Fade up on the Manor dining room, wherein Phoebe and Raige are just finishing a formal sit-down dinner with Chronic and Slampiece Buttfuck. Well, it's sit-down, at any rate. I don't know how formal it could possibly be with Buttfuck in a track suit and the gals in those flimsy camisoles they've decided to call blouses this evening. Buttfuck, by the way, seems to have no problem attending tonight's Manor affair despite his oft-cited mysterious and annoying problems with magic. Raige, meanwhile, seems to have no problem chugging on that fat glass of wine, despite her oft-cited problems with the hooch. In any event, Raige announces what a swell time she's had, then awkwardly segues, "But Phoebe actually brought us here tonight to say something -- didn't you, Phoebe?" Raige and Buttfuck smile encouragingly, silently urging her drop the bitchcraft bomb on Chronic's horribly coiffed head. Phoebe, gracelessly gathering plates while still seated, dodges the issue. Buttfuck shiftily darts his eyes around while Raige glares. Chronic, clueless, natters something about their impending trip to Paris the following morning to finalize a "French merger," but Raige won't let the issue drop, needling Phoebe in so many words to just come out with it already. Phoebe, flustered, allows her evasive responses to sputter and die, and ends up simply grinning goofily at the boyfriend. Buttfuck steps into the awkward conversational gap to offer Chronic a hearty "You must have great business karma." And if that's an example of his conversational skills in social settings, perhaps he should remain alone in Castle Montanague at all times. "I don't believe in that stuff," Chronic claims, and much as it pains me, I'm forced to agree with him. While it's nice to hope, as Chronic admits he often does, that "if somebody cuts [you] off on the road," "they're going to get what's coming to them," a belief in karma also dictates that if you find yourself suffering from, say, the heartbreak of psoriasis, you deserve it. You rotten, wretched, worthless excuse for a human being. And that? Is bullshit.
Buttfuck waxes poetic on the nature of karma just long enough for Raige to get as peeved as I've been since the beginning of this episode, and she cuts him off with "Great -- whatever," before brutally booting the Feebs in the shin beneath the table. Phoebe tiresomely makes as if to drop her bitchcraft bomb before offering a last-minute toast to Chronic's super-fabulous French merger. Raige scowls and orders Phoebe to haul her ass into the kitchen, pronto, so she can "help [Raige] with the cobbler." The gals skedaddle while Chronic cluelessly mumbles, "Uh, am I missing something?" Slampiece Buttfuck wiggles his wonky eyebrows.
“ 'You can't keep taking that risk!' Phoebe half-heartedly agrees, then shouts, 'YOU KNOW, MAYBE I SHOULD WAIT TILL TOMORROW UNTIL AFTER THE BIG BANQUET SO I DON'T UPSET HIS BIG DAY,' like, he's sitting ten feet away from you in the other room, you dingbat. Is he deaf on top of the dumb? ”
Raige gesticulates with a couple of wine glasses for emphasis as she bitches and snipes her way over to the coffee pot. "You are going with him to France tomorrow!" she cries, dumping the glasses on the counter and snatching up the pot. "You've been putting this off for too long," she adds, ramming the tempered glass down on the center island with a force that should shatter it into thousands of flesh-slicing shards. "You have to tell him you're a witch." Phoebe babbles that it might be best to wait until they get to France before letting Chronic in on the big secret -- that way, Raige can orb her back to San Francisco if there's a problem. No, it doesn't make sense for her to haul her hag ass halfway around the planet when there's a very good chance Chronic will dump said ass the second he learns about the whole bitchcraft thing, but it's Phoebe we're talking about here. We should be used to such nonsense by now. "You've probably been caught almost like a million times," Raige exasperates. "You can't keep taking that risk!" Phoebe half-heartedly agrees, then shouts, "YOU KNOW, MAYBE I SHOULD WAIT TILL TOMORROW UNTIL AFTER THE BIG BANQUET SO I DON'T UPSET HIS BIG DAY," like, he's sitting ten feet away from you in the other room, you dingbat. Is he deaf on top of the dumb? Raige wrinkles her nose and announces, "I think you have a big problem avoiding conflict, and one day, missy, it is going to come back and bite you in the ass." Phoebe grimaces as Buttfuck lopes in from the dining room to announce that the Chronics are getting restless. All one of them. Raige instantly chides him for rambling endlessly about karma when he's "supposed to be making it easy" for Phoebe. Fortunately, the Dolt orbs in with some bad news before I find myself ramming my fists through the television screen in a vain attempt to throttle these nitwits. "Piper's under attack!" the Dolt gulps. "She needs your help, fast!" Phoebe and Raige shove the cobbler and coffee into his hands, instruct him to keep Chronic occupied, and orb out. Buttfuck and the Dolt return to the dining room, where a confused Chronic makes stupid noises. Buttfuck and the Dolt make stupid noises in kind, and the boys settle in for some dessert.
Meanwhile, down in Hell, perpetual Halliwell doormat Piper is doing battle with a legion of muscle-bound West Hollywood bondage queens in a torch-lit brick hallway. The problem is, every time she deploys her Hands Of Discontent to blow one up, two more appear in the vanquished queen's place. Piper, incidentally, is wearing a loose-fitting black knit poncho with white pinstripes to disguise the fact that Holly Marie Combs is, by now, a hundred and seventy-three months pregnant. One of the bondage queens hurls a Flaming Ball Of Death at her face, so she dives to the floor in a dodge that leaves her with a nasty scrape on her forehead. She flicks out an angry hand to vanquish the offending queen as Phoebe and Raige orb in and hustle her to her feet, dragging her off to a nearby alcove. As Piper explains her predicament, the gals hear two more bondage queens squiggle into the hallway, so Piper pokes her head around the corner to offer them a Hand. She misses them completely, and they retaliate by slinging a matching pair of FBODs in her general direction. The Balls go wide as Piper ducks back into the alcove. "Okay," Phoebe sings, pushing Piper aside. "Back up." Rude! Phoebe emerges into the hallway and calls out, "Hey, boys!" The bondage queens, in no way appreciative of Alyssa Milano's costly plastic surgery, whip a couple of FBODs at the Fun Bags. Phoebe, using her bizarre new power of whatever the fuck it was the boneheaded writers dumped on her in the season premiere, redirects the FBODs back into the boys' chests. The bondage queens howl and moan and blaze their merry way to Hell. Or, you know, a deeper section of Hell than the level they just occupied. Whatever. Phoebe allows herself a small, pleased smile of triumph before smugly turning to rejoin her sisters. Of course, she doesn't see the four replacement queens who squiggle in behind her. Raige and Piper hastily yank Phoebe back into the alcove, where Piper announces, "New plan: blast, then bail." The other Glamorous Ladies quickly agree.
“ Raige bright-sides that at least Chronic now knows about the bitchcraft, so the two won't have any more secrets to hide from each other in the future, like, what part of Chronic storming from the Manor never to return did you not understand, you awful woman? God! ”
Kitchen. Chronic barges into the room in search of the Feebs, but of course finds the place empty. "Where'd they go?" he demands, spinning around to confront Slampiece Buttfuck and the Dolt. "Uh, must be an emergency, or something," Buttfuck lames. "It's always some emergency," Chronic retorts. "Or some phone call, or some marathon pee break! What's going on?" Raige chooses this moment to orb back into the room with her sisters. Chronic's eyes roll back in their sockets as he drops out of the frame in a dead faint. Hee. I hope he slammed his head into the center island on his way down. Piper, whose own garish head wound has vanished since last we saw her, hoots, "Ooop!" as we collapse into the opening credits.
And there's a hole in those opening credits. A big, gay hole. This should suck. Even more than it already has, of course.
Tonight's opening travelogue is full of lovely time-lapse shots of the city at night as Sarah McLachlan croons "Fallen," and I can't remember the last time I actually enjoyed an opening travelogue. Not only is the song appropriate, but they've also managed to nail the relevant lyrics, unlike a notorious prior travelogue I could mention: "We all begin with good intent when love is raw and young -- we believe that we can change ourselves, the past can be undone. But we carry on our back the burden time always reveals in the lonely light of morning, in the wound that will not heal. It's the bitter taste of losing everything that I held so dear. I've fallen, I have sunk so low. I messed up. Better, I should know, so don't come 'round here." See, idiot sound directors? It's not that difficult to find a tune whose theme matches that of the episode. Get it right the time. And the time after that as well. What the hell are they paying you for, anyway?
In any event, as the song hits the last lyric quoted, the travelogue cross-fades to a dejected Phoebe standing on the Manor's front porch, watching as Chronic peels off in his sports car down in the street below, presumably never to return. She slowly shuts the door and heads back into the parlor, where the Dolt's applying the tingly touch to his ex-wife's continuity-destroying head wound. The Dolt discreetly exits to check on The Psycho upstairs as Phoebe crawls onto the sofa to Piper with, "I've never seen him like that. He looked at me like he had no idea who I was." "He doesn't know you," Raige reminds her from her perch on an armchair. "Not the witch you, anyway." "I can't imagine what he's feeling right now," Phoebe glums. Because she's an idiot. Because she's an empath and should therefore know precisely what Chronic is feeling at the moment. Stupid show. Raige bright-sides that at least Chronic now knows about the bitchcraft, so the two won't have any more secrets to hide from each other in the future, like, what part of Chronic storming from the Manor never to return did you not understand, you awful woman? God!
“ Shut up, Buttfuck. And shut up, Stupid Show That I Hate And Yet Still Must Watch Every Goddamned Week. ”
ANY-way, Slampiece Buttfuck ambles in from the hall to announce that he's finished clearing the dishes. Raige offers him a fond smile and thanks him. Buttfuck then turns to Phoebe and, barely able to meet her eyes, admits, "I feel awful. I'm sorry about what happened." "It's not your fault," Phoebe blinks. "Actually," Buttfuck reveals, "it is." "Why?" Piper eyebrows. "Did you shove [Chronic] into the kitchen?" "No," Buttfuck allows, "but my karma did." No, Buttfuck, it didn't, because your personal karma -- which I don't even believe in -- affects you and you alone. Chronic's karma might have shoved him into the kitchen, but whatever. Shut up, Buttfuck. And shut up, Stupid Show That I Hate And Yet Still Must Watch Every Goddamned Week. In any event, this is simply an opening for Slampiece Buttfuck to reveal his Issue Of The Week. Seems he's convinced he's carrying around the "burden" of his family's collective karma. The Montanagues, as you'll recall, engaged in a generations-long feud with the Callapulets. "We did so much bad with magic," Buttfuck tells them, "and now magic's doing bad to me and those I care about." "Now that is completely ridiculous," Raige asserts. No kidding. Since when did Buttfuck give a rat's ass about Chronic and Phoebe's tedious relationship? Of course, she meant the whole assily contrived karma subplot she's about to become ensnared in, but she's right there, too. See above. Buttfuck insists, over the ladies' collective protest, that karma can be inherited much like magic. Piper side-eyes him as if she's just realized her half-sister's been dating a profound retard while Phoebe insists that if anyone's karma's to blame, it's hers. "You live a double life with your boyfriend," she notes, "you end up paying the price." Piper cuts through all this "mea culpa" bullshit -- the "mea culpa" is hers, the "bullshit" is mine -- to remind everyone of the rather pressing "Swarm Demon" issue, and orders Phoebe and Raige to hit the Book of Shadows while she checks on her little dead-eyed sociopath. Phoebe begs off, as she believes it would be better for her to chase after Chronic at this juncture. Piper, who'd risen to join Raige and Buttfuck by the hall, shoots her a look that telegraphs, "I cannot believe what a selfish fucking hag you are. We're about to be overrun with FBOD-hurling WeHo bondage queens, and you want to screw your boss? Why weren't you the one who got whacked at the end of Season Three?" Of course, I could be projecting a bit. Raige quickly defuses the situation by insisting she and Piper can handle the necessary research on their own, and suggests Phoebe take off. Buttfuck lurks in the background, because the director couldn't figure out what to do with Balthazar Getty at the end of this scene.
“ Chronic's limousine pulls up to the entrance, where the doorman obsequiously greets him with an open umbrella to protect his hideously coiffed head from the sudden downpour. ”
Manor. Up in the Bridal Boudoir, Piper places the Doltine Psycho in his product-placed playpen while the Dolt putters around with some of the kid's clothes in the once and future Patricia Campbell Hearst Commemorative Child-Care Nook. Hey, they've got to put the real Tiny Gay Chris somewhere once Piper finally pops him out. Why not the closet? Piper frets about her little sociopath's wicked future. The Dolt opines that, now that they've finally learned the truth about said future, they can take any such steps as are necessary to prevent it. "After all," he grins, "well aware is half there." Piper smirks, "Did Phoebe feed you that psychobabble?" Shout-out? You decide. "I just don't understand how someone so sweet could possibly turn out so bad," Piper sighs, gazing down at The Psycho. The Dolt promises her that won't be happening before wondering what his nitwit of an ex-sister-in-law is up to now.
Cut to The Only Hotel In San Francisco, Which Is Most Definitely Not In France, Which Is Where Chronic Would Have Been All Day Today If This Show Didn't Suck Like A Hoover. Chronic's limousine pulls up to the entrance, where the doorman obsequiously greets him with an open umbrella to protect his hideously coiffed head from the sudden downpour. Just as Chronic reaches the door, Phoebe bounds up to the entrance through the rain, calling his name. In sharp contrast to her earlier outfit, the damp evening finds her sporting a sleek, knee-length white raincoat over dark jeans, with a long, knit scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. "I want to talk to the press," she insists, virtually before he's had a chance to greet her. "I want to tell them everything." Chronic smirks something about the headlines they'll be seeing after Phoebe announces to the world that she's a witch. Phoebe nervously runs her fingers through her wet hair while admitting she hadn't actually considered what she would tell the assembled journalists -- she just knows she "can't let [Chronic] take the fall for this." "I'm so sorry," she breathes, tears again welling up in her eyes. "For everything -- the lies --" "Hey, don't," he tells her gently. "Remember, you saved me." "But that was after I tried to kill you," Phoebe whimpers. "Yeah, there was that," he shrugs affably enough in agreement. "If I could do it all over again," Phoebe swears, "I would tell you the truth." Chronic gallantly places most of the blame for the situation on himself, because that's what they do on this show whenever everyone knows it's really Phoebe who's at fault. He claims that he was so wrapped up in his career that he never gave Phoebe a chance to explain herself. "So what do we do now?" she warbles with moist eyes. "Maybe we should both just take some time," he whispers. After a pause laden with mutual regret, he nods towards the door and notes, "They're waiting for me." Phoebe ducks her head guiltily and pleads, "I wish you'd let me talk to them." Chronic's response is immediate and firm: "No. What you and your sisters do -- with what I saw you do -- it put some perspective on my work. I want to protect that." "You might lose the merger," she counters, real tears standing in her eyes. "I've lost worse," he admits. Chronic leans in to kiss her, and she allows herself to melt into it for a bit before opening her eyes and pulling away after a moment of thoughtful hesitation. She bows her head and leaves his side to cross back into the storm. When she reaches the curb, she turns one last time to find Chronic gazing ruefully after her. He allows a beat, then turns to enter the hotel. Phoebe watches until he's vanished inside the door, then turns again to walk home alone in the rain as we fade to black.
week, the WB places a three-hour marathon of Surreal Life reruns upon the sacrificial altar of the Super Bowl. When Charmed returns on February 8th, the Headless Horseman appears for a round of Block That Fetus!, wherein he detaches Piper's head from her body to disguise the fact that Holly Marie Combs will be, by then, one hundred and ninety-four weeks pregnant. Also, Big Gay Chris comes out of the closet, and it's about goddamned time, don't you think?