We fade up on what appears to be a converted warehouse, and linger for a moment on all six stories of the façade before heading inside. A-ha! It's home to Raige's fucked-up temp agency, and the place is even worse than I imagined. Okay, I didn't imagine it at all, honestly, but had I wasted time and brain space fashioning Raige's place of serial employment in my head, this reality would be worse. The place is full of tatty furniture and overflowing file cabinets with nary a computer in sight. You can tell the people responsible for this show haven't set foot in an employment agency in twenty years. A pasty, doughy fortysomething whose reading glasses threaten to slide off the end of his nose flips through a huge Rolodex of possible assignments, rattling off a string of job titles like "bagger" and "checkout clerk" that would send any Berkeley alumna whose name is not Raige Matthews screaming out the door to find another goddamned agency. Not that there's anything wrong with working nights at the Piggly-Wiggly to pay the rent, mind you, but she was a social worker, right? So find something commensurate with her education, talents, and skill set, you jackass. Whatever. I have to stop screaming at the people on the TV, because they never listen, and it just makes me hoarse.
Raige settles into a chair and wonders if the Doughboy has noticed anything "unusual" about her recent assignments. He hasn't, naturally, so Raige elaborates, asking if he finds it odd that things go "wonky" at her assignments shortly after she arrives. You can tell she's leaving an opening for the Doughboy to admit that he's some sort of Stoopid Magikal Kreature who's been surreptitiously guiding her to those locations where her bitchcraft would be of most use. Which forces me to say, Raige, honey, you're not in Maryland, the Doughboy is not God, and this show is not pulling in anything near twelve million viewers a week, so just give it up. Raige finally sighs and pleads for any assignment Doughboy sees fit to give her, as long as it's "normal." The Doughboy flips through the cards for a bit before yanking out a blue one with, "I have the perfect thing for you."
Cut to a rubber-gloved Raige flushing the contents of a bedpan down the toilet. "This is not what I had in mind," she grimaces, placing the stainless steel piss pot on an expensive-looking marble-topped sideboard in the hallway outside the bathroom. As she strips off her gloves, she shoots a suspicious side-eye down the hall. The camera cuts to her point of view, and we see white-haired Christine Healy sneaking a peek at Raige's hand of cards, which had been lying face-down on a baize-covered table to a window. Granny Healy perches on a plush motorized wheelchair, by the way, so I'm assuming she's responsible for the foulness Raige just sent into the sewer. Though, you know, the hell? Did she do her business right there on the wheelchair while they were playing pinochle? 'Cause that's disgusting. And it can't be terribly comfortable, either. Anyway, Raige gently busts Granny Healy with a light, "Wasn't someone supposed to call a trump?" Granny Healy flutters and claims she was waiting for Raige to return from dealing with her wretched waste matter. Or something like that. As Raige takes her seat with her back to the window, Granny Healy marvels that Raige even knows how to play the game, as pinochle's a lost art as far as those rotten kids today are concerned. For good reason, Grandma. Anything more complicated than hearts bores me to tears, and I can't imagine many in my cohort feeling otherwise. Raige smiles fondly and admits that she used to play it with her non-Grams Grams all the time. "Lucky me," Granny Healy whoops in that too-bright way televised old ladies have of speaking. "No," Raige says, still smiling. "Lucky me." "Babysitting a sick old lady?" Granny Healy pshaws with a knowing glint in her eye. "How is that lucky for you?" Raige awkwardly dodges this query by blurting, "I think it's time for your medicine!" and slapping her cards down on the table. She rises and turns towards the window just as Granny Healy spots a Flaming Ball Of Death hurtling across the front yard. "Watch out!" she cries, but it's too late. The FBOD crashes through the glass to smack hapless Raige to the carpet, where she does not erupt in a veil of fire to howl and wail and merrily blaze her way down to Hell. Hmmm. So, it's not a Flaming Ball Of Death, but rather a Flaming Ball Of Smacking Hapless Raige To The Carpet. Interesting.
Raige groans and gingerly rolls onto her side. The Flaming Ball Of Smacking Hapless Raige To The Carpet gouged a bloody gash just below her right shoulder, and has left a bit of her white strappy top charred and smoking. A casually dressed middle-aged gentleman races down the stairs, calling, "Mother?" "I'm okay," Granny Healy assures her son. "The sons of bitches missed me!" Heh. Foul-mouthed old ladies are funny, especially when they're wearing expensive pearls and a twin set. When they're toothless and filthy and living out of a box under the El tracks? Not as amusing. Raige squints her eyes and groans, "So much for normal," as we smack into the opening credits.
You know what I adore about the opening credits? In all of Holly's shots, she's got this expression on her face that practically shouts, "I can't believe the shit I put up with for a fucking paycheck." God love her.
The opening travelogue is endless, mainly because everybody and their mom are guest-starring tonight. Including, apparently, a shark. However, the travelogue does feature many lovely shots of fog rolling in towards the city from the ocean, so its length doesn't bother me as much as it might otherwise. Oh, and tonight's Travelogue Ovary just happens to be wailing the episode-appropriate "Stop haunting me -- it should be easy, as easy as when you stop wanting me." Good Lord. We're six minutes into the hour, and nothing's pissed me off yet. Something horrid's just around the corner. I can feel it.
AAAUUUAUUAUUUAGH! Shut UP, Phoebe! Over at the Manor, Moron McDipshitty herself levitates six feet above the main hallway, eyes closed and legs crossed, chanting, "Ommm." For some reason, there's a pillow snugly affixed to her bottom, like, hello? You're floating in the air. What's with the fucking pillow, asshole? And how is it not falling to the floor? She stapled it to her bony ass, didn't she? That's it. She stapled the fucking pillow to her bony fucking ass. Hag. Dimwit hag asshole. ANY-way, Piper, drudge that she is, bustles about beneath her rude -- rude! -- sister, vacuuming the rug. Phoebe stops chanting, grimaces, and then has the utter gall to bitch, "Piper, do you mind? I'm trying to meditate up here." Oh! My! God! Float your levitating hag ass up to your fucking boudoir if you want some privacy, you ungrateful fucking shrew! ACK! I HATE her. Piper, rather than beating the Feebs like a piñata with the upright, simply wonders why Phoebe can't "block out the noise," and oh, boy. Here it comes. Phoebe claims she has no problem with the vacuum. Nope. What's setting Feebs's dykey haircut on end are Piper's "nerves," which Phoebe is presently channeling. Intrusive bitch. Piper rolls her eyes and growls, "It's my first date, not yours." Oh, so we're going there tonight, too, are we? Joy. Not. Phoebe whines, "But it feels like my first date." "Can't you control it?" Piper snaps, and thank God she's finally calling the Feebs on this empath bullshit. Phoebe insists that she's trying, but you can tell Piper's not buying it. Go on and whack her, Piper. We both know she deserves it.
The injured Raige mopes through the front door, and her entrance so startles the Feebs that she hoots and yodels and drops straight down onto the floor. "Talk about your psychic hit," Feebs grouses as Piper helps her to her feet. Raige, knowing what Phoebe means and not wanting any of it, sneers, "Don't ask!" as she motors towards the kitchen. Piper catches sight of the gaping wound above Raige's right tit and squeals, "What happened?" Raige shrugs it off, insisting that she's fine, but Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in to give the lie to that assertion. "You're not fine, [Raige]," Phoebe blares. "You're scared to death! Why don't people in this family own their emotions?" Oh, my…I just…fucking bitch…Jesus! Let's let Raige do the talking for me: "This empath thing?" she acidly notes, arching a brow. "Very annoying." Thank you! Raige spins on her heel and marches into the kitchen. Piper shoots a warning glare at the Feebs before trailing after Raige. Big Gay Chris orbs into the hallway, and my, but he's lovely tonight. He's working a royal-blue-over-white double-t-shirt combo, and it really brings out his eyes. Also bringing out his eyes? Mascara. And an inch of eye shadow. And his lips are more than a bit glossy and pink. I'll not wonder why he orbed in from his drag act without first washing his face to note that he's finally brushed his hair, and he's looking rather dapper, indeed. My pretty, dapper drag queen of a husband politely asks the Feebs, "You haven't seen [my dad], have you?" Phoebe snarls something both unpleasant and uncalled for before heading off to annoy her sisters again, some more.
Back in the kitchen, Raige moistens a washcloth at the sink and presses it against her gaping, bloody wound. Piper wonders which dark demonic force left a hole in Raige's shoulder, and offers her assistance in vanquishing the beast. Raige announces her intention to follow through on her own as Phoebe and Big Gay Chris enter, and -- nope! Can't deal with this scene at all. Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in about forty-seven times in the space of a minute and a half, mildly irritating her sisters and massively irritating me, so I'll cut to what's really important: Big Gay Chris's hair is completely different from when he orbed into the Manor mere seconds ago. And he's washed his face. Seriously -- the part's migrated from left side of his scalp to the center, the whole mop's gone shaggy and unkempt, and the lip gloss has vanished. Sigh. This episode was going so well until Phoebe showed up. She really does ruin everything, doesn't she? In any event, there's no small amount of chatter regarding Phoebe's stoopid new power and her sisters' increasing impatience with it. Phoebe finally blurts, "Should I just keep all your feelings to myself? Would that make you guys happy?" "YES!" Piper and Raige shout. Hee! Big Gay Chris glances nervously from one P to the , and bails. Heh. Raige, still buffing her gaping, bloody wound with the washcloth, states that she's heading back to Granny Healy's home to ensure the old woman's okay. "But you're scared to death!" Phoebe shrieks with appropriate musical accompaniment, so Raige calls out, "Apple!" Her orbing telekinesis snatches one from the fruit bowl on the center island and shoves the thing into Phoebe's yammering maw. HA! Hey, Raige, if you plug up her nostrils with those bananas, maybe she'll suffocate. Disappointingly, Raige ignores my suggestion to flounce out as Piper eyes Phoebe with bemused glee. After a beat, Piper smirks, "Well, that's one way to do it." Heh. Phoebe bites into the apple as Piper bites back a full-fledged guffaw.
Somewhere…else, an ancient Asian gentleman garbed in a Franciscan cassock grinds something with a mortar and pestle while grunting, "All sold out, I'm afraid." "Good for me," he adds with an affable shrug. "Bad for you." The actor's name is Mako, which is ironic given the fact that he's missing all of his front teeth. We soon learn he's addressing Big Gay Chris, who asks, "How long will it take you to make more?" By the way, Part Check: It's packed its bags and moved from the center of his scalp back towards the left, but not quite as far over as it was when he first appeared. Everything's sort of swept back from his forehead anyway in this scene, so it's a bit obscured. In any event, as Mako explains the difficulty involved in creating more of the potion Big Chris wants, the shot cuts to a wide-angle, and we find ourselves in some sort of underground apothecary. Appropriate, I suppose, given the play they raped for tonight's A-plot. Expository babbling follows, during which we learn that the particular potion Big Chris seeks somehow hides secrets. As Friar Mako whinges about the unreliability of demonic suppliers and whatnot, a rocky wall nearby bulges out to disgorge the silvery CGI outline of a human figure. It's very TLC's "Waterfalls," much like the Shocker Demon from seasons past. Big Chris, focused on Friar Mako's gross mouth, takes no notice of the new presence. "Swampland," Friar Mako reveals, "is where you'll find the Kotochul egg your potion requires." Way to be specific there, Gappy Yokum. Which damn swampland? Whatever. Big Chris apparently knows what he means, and snippily groans, "Fine. I'll get you your damn egg. Just make sure you're ready." Friar Mako smiles serenely by way of reply. As Chris backs away from the table, the silvery CGI outline vanishes into the outcropping of rock. Chris darts his eyes around suspiciously, then orbs upwards out of the cave. Friar Mako watches him go, then turns to glance at the silvery CGI outline as it reappears and fills out into Technicolor Dolt form. Ew. Shut up, Dolt. The Dolt glares as Friar Mako sticks his tongue out through the disgusting hole where his incisors should be.
Incontinence Estates. Raige, who's changed from her crispy white strappy top into a fresh blue strappy top, leans in towards the voice box at the front gate, begging Granny Healy to grant her entry. Several on the forums have noted that Raige is actually pressing the buzzer, not the intercom. Granny Healy's probably whizzing around inside in her wheelchair, screaming, "Whoever you fucking are, you're pressing the wrong fucking button, you rotten son of a whore!" As Raige waits for a response that never arrives, Balthazar Getty wanders onto the sidewalk from his equally imposing mansion across the street. For reasons that should be obvious from that link, I'll be calling him Slampiece Buttfuck, even though the character's name is actually Romeo Montague. Um. I mean, "Richard Montana." ["I'd like to interrupt for a moment with a bit of MS Word spell-check trivia -- namely, that the dictionary's spelling suggestion for 'Buttfuck' is 'Potluck.' Enjoy." -- Sars] Slampiece Buttfuck ambles over to his mailbox and calls out, "Don't you think it's a little risky coming back here?" Raige tosses a sullen and supremely amusing glare in his general direction, then hits the buzzer again to plead once more with Lady Capulet. Ooops. That should be "Mrs. Callaway." Oh, hell. Let's just call her Lady Callapulet and be done with it.
Anyway, Slampiece Buttfuck is nothing if not persistent, and interrupts again with, "No, seriously. In case you didn't notice, there's kind of a war going on between these two homes." Raige flips her hair around and acidly intones, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." "Don't you?" Buttfuck mutters under his breath. He crosses the street as Raige yells, "It's me! Pinochle Girl!" into the buzzer. Heh. "You're not the first, you know," he reveals, his sudden proximity startling Raige a bit. "Others have come to try to help. You should leave before you get hurt." Raige frostily notes that she can handle it herself, thanks very much, and would he be so kind as to leave her alone? "You're not a muse," Buttfuck smiles, giving her the once-over. "Or a Whitelighter." He pauses for a moment, then realizes, "You're a witch, like us." "How do you know that?" Raige demands, instantly suspicious. "Ever since I was a little kid," he exposits softly, "one magical being or another has come to try to help end the feud. Hasn't worked, though. I mean, this last truce was the longest, but…" He trails off with a shrug, just as a Flaming Ball Of Wanton Mailbox Destruction arches across the Callapulets' lawn. Slampiece Buttfuck wraps his arms around Raige and dives for the ground as the FBOWMD races across the street to complete the act for which it was named. Bits of the vanquished mailbox clatter to the sidewalk as…
…we cut to a slow tracking shot through the Manor bathroom, where Piper perches on the vanity while Phoebe applies a little color to her lips. Piper examines the results in a hand mirror, raises a displeased brow, and instructs, "Okay, think 'newly single mom,' not 'two-bit hooker.'" Phoebe apologizes, explaining that she's a little distracted because of -- you guessed it -- her stoopid new power. There's some bitchery about Phoebe enduring "PMS for three sisters every month," combined with some whining about how the stoopid new power is "driving [her] crazy," before the two move on to Raige's dilemma. Phoebe knows for a fact that Raige really does want their help, despite her claims to the contrary. "That's it," Piper grunts. "I'm staying home." "Why?" Phoebe bleats anxiously. "To make sure you leave [Raige] alone." If I were her, I'd stay home simply because I wouldn't be caught dead out in public in that hideous thing she's calling a blouse. It's some gauzy camisole top that's the same exact tone as Raige's Volkswagen, and trust me: That shade of green should never be placed to healthy human skin of any color. What's more, Piper's sporting a fully visible black bra beneath it, and the whole thing makes her look bloated around the middle. Piper, doll, do not borrow clothes from your sisters ever again. Piper hops off the sink to putter out of the bathroom, distractedly fastening an earring as Phoebe insists that Piper "get back on the dating horse." "The truth is," Piper eventually admits, "I'm a little scared. I mean, I was married to an angel, for crying out loud. Who's gonna compare to that?" Spare me the Dolt-fluffing, Piper. If I haven't bought that crap by now, I never will. Phoebe teases, "You also dated a demon [no, she didn't, unless you're counting "Greasy Stalker Dan, which I should, but I'm not], a warlock, and a ghost -- that's what you should be scared of." "Super pep talk, sis," Piper snarks as the doorbell rings. "You look beautiful," Phoebe kvells like a mother on her daughter's prom night. "Feh," Piper pffts, rolling her eyes right out of the frame. Heh.
Downstairs, Piper opens the door to greet her date, a pathetic dork who looks like a cross between Greg Kinnear and an eel. What? It's true. He's way overdone the eyebrow waxing, and now they're so far apart, they seem to be dragging his beady eyes to either side of his head. Also, his whole lower face is sort of yanked forward into a long snout with a tiny little line of razor teeth beneath it, peeking through painfully thin lips. Oh, shut up. I know what I'm talking about, and this man is an eel. Anyway, Piper and The Non-Amazing Eel Man make with the awkward small-talk as Phoebe whispers, "He really likes you! I can feel it!" from behind the door. Piper shoots a scorching side-eye at the Feebs, excuses herself for a moment, ducks out of sight to remind Phoebe to leave Raige the fuck alone, and grabs her clutch to exit the Manor. Phoebe mumbles "I will leave [Raige] alone" to herself a couple of times before collapsing internally and shrieking, "I can't! [Big Gay] Chris!" Big Gay Chris instantly orbs in with a few splotches of mud on his fetching blue t-shirt. Part Check: It's all the way back over on the left, and the overall shape of his hair closely resembles what it was at the top of the hour. "I need you to watch [your Tiny Gay Self] for me," Phoebe informs him. "No. Way!" Big Chris protests. "I don't do babies. The one-and-under crowd? Not my thing." And this is why I love him so much. As a Dolt-shaped blob of orbs coagulates beside him in the parlor, Big Chris sarcastically adds, "[The Dolt], however? Great with kids." Big Chris turns to the Dolt and pointedly sneers, "Especially his own." As Phoebe obliviously blithers on about something or other, Big Chris hisses, "You're not following me, are you?" "WhyshouldIbe?" the Dolt slurs in a drearily monotonous response. Phoebe babbles some instructions at the Dolt and races out towards the kitchen. "You get that?" Chris snots as he orbs up through the ceiling. The Dolt splutters impotently for a bit before chasing after the Feebs, insisting he can't take care of Tiny Chris, as he must "follow up on some…things," and why does Tiny Chris need a sitter, anyway? Where's Piper? Incidentally, the Dolt's scruffy, still tan, still pumped up from his summertime exertions, and not wearing flannel, but good goddamn, what the hell is up with his hair? It's like they scraped a flattened marmot off the side of I-94, gelled it up to Jesus, and plastered it onto his head. Douchebag. Phoebe drops Piper's date-bomb on the Dolt's massive blockhead and dashes off on her interfering-in-Raige's-life mission. The Dolt pouts. Shut it, idiot.
Out in the kitchen, Phoebe delicately fingers a white embroidered handkerchief stained with Raige's blood, like, washcloth, props people. She was using a dark blue washcloth to sand the edges off her gaping tit wound. Whatever. Phoebe folds the handkerchief in half and wings the following spell:
Lead me back from whence this came:
Help me help my sister's pain.
A swirling cloud of glowing golf balls engulfs the Feebs, who dematerializes.
Castle Montanague. A Buttfuck relative I'll be calling Benvolio slams through a door as the slampiece himself exchanges words with his irked father. Seems Lord Montanague blames Raige for this freshest outbreak of hostilities between the feuding families. Slampiece Buttfuck rightly argues that she's there to help, and huffs off with a highball glass filled with something chunky. He passes through a gorgeous marble-floored hallway to enter the massive, high-ceilinged library. Nice house, Buttfuck. He presents the chunky potion to Raige and explains that it's "a family recipe" that'll help her heal. She's bleeding again, by the way, likely from the dive to the grass a couple of scenes ago. And speaking of healing, why didn't she have the useless Dolt knit up that gaping tit wound instead of ruining another blouse? Oy. Lady Montanague sullenly strides past the open library doors with a tray of potions. She pauses long enough to give Raige the evil eye, then continues on her way. Buttfuck settles into a chair to gift us all with a little backstory. He claims the Flaming Ball Of Smacking Hapless Raige To The Carpet was in fact concocted by the Callapulets to throw suspicion upon the Montanagues, and therefore justify further escalation of the conflict. He adds that neither family is bad as Raige understands the word; they're just bad for each other.
As he's speaking, Benvolio slithers into the library to retrieve another tray of potions from a low table near the doors. Raige notices the scars marring Benvolio's neck, and quite naturally asks about them. Buttfuck explains that the Callapulets long ago cursed the Montanagues with a disfiguring plague, to which they retaliated with a pox of boils. Raige examines Buttfuck's relatively clear complexion and wonders why he's not sporting the same sort of scars his kinsman has. Buttfuck claims the plagues afflicted only active practitioners of magic. As he himself had rejected his own powers, or something, he remained unaffected. The last time Buttfuck practiced magic, he admits, it "brought [him] to a place [he doesn't] want to go to again." He rises and crosses to the mantel to direct Raige's attention to a framed photo. "That's Olivia, my fiancée," he notes, gesturing towards the picture. "Olivia Callaway." "Sleeping with the enemy," Raige smiles, nodding in approval. "She was actually killed in the crossfire last year," Buttfuck buzz-kills. D'oh! Raige, instantly apologetic, offers her condolences. "It's okay," Buttfuck allows. "You didn't know." Referring back to his dead Juliet, Buttfuck notes, "She'd be more upset than anybody that this truce ended -- she wanted peace." "I'm here to help," Raige assures him.
The camera shudders over to Olivia's portrait, which flares white. Olivia's spectral form emerges from the frame, and she looks a hell of a lot better as a ghost than she does in that assy Olan Mills horror from Kmart. Nice ghost effects this evening, by the way. Digital inserts of slightly overexposed footage shot on another soundstage, of course, but they've placed Rachelle Lefevre in a white gown (with cap sleeves, unfortunately, but you can't have everything) and have thrown about a dozen white lights on her while flipping on a fan so her loosely curled hair floats on an unearthly breeze. She seems luminescent as she wafts through the room to gaze upon Buttfuck and Raige. After eyeing Raige with more than a bit of distaste, Olivia turns to plunge through the wall into the adjoining study.
There, Olivia finds Lord Montanague reading at his desk. She grins and puckers out a malicious "Boo!" Lord Montanague glances up from his book. Shocked to see her once again, he starts, "Olivia? But you're a --" "Ghost?" she finishes for him. "Yeah. And it sucks, too. Believe me." Heh. "What do you want?" her would-have-been in-law asks. "What you took from me," she snaps, and they pull this cool skipped-frame thing to indicate her method of transport. One second, she appears to be hovering by the paneled wall, and in the instant, she's ten feet closer to the guy, even though it seems she's taken no more than three "steps." Olivia enumerates what she lost as she conjures a Flaming Ball Of I Have No Fucking Idea What This One's Gonna Do After Those Last Two. "My life," she counts, "and my love. One way or another, I'm gonna get them both back." "Th-th-there's a Charmed One here," Lord M. stutters. "She'll come after you." "I'm counting on it," Olivia menaces, before spectrally skipping over to the shuttered French doors that open onto the front lawn. She pauses, turns to face Lord M., then smoothly shoots backwards through the glass. Hovering above the yard, she winds up with the Flaming Ball Of I Have No Fucking Idea and hurls it into the study. The FBOIHNFI shatters through the doors and plows into Lord M.'s chest, erupting in a spray of white sparks upon impact. Lord M. drops back out of the frame.
The shattering glass interrupts Raige and Buttfuck's tête-à-tête, and they race into the hallway. The moment before Buttfuck flings open the study doors, the editors insert a three-frame shot of Olivia and her eerily floating hair, with the background flickering from white to black. Lady Montanague gasps, "Please, God, no!" as she races past her son to keen over her husband's mangled corpse, and it was a Flaming Ball Of Death after all, apparently. Only instead of frying his ass to a cinder, it left a gory, sucking hole in his chest. I think I see ribs. Wicked cool, yo. Raige, still pressing a cloth to the gory, sucking hole in her own chest, angles past Lady Montanague to peer through the splintered French doors. Phoebe materializes in the picture window across the way at Incontinence Estates, and mugs with the bloody handkerchief. Raige presses her lips together and glares right on out into the commercial break.
[72 virg=ins], only they've renamed it "Anthony's" at some point in the last five years. Inside, a red-shirted, weary waiter who looks like the love child of Boris Karloff and Humphrey Bogart takes Piper's unnecessarily complicated order. How unnecessarily complicated, you ask? Try this: "I'll have the salmon and fusilli with the eggplant, and can you make sure they use basil and not Italian parsley, and could you ask them to sauté the eggplant lightly, and also grill the salmon after the pasta is done? That way it won't dry out." Boris Bogart rolls his eyes as she obnoxiously natters on about the proper way to prepare her meal, then exits with a sigh of relief once she's finally shut up. The Non-Amazing Eel Man wiggles his eyebrows. "What?" Piper demands. "Nothing," shrugs The Non-Amazing Eel. "I just never dated an ex-chef before." "Was I being too picky?" Piper asks. GOD yes. Christ. I can't imagine the nasty things that poor, harassed waiter is doing to your food right now to get even with you, honey. Well, actually I can, because I used to wait tables myself, and sweet Jesus did we do some revolting things to the food meant for customers we hated. Do not piss off the waitrons, people. Anyway, Piper and The Non-Amazing Eel engage in nervous first-date chatter, and I could not care less about this situation if I tried, so let's cut to the chase: My mud-spattered husband discreetly orbs into the curtained service area where Humphrey Karloff's molesting Piper's seared salmon, and motors on over to her table. Piper's shocked and appalled. By Big Gay Chris's entrance, I mean. She hasn't tried that fish yet. Speaking of fish, The Non-Amazing Eel asks, "Who is this?" "Me?" Big Chris perks, cocking a brow. "I'm from the future." Piper bugs out her eyes, hastily excuses herself, and drags Big Chris off to the side to tear him a new one. As he's dragged out of the frame, Big Chris sort of catches the tip of his tongue between his front teeth and shoots The Non-Amazing Eel Man a look that says, "I will always be pretty, and you will always be a loser, asshole." Also, Part Check: It's a little off-center, and his hair's hanging lankly down either side of his face from the crown of his head. Wow. I just realized that tracking the vagaries of my husband's hair has been far more entertaining than anything Piper's done this evening. Anyway, back to the scene. "You're not serious about that guy, are you?" Big Chris snits. Piper flusters a response before retorting, "You know what? That's none of your business." Eyeing his filthy clothes, she snaps, "Where have you been?" "That's none of your business, MOM," Big Chris snots back. Changing the subject, he advises, "You better get home before your sisters kill each other." It takes barely a moment for Piper to guess what's wrong. "Phoebe?" she sighs. Big Chris nods his head grimly. Piper glances back at The Non-Amazing Eel. Smell ya later, dork.
Manor. Raige stomps into the front hall from the kitchen, with Phoebe noisily clomping along behind her. "I said I'm sorry," Phoebe howls. "What more do you want from me?" "'Sorry' doesn't begin to cover it," Raige snarls back. As the two snipe about Phoebe's interference, it becomes clear that Raige believes Slampiece Buttfuck's version of events, and she virtually accuses Phoebe of aiding and abetting the enemy. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? God, I hate her. Big Gay Chris orbs into the hallway with Piper, who whistles to get her feral sisters' attention. Part Check: No part -- Big Chris's hair's been swept back from his forehead into what appears to be a low-elevation pompadour. A pompadour plateau, if you will. Phoebe and Raige rather loudly fill Piper in on recent events -- so loudly, the Dolt scampers down the stairs with a half-filled bottle clutched in his fist to yell at them, lest they waken the sleeping Tiny Gay Chris with their rampant bitchery. Phoebe hustles everyone into the parlor for a processing summit, which she begins by vowing that the Callapulets had nothing to do with Lord Montanague's untimely demise. Which we already know, so could you ladies move this along, please? Piper, acting as mediator, patiently posits that if the Callapulets and the Montanagues both insist they've maintained the truce, then it's quite likely "a third party" stepped in at some point to rain havoc, mayhem, and destruction upon the two families. Piper suggests that Raige convince members of both to meet on the Manor's neutral ground for "peace talks." Big Gay Chris, who has an egg with his name all over it somewhere in the Everglades, is all, "Oh! And you have an ever-useless Elder right here in the parlor! Who better to broker an armistice between these two warring houses, both alike in indignity?" He slaps the Dolt on the back and orbs out through the ceiling. Raige stubbornly harbors some doubts about the process, but Piper argues, "It's worth a shot."
The camera cuts away from the parlor to super-speed across a craggy landscape before dumping us in Friar Mako's apothecary. Big Gay Chris gingerly removes the Everglades egg from a small sack and passes it to the good Friar. Part Check: Still no part, but no modified pompadour, either. Just a sort of shaggy tangle pulled back from his face. Friar Mako totes the egg over to a bubbling pot, where he cracks it open, dropping the egg's contents into the mix. The pot boils over and expels a gout of flame upwards towards the camera. The flames flare out, and we head…
…back to Castle Montanague, where Raige, clad in her third top of the evening, orbs into the late Lord Montanague's ruined study to find Slampiece Buttfuck dispiritedly examining a potion vial. She chides him for contemplating the use of magic to battle the Callapulets when he'd promised himself not to. Buttfuck rails about his dead dad and his dead fiancée and blah wah tragedy-cakes before barreling towards the door. Raige slyly orbs out into the hallway to block his passage with a smile. "You have two choices," she brightly states, crossing her arms to show she means business. "Either you can go over to [Incontinence Estates] and use your considerable influence -- not to mention your fairly neutral reputation -- and bring them to the peace table, or I can orb your butt down to Purgatory, and you can spend all of eternity getting a lovely sunburn!" "You're crazy!" Buttfuck counters. "Quite possibly," Raige allows. "More importantly: I'm actually serious. It's the only way to end the feud -- it's what Olivia would have wanted, right?" Buttfuck mulls this over while the camera scampers over to a nearby framed photo of Buttfuck and Olivia in happier times. The photographic image of Olivia's head morphs into her ghostly visage, and her ghostly visage is pissed.
Back at the Manor, the Dolt lopes into the kitchen with Raige's bloodstained white top, which he presents to Piper for inspection before dropping it into a simmering pot on the center island. Piper's working some heretofore-unheard-of mojo on the blouse to learn if Raige was hit with a Flaming Ball Of Whatever The Fuck I'm Supposed To Call These Things Now That Cole's Dead, or if the Flaming Ball was actually something else. The Dolt, trying his best to sound casual but ending up sounding desperate and lonely -- like, blow it out your ass, you pathetic piece of garbage -- asks, "So…how was your date?" "Short," is Piper's curt reply. "You mean, like, leprechaun short?" the Dolt teases. Piper allows a smile and explains that her date "was cut short" by their current crisis. There's a bit more of this before Piper gasps and points to Raige's soaked blouse, which has begun to glow. "It's getting lighter," she exclaims, "which means [Raige] was not hit by a [FBOWTF-Demian's-STCTTNTCD] -- she was hit by a plasma ball, and plasma only occurs on the spiritual plane." Ooo-kay, hon. We'll go with that. Phoebe barges in to announce that the Montanagues and Callapulets have arrived. Piper steers the dimwit and the ex-husband atticwards for a séance.
Attic. Piper explains to Lord Callapulet that a ghost is responsible for the late unpleasantness, and turns to offer a few séance instructions to the others assembled in the room as she lights a couple of candles. The most important of these instructions is "not to break the circle" before they've helped the spirit "move on," otherwise they'll have an irritated ghost "running amok" through the streets of San Francisco. Benvolio, agitated, tries to bolt, but Slampiece Buttfuck holds him back, insisting they remain to "see this thing through." Benvolio has good reason to be agitated, as we shall see, but let's first join the séance already in progress.
The group rings the table upon which Piper has placed the candles, and, one by one, they link hands. There's a moment of silent tension between Lord Callapulet and Lady Montanague before they finally latch onto each other, completing the circle. Piper turns to Raige, who recites the following:
Unknown spirit, we call to thee,
Those who wish to set you free:
Cross on over so we may help,
Come to us, reveal yourself.
"Cross on over"? I'll cross on over to smack you in the teeth for that hillbilly sentence construction, is what I'll do. Just saying. A whirlwind whips through the room, gradually shrinking in size until it swirls about above the table for a moment, then coalescing into Olivia's spectral form. She greets her father with apparent kindness before pivoting in the air to make cooing noises at her erstwhile fiancé. Lord Callapulet splutters, "But you attacked us. Why?" Olivia pivots back in that skipped-frame movement that apparently indicates ghostly irritation and spits, "Because you didn't avenge my death. That's why." "You were hit by one of your own," Lady Montanague breathes. "Not exactly true," Olivia sneers, skip-pivoting to face Benvolio. "Is it, Steve?" Busted! "This can't be you," Buttfuck insists. Oh, but it can, Buttfuck. It can. "I was wrong about the feud," Olivia insists. "But we can still be together -- after I get my revenge!" Olivia's spectral presence blows apart into a concussion wave that snuffs out the candles and forces the group backwards several steps. The circle's broken when Lady Montanague's hand slips from Lord Callapulet's grasp. They hurl accusations at each other for a bit before Lord Callapulet gathers his clan and stomps out. Lady Montanague shoots a withering glare at Benvolio before taking her leave as well. Benvolio guiltily shuffles after her, followed by Slampiece Buttfuck, despite Raige's exhortations that they all remain in the Manor. Raige, thwarted and furious, wheels on Phoebe and seethes, "time I tell you to butt out? BUTT OUT!" Atta girl. She races after Buttfuck, leaving Piper and the Dolt to gape. Phoebe's all, "The baby made me do it! No, um, wait a minute -- it's Cole! He's back! From Miami! Yeah, that's it! And he's…possessing my implants! My Cole-possessed implants made me do it!"
Not really, but I wouldn't put it past her.
"[Buttfuck], wait!" Raige calls as she hits the second-floor hall. Olivia materializes in the air before her to snarl, "Why don't we go after [Buttfuck] together?" before plunging into Raige's torso. Raige glows white and shudders into a blurry, triple-exposure version of herself for a moment. Once she's reformed, Rolivia takes a moment to smirk before sauntering in slow-motion out into the commercial break. DUN!
Manor kitchen. Aftermath. Piper's at the center island, busily mixing a potion while referring to instructions from the Book of Shadows. Phoebe jiggles in to snoop. "'Banishing A Ghost'"? she reads from the Book's entry. "I thought we weren't gonna try and help [Raige] anymore." "We're not," Piper contends. "We're just giving her an option." Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in, so she squints her eyes and announces, "You're worried." "So?" Piper evenly replies. "So, you can actually worry, and you're really just worried, whereas if I worry, people think I'm psychically intruding." If the shoe fits, beeyotch. Piper pretty much says the same thing, to wit: "Precisely." Heh. Piper funnels a bit of the mixture into a vial, and the two ladies exit.
Castle Montanague. Slampiece Buttfuck slumps morosely in a chair in his late father's study. Rolivia approaches through the hallway in slow-motion, flashes into plain old Olivia for five frames, and enters the room. If you frame through that bit, you'll discover that Olivia's looking in entirely the wrong direction. Just pointing that out. "Penny for your thoughts," Rolivia purrs to the distraught Buttfuck, who shoots a pained look in her direction. "What?" Rolivia shrugs. Slampiece Buttfuck admits that it was one of his dead fiancée's pet phrases. "Oh," Rolivia murmurs, slinking further into the room. "I should be more careful." Rolivia maintains that the ghost Buttfuck encountered in the Manor attic was right -- the feud can't be stopped, and as justice must be served, revenge is the way to go. "And the last man standing wins," she asserts. During all this, Buttfuck's crossed to an armoire, where he avoids looking her gaze by absently riffling through a drawer. "Why are you doing this?" Buttfuck finally asks, softly. Rolivia advances on him quietly. "Because it's the right thing to do," she whispers, touching his shoulder and turning him to face her. "Together, we can't lose," she smiles. The shot cuts to a low angle from across the room. Silhouetted against the moonlight and framed by the shattered French doors, Rolivia and Buttfuck lean in towards each other for a kiss as the night breeze flutters the curtains around them.
Friar Mako's Emporium Of Elixirs and Unguents. Mako distills Big Gay Chris's crimson potion into a vial as Big Chris asks, "Are you sure this is gonna work?" "As long as it doesn't make you violently ill," Friar Mako mildly replies. "Side effects," Mako shrugs off of Big Chris's deadpan glare. "You never know." Part Check: It's back on the left, but the surrounding locks have been foofed out a bit. "You sure it's worth the risk?" Friar Mako asks. Big Chris wouldn't have gone through the tremendous hassle of wading through the Florida wetlands if it weren't. Mako passes the vial to Big Chris, who wanders off to examine it in better light. "He won't tell me," the good Friar complains to an unseen, suspiciously Dolt-like presence. "Tell you what?" Big Chris mutters without turning around. "What you need the potion for," the Dolt's voice echoes as he materializes over by a brazier. "Other than your secrets, that is," he adds, easing over to Friar Mako's side. "This was a setup?" Big Chris snaps, outraged. Referring to the vial, he bitches, "This isn't even legit?" "It's legit," Friar Mako confirms, "but I'm afraid you have to answer to a higher power now." He toddles off to let the boys piss and moan at each other. Long story short, Big Gay Chris promises that the potion was meant to block Piper and Raige's emotions from Phoebe's stoopid new power. "You expect me to believe this wasn't meant to protect your secrets?" the Dolt grits. Big Chris is all, "Whatever. I've had it with this bullshit." Or maybe that was me. Fortunately, Piper rings the Dolt's bell at this point. Big Gay Chris smirks, "Looks like [My Tiny Gay Self] needs another babysitter, Dad." And that time, he actually added the "Dad" bit himself. The Dolt frowns and orbs off, taking the completed potion with him. "All right," Big Chris nods as he claps his hands together. "How fast can you make another one?" Friar Mako goggles.
Castle Montanague. "Take it," Rolivia croons as she presses a bottle of green liquid into Slampiece Buttfuck's hand. "You can do it." An explosion shudders through the main hallway. Benvolio ducks into the study to scream, "They're attacking!" Buttfuck and Rolivia share a searching look fraught with significance before he snatches up the potion and darts out into the hall. What follows is a badly filmed and edited fight scene between the Montanagues and the Callapulets out in the hallway. Or maybe it's the library. Hell, it might be taking place in some entirely new room we've never seen before. The point is, things get pretty muddled, and it's nearly impossible to make sense of them, thanks in no small part to the writer's decision to leave half of these people without proper names. So, I'll touch on the most important bits…
Some guy tosses a Flaming Ball Of I Shall Now Skin Your Knee at Benvolio, who collapses to the carpet. Slampiece Buttfuck hurls his vial into Some Guy's chest, and the impact sends Some Guy flying backwards through the air to smash into the wall. At least, I think Some Guy flew backwards into the wall. It might have been Another Guy Entirely, or even Lord Callapulet himself. I don't know. Anyhoo, Buttfuck drags Benvolio across the room just as Yet Another Guy unleashes a Flaming Ball Of I Despise Your Tremendously Large Television Set, Like, Where'd You Get The Money For That Vulgar Thing -- Some Slumming Getty Heir?, which vanquishes the offensive appliance in question, sending shards of glass sprinkling down on Buttfuck and Benvolio, who have ducked behind a sofa.
Meanwhile, Piper and the Feebs squeal into Castle Montanague's driveway in Phoebe's eye-searing Mini Cooper. (Thanks, guys!) The gals catch sight of the explosions within the Castle proper, and Phoebe triumphantly smirks, "Think she needs help now?" Stow it, you smug bitch. Phoebe and Piper hop out of the car.
Buttfuck takes out Some New And Exciting Guy with a potion bottle. Honestly? I have no idea if that person was male or female, so it might actually have been Some New And Exciting Gal. Just so you know. Lord Callapulet retaliates with a Flaming Ball Of Your Mother Wears Combat Boots. The booted lady of the castle, who has just rounded the corner into the room, takes the FBOYMWCB in the shoulder and passes out in the hall. Buttfuck, believing his mother's dead, conjures a Flaming Ball Of For Fuck's Sake, Will This Godforsaken Fight Scene Just End Already? and tosses it at Lord Callapulet. Piper, having charged in from the drive, unleashes the Hands Of Discontent and blows the thing up in mid-air. There's a pause, then Lord C. flings a Flaming Ball Of This Godforsaken Fight Scene Will End When And Only When Slampiece Buttfuck Collapses Bleeding And Possibly Dead To The Floor. Buttfuck obligingly accepts the FBOTGFSWEWAOWSBCBAPDTTF, and collapses to the floor, bleeding and possibly dead.
Rolivia races in from the study to kneel at Slampiece Buttfuck's side. "Wake up," she pleads with tears streaming down her face. "Please wake up! It's me -- it's Olivia." The camera leaps into the air and shoots across the room to land on Piper: "Oh. [Fuck.]" Lady Montanague has sufficiently recovered from her FBOYMWCB to rend her clothes and gnash her teeth and such. "If I can't have him in life," Rolivia vows, "I'll have him in death!" Rolivia latches onto Buttfuck and orbs out through the ceiling. But? How? She's? I thought? It's not her power to orb? Oh, fuck it. "[Buttfuck]!" Lady Montanague wails as the screen cuts to black. "[BUTTFUCK]!"
Face! You thought we were going to commercial, didn't you? Don't worry, so did I. We're actually heading into one of the creepiest scenes I've ever encountered on this show. And I say this knowing full well that they ripped it all off from George Sluizer's The Vanishing, but hey, if Kiefer can swipe that entire movie for a crappy remake, Charmed can crib from it for a couple of scenes, right?
The sound, which had crescendoed with the orb and Lady Montanague's wail, cuts out as abruptly as the picture. Through the blackness, we hear a match struck and, presently, that match enters the inky frame to light a candle. The candle flares to reveal a fairly unconscious Buttfuck with Rolivia reclining behind him, stroking his face as she soothes, "It's okay. You're all right, sweetheart. We couldn't be together before, but we can be together now." Buttfuck slowly opens his eyes and lets his head drop to his right. His eyes widen in horror as the camera pulls back to reveal that he's actually lying to Olivia's rotted corpse. Buttfuck screams as the camera twists above him and flies up out of what's revealed to be a sealed marble bier, helpfully labeled "CALLAWAY." And with that, we head into the final commercial break.
The camera pans across rows of headstones before settling on the Mausoleum's mausoleum, which the Mausoleums apparently share with the eminent Callapulets. Slampiece Buttfuck's gasping mouth suddenly fills the screen and despite my best intentions, I start screaming, "LIPS! LIIIIIIPS!" Oh, my wasted youth. All of those weekend evenings at the Capital City Mall's Midnight Madness, tossing toilet paper at the screen and frozen hot dogs at the back row. No, I wasn't one of the freaks who dressed like Magenta. I just yelled a lot. Hey, it wasn't like there was anything else to do in Central Pennsylvania on a Saturday night. Shut up. Anyway, the camera stays close on Balthazar Getty's face during what follows, tracking up from his mouth to his frantically darting eyes as Rolivia sings, "It's the only way we can be together." Buttfuck whips his head towards the candle, which slowly starts to gutter as the oxygen evaporates in the crypt. "Dying's not so hard," Rolivia whispers encouragingly. We see for a moment that she's still gently stroking his face as she murmurs, "That's it." The flame wanes. The camera shifts back to Buttfuck's eye as the light dims. "Just breathe," Rolivia softly instructs as the screen fades to black.
I enjoyed all of that far more than I should have.
Manor attic. As the first faint traces of sunlight hit the windows, Phoebe scries fruitlessly for Raige while Piper tries the "Blood To Blood" spell with similar results. Phoebe whines about her own goddamn problems for a little while, until the doorbell rings below. The shot cuts as Piper opens the front door to find Lord Callapulet and Lady Montanague standing on the front porch. Piper eyes them coolly. "We think we know where they are," Lord C. hesitantly offers. "We want to help end this," Lady M. assures her, "before we lose anyone else." Piper steps to one side to allow them in. As she shuts the door, the shot cuts instantly to…
…the sealed crypt erupting in a violent explosion. Piper, Phoebe, and the Dolt are revealed standing above the wreckage, with Piper lowering her Hands. The Dolt hustles to the apparently lifeless forms of Raige and Slampiece Buttfuck in the remains of the bier. Raige glows white, and Olivia shoots from her body to hover above them all high off the floor of the mausoleum. "You're too late!" Olivia cries. "No, we're not," the Dolt grunts. Proving him right, Raige awakens and steps down onto the floor. Olivia conjures a Flaming Ball Of I'm Taking This Meddling Bitch Out NOW, but Piper blows it up with a flick of her wrist. "Phoebe," Piper orders, "the potion!" "No!" Raige shouts. "You don't need to banish her." Now how in the hell did she know what that damn potion was for, anyway? She was possessed when Piper brewed it. Oh, whatever. Almost over. "You felt her anger," Raige explains, "but I felt her pain." Well, that's no damn excuse. She killed Slampiece Buttfuck's dad, for Christ's sake! Argh. Almost over. Almost over. Raige unleashes a stream of new-age psychobabble upon poor dead Olivia's spectral ass, urging her to "come away from vengeance and come back to forgiveness," so she can "move on." Slampiece Buttfuck awakens to his fiancée's rotting corpse just in time to hear her spectral form admit, "I'm scared." Buttfuck locks eyes with Olivia as she finds inner peace, or some such bullshit, and she blinks and sighs, "Forgive me," before flaring up and ascending heavenward through the mausoleum's stone ceiling. Raige, either deeply touched or deeply bored, watches her go, then heaves a sigh of her own as she turns to look at Buttfuck. The faintest of smiles crosses his LIPS! LIIIIIIPS! as he gazes back at her.
Closing travelogue, now with cable cars! Over at the Manor, Phoebe's locked herself in the attic and refuses to emerge until she's composed a successful spell to block her sisters' emotions. To that end, she's scribbled out the following, which she recites with as great a deal of hope as one would expect from her:
In the name of the Halliwell line
Bar my sisters from this power of mine.
Nothing happens. Raige, who had been pounding at the attic door, orbs into the room with Piper and Big Gay Chris, and the Clamorous Ladies immediately start in with the bitching. Big Gay Chris rolls his eyes and falls onto a nearby sofa in irritation. Part Check: It gets a pass this time, as Big Chris has changed his clothes and has therefore, presumably, showered since his last scene. "Come on, Phoebe," Piper pleads. "None of us like this new power of yours any more than you do." You can say that again. Raige suggests, "How about, if instead of trying to control your power, you try to -- I don't know -- control yourself?" Whee! I hope this escalates into a full-on fistfight, because I really want to see them smack Phoebe down for, oh, everything she's done since the third season. I'm left disappointed once again, of course, but that's to be expected. Big Gay Chris finally breaks his silence by rising to his feet with, "I don't get it. [The Dolt] didn't give you the empath-blocking potion?" Clever Gay Chris. I do love you so. Piper immediately bellows for her useless ex-husband, who orbs into a room full of women shrieking for that crimson vial he stole from his son. He tries to argue that Phoebe's new power is a wonderful gift and they should learn to work though their current zzzzzzzzz. The ladies are as weary of his babbling as I am, and demand that he hand over the potion. He reluctantly passes it to Piper, who wastes no time guzzling down half the bottle. She slides the rest over to Raige, who finishes it off. After a moment, Phoebe enthusiastically shouts, "Nothing! Nada! Zilch!" And there was much rejoicing. Raige airily blows on out of there to finish her pinochle game with Granny Healy. Remember her? Yeah. Neither do I. Phoebe rises to escort her sister down to the front door. Big Chris turns to Piper and asks, "So, it worked? No nausea, no queasiness?" Piper's all, "Nope. Nothing," and breezes out of the room. "Looks like we're one big happy family again," Big Chris smugs at the Dolt. The Dolt shakes his head and glowers, "You're not family," before turning on his heel and following Piper down the stairs. Big Chris shrugs, all, "I'll show you, Dad," and draws another vial of the potion from his jacket pocket. He uncorks it and downs it in one gulp.
Down on the second floor, the Dolt catches up with Piper to apologize for his near-constant presence in the Manor, despite her explicit request at the end of the premiere for him to stay the hell away. Piper rolls her shoulders around and admits that she can't think of a better babysitter for Tiny Gay Chris than his father, and allows that she's pretty much moved past whatever rage she was feeling over the Dolt's abandonment of his familial responsibilities. Then we veer into bizarro territory, where it becomes clear that the Dolt wants a reconciliation, and it becomes even clearer that Piper wants an official divorce. Well, as official as it can be when they weren't legally married in the first place. The Dolt's disappointment is palpable. Just as things threaten to get incredibly awkward, the phone rings below, and Phoebe calls up with news that The Non-Amazing Eel Man's on the line. "Guess you better get that," mumbles the downcast Dolt. "Yeah," Piper agrees with a tight smile. She edges away into her boudoir, and, after clearly giving the decision some thought, shuts the door firmly behind her. The Dolt gets misty-eyed and bows his head in despair as the camera slowly tracks back into the shadows of the hall. Cram it, tool.
week, Phoebe gets her very own talk show. In other news, the earth tilts sideways on its axis and rolls right into the sun. See you there!