...reappear in Roché's crystal ball down in Hell, with Piper's final word echoing a bit through the chamber. During what follows, Roché basically lays out his entire dastardly plan for Reconstituted Ann, because he's an idiot who will be dead in less than ten minutes. Bring back Hot Zankou!
Meanwhile, Phoebe's finally arrived in Normand's office, and I'm officially over this subplot. Or A plot. Or co-plot, or whatever the fuck it is, because enough is enough already. Long story short, she admits that Drake, through his actions that afternoon, has successfully reinvigorated her desire to help others, and she begs him to allow her to help get him out of this situation. For some reason, this speechifying, combined with an entirely insincere apology from Normand, is enough to get Drake headed for the door. Unfortunately for all involved, the moment Drake and Phoebe turn their backs, Normand glows red as another of Roché's spells takes effect. Normand rises to gloat, castigating Drake for his foolish credulity before tearing up all those checks he'd been writing while vowing to continue ripping off the public. Drake, in a cold fury, prepares to shish-kebab Normand with another arrow, but alas. Even this does not rate a DUN!, because this storyline has become tiresome and neither of these gentlemen are regular characters. Whatever.
Manor. During a brief processing summit on the sun porch, Raige pushes through her Issue Of The Week and, once again trusting her "instincts," realizes that Ann Cusack's "just a distraction"; Roché's actually still after Drake. Um, DUH, you idiot. Instead of smacking the taste out of Raige mouth while screaming, "WE KNEW THAT ALREADY!" Piper and the Dolt furrow their respective brows, lost in thought. Nimrods.
Back in The Non-Burning Office Tower Of My Discontent And Deep, Deep Despair, smarmy Normand finally goads Drake into using his powers by promising to gouge little old ladies out of their Social Security checks, or something. I'm really not paying attention anymore. And besides, gouging little old ladies out of their Social Security checks is a job for the fucking Republicans in Washington, isn't it? And what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. Drake responds to Normand's dastardly threats by igniting a couple of Flaming Balls Of You Will Fly Backwards Through Yon Window Yet Somehow Remain Not Only Alive But Also Uninjured To The Point That You Will Be Able To Latch Improbably Onto The Sill Right Before You Would Otherwise Drop Seven Stories To Your Death On The Pavement Below, Thus Allowing A Hooting And Yodeling Phoebe The Opportunity To Pull Your Flabby White Ass Back Into The Room While I Myself Howl And Wail And Blaze My Merry Way Down To Hell Or The Waste Land Or Purgatory Or Whatever The Fuck The Crack-Addled Writers Are Calling It This Week, After We First Get A Brief Scene Back At The Manor Wherein Raige Beats Herself Up For Not Trusting Her Instincts Sooner. He hurls the unusually specific blazing missiles at Normand's chest and, well, see above. Mayhem erupts out on the street as Drake flares white and morphs into a demonically appropriate set of black clothing. Roché squiggles into the room, sucks Drake's powers out of the latter's chest in a stream of glowing twinkly red mojo, and sends Drake "off to Purgatory" just as Raige orbs into the room with Piper. While Raige and Piper warily eye Roché, Phoebe continues to hoot and yodel in the background, struggling to yank the smarmy corporate motherfucker back through the window frame. Roché finally challenges the gals with "Come and get me!" before squiggling into the final commercial break.