoebe blithers something stupid about "the mother-child bond." Stow it, you dippy, focus-grabbing shrew. Raige lets her eyes wander about the ruined neighborhood, and wonders how they're going to clean up the mess. Cue Harvey and Jean, who mottle in off to the side. "Actually," Harvey announces, "you won't." Harve wiggles his fingers to mojo Tiny Chris into Jean's arms. "No!" Raige yells, snatching at Piper and Phoebe's hands. The Ps plus Tiny Chris vanish upwards. Harvey and Jean roll their eyes at each other.
Manor hall. Raige orbs in at the foot of the stairs alongside Phoebe and Piper, with Tiny Gay Chris perched on his mother's hip. "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!" Harvey and Jean materialize on the carpet. "I will not lose him!" Piper growls, twisting her torso to shield Tiny Gay Chris from the boys in white. Harve wiggles his fingers, and Tiny Gay Chris flares out of Piper's arms 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. "Don't worry," Harve breathes. "You won't remember any of this, anyway." He wiggles his fingers one last time. Over on the sun porch, the playpen and carousel vanish, replaced by the ottoman and lamp, while up in the Bridal Boudoir, 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. Piper, Raige, and Phoebe slowly push themselves onto their knees. "Do you remember?" Raige asks, unsure of herself. "Absolutely everything," Phoebe confirms. Raige guesses, "The spell must have worked." The camera tightens in on Piper's agitated face as she insists, "But not for [Chris]. He's gone." And so, too, is she, as we scamper off into the final commercial break.
Attic. Piper stares pensively out at the rain while Phoebe and Raige fruitlessly abuse the Book and a scrying crystal, respectively. After a moment, Piper turns to muse, "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Maybe instead of trying to stop them, we should get them to try to stop us." "You lost me," Phoebe sighs. Not hard, dimwit, but that's not important right now. What matters is this: As The Cleaners' sole purpose is to prevent magic's exposure, Piper proposes that the Glamorous Ladies intentionally expose their various abilities and force The Cleaners to deal with them. Phoebe worries that Harve and Jean will just make them disappear as well. "They wouldn't dare," Piper assures her before concluding, "So, let's give them something to clean up."
Channel Six Newsroom. That slap-happy polyethylene idiot from the top of the hour finishes up the evening's forecast just as Raige orbs directly onto the set with the Feebs. Phoebe immediately latches onto weather guy's lapels and levitates fifteen feet into the air. The anchorwoman, who also happens to be the Presidio reporter from earlier, expertly ad-libs, "Um. Er. I don't know what's going on here, exactly." And that's why they pay her the big bucks, right? Raige interrupts with, "It's called 'magic,' Kinesha. Witchcraft, specifically." "Kinesha" -- hee! Raige gets a mischievous glint in her eye and adds, "I really like your jacket!" Kinesha's outerwear instantly dissolves into a cloud of orbs to reform in Raige's outstretched arms. Raige rather territorially clutches the stolen item of clothing to her chest as the slap-happy jackass plunges to the studio floor behind the shocked anchor. Phoebe hops into the frame with, "Wanna see more magic? Let's check in with Piper, live at the Golden Gate Bridge!" The camera pans over to a monitor, and okay, fine: This is horribly low-rent. I can't deny that at all. However, what saves it is Holly's gorgeous "yeah, this is a lousy effect -- fuck it" attitude. She steps in front of what is so obviously a green-screen projection of the Golden Gate Bridge. She pauses for the briefest of moments and tosses the camera a smile as fake as the background, as if to say, "Can you believe this shit?" Hee! Piper then turns to "face" the "bridge," and recites the trusty "Object Of Objection" spell:
Let the Object of Objection
Become but a Dream
As I cause the Seen
To become Unseen.
The Golden Gate Bridge just melts away from the top down in a series of thin gold streaks that flare out briefly when they hit the deck of the roadway, before the entire thing vanishes completely. Too fun. "You might want to take an alternate route to work in the morning," Piper grins.
Attic. The ladies orb in, congratulating each other on a job well done. Harvey and Jean follow, wondering why they still remember the day's events. The gals aren't about to reveal that particular secret, and threaten to replicate their hijinks on the evening news as often as necessary until Tiny Gay Chris is once more safely ensconced in the Manor. Harvey and Jean threaten to "erase" the Charmed Ones if they insist upon such a course of action. Piper calls their bluff. "You can't," she smiles, shaking her head, tossing around her fabulous hair in the process. "Not if you're truly neutral, that is. You see, if you get rid of us, you tip the balance from good to evil. That's hardly being neutral, now is it?" Harve and Jean blink. "You will give me my son back," Piper calmly announces, "or I swear -- the only thing you'll be doing for the fifty years is cleaning up after us." Harvey allows a considered pause before asking, "If we do return him, how do we know you'll be able to control him?" "I'm his mother," Piper asserts. "If anyone can, I can." Girl, please. Just wait 'til Tiny Chris hits his first kegger in junior high and starts vanquishing all those jock assholes who've been calling him a faggot since the first day of kindergarten. Harvey's not nearly as skeptical as I, though, for he wiggles his fingers, and Tiny Gay Chris presently reappears in his product-placed playpen. The Cleaners prepare to take their leave. Unfortunately for all of us, Phoebe leaps in front of them and proceeds to browbeat them into erasing all evidence of that morning's riot at The Mirror. To shut her the fuck up, Harvey waves a hand in the air and wearily announces, "It's done." "Good luck," he offers to Piper by way of goodbye, "because believe me, you're going to need it." Harve and Jean mottle out of there.
Phoebe pierces my eardrums with squealing baby-talk until the scene gradually and mercifully cross-fades to a shot of the restored Golden Gate Bridge, laden with early morning rush-hour traffic. Over at Ritzteukolskyandruben Please Hold, Flo tensely taps her toe on the carpet. Her "interview" with Lecherous Ed doesn't seem to be going to well. "Unless you make it worth my while," Lecherous Ed leers, "I may find your performance here…lacking." If you know what he means, and I think you do. Fluttery Flo suddenly undergoes a complete personality transplant. No, seriously. Her body language loosens up entirely, and she shoots Lecherous Ed a smoldering come-hither stare. "I like a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to ask for it," she claims. "Now," she continues, flirtatiously twirling her hair, "are you afraid to come get it?" "Right here?" he stammers. Flo's all, "You betcha, big boy." Lecherous Ed leans over to his intercom and instructs his secretary to hold his calls, then jumps up to grope Flo. Flo rises to her feet, and, just as Ed rounds the corner of his desk, shouts, "Flowerpot!" A heavy vase orbs off its nearby table to crash into Ed's head. As he drops to the floor, groaning, Flo morphs into a smugly triumphant Raige. Famous Original Flo raps at the office door and enters to find the evil boss-man crumpled in a heap on the carpet. Raige lies that she "overheard" Lecherous Ed's inappropriate threats, and adds with a wink, "He'll be lucky if you don't sue." Flo, elated, thanks Raige repeatedly. Raige smiles fondly and shrugs it off. "I was wondering why I took this job," she confesses, "and now I know. Thank you." They hug, and Raige takes off.
P3. The Dolt orbs in to find Chris pulling on his sneakers. Scruffy Nate is nowhere to be found. Chris announces that he's "going back to what [he] originally said" -- that is, Big Chris doesn't have time to take care of both Tiny Chris and Scruffy Nate. The Dolt tries to argue, but Big Chris shuts him down. The Dolt mildly agrees to reassign Scruffy Nate, and orbs out. Chris rolls his eyes. I am so with you, hubby o' mine. That father of yours is a moron.
Meanwhile, back at the Manor, Piper cuddles Tiny Gay Chris on her lap in a wicker rocking chair on the sun porch. Sunlight filters in through the stained-glass windows to bathe them in a rosy glow. Tiny Gay Chris slobbers and breathes through his mouth as the camera slowly tracks backwards and we fade to black.
week: Jenny McCarthy? And me fresh out of cyanide. Enjoy!