Previously on Du Wirst Zum Sklaven Gemacht Von Der KooterTät!!!, Phoebe decided to purchase a graduate degree for herself; the ever-useless Elders gave Raige the lovely Mitchell Haines as her first supposed Whitelightery charge; Raige killed a rocking P3 buzz with a dire warning regarding Pepper Anderson, The Best Policewoman In The History Of Forever, who had been blasted with some of Dead Bulging Brody's magical fairy dust after rising from her coma; Piper reminded Raige that Pepper's memory could come roaring back at any second; and Zankou buzzed out of his Underworld prison to absorb the dread Woogy, which instead infected the Dolt, who then blasted Zankou onto his tantalizing, leather-clad ass.
Currently on The Whore Lived Like A Phoebe, we fade up on a crowded Berkeley quad before heading inside a nearby parking garage, where a former male model is in the middle of changing one of the rear tires on Phoebe's car. "Can you hand me the tire iron?" His Hotness asks the Feebs. "Uh, yeah!" she perks, passing His Hotness a lug bolt. Oooo-kay. We can play this one of two ways, kids. With the first option, we pretend they included a bit of dialogue wherein it becomes apparent Phoebe's playing dumb with the big, strong, disturbingly attractive lunkhead of a former male model not only because she equates incompetence with desirability for some reason and is flirting with him, but also because she doesn't want to get axle grease and San Francisco street grime all over her clothes, because otherwise we're going to have to forget that Phoebe is a tire-repair expert. With the second option, we hurl heavy objects at the TV while cursing everyone and everything associated with this stupid fucking show, all the while howling in despair at the thought of an eighth goddamned season. It's your call. Oh, and look at that! In an entirely unexpected Burst Of Cleansing Synchronicity, Phoebe and His Hotness discuss cognitive dissonance. Welcome to the club, assholes. Well, maybe we'll limit the name-calling to Phoebe, because "Tim" certainly is a tasty little thing. Besides, he's not long for this world. Ooops! Spoiler!
In any event, after way too much of the saucy banter, Tasty Tim and the Feebs finally make plans for a dinner date just as an obese ninja, um, clots into a far corner of the parking garage. What? These inky-black blobs of transportation mojo materialize in the air and clot together into the ninja's fat form. Seriously. What am I supposed to call it? God, do you remember when dark demonic forces sent from the flaming maw of Hell just blinked into a room? Or squiggled? Those were the days. Anyway, Tasty Tim spots the new arrival first and, stunned at the demon's appearance, whispers, "Whoa!" As last words go, it certainly leaves something to be desired, but he's hot, so who cares? Fat Ninja bursts into a cloud of demonic bits that retains his overall form as it super-speeds across the concrete to Tasty Tim's side. Fat Ninja then just as quickly solidifies and slashes open the left side of Tasty Tim's face with one of the sets of Freddy Krueger shears he sports on each hand. Poor Tasty Tim. We hardly knew ye. Fat Ninja next targets the Feebs, but she hoots and yodels and kicks him into a springy stretch of chain-link that bounces the demon onto a conveniently well-placed length of rebar jutting from the floor, and demon go boom. Once the subsequent wails and flames have dissipated, an increasingly panicked Feebs kneels at Tasty Tim's side, calling out his name. Tasty Tim does not answer, for although he received no more than a series of slight gashes on the side of his face, he is now a corpse. A very, very pretty corpse, but a corpse all the same. Maybe he hit his head really, really hard when he fell to the floor? Oh, whatever. Like I care. Phoebe's frantic screams for help echo into the opening credits.