...Phoebe's getting a busy signal from Prue's cell. We cut to the crumpled, smoking wreck of Prue's convertible to find her slumped against the steering wheel, whispering "can't fall asleep" over and over again as we fade into commercial.
Emergency room. Aftermath. A couple of EMTs burst through the doors with Prue on a stretcher to be joined by a whirling swarm of medical professionals. A note for those interested in trivia: While giving the doctor the bullet on Prue's condition, the female EMT identifies her as "a twenty-seven-year-old female." Um. The bit of trivia here is Prue's age, not her gender. Just so we're all clear on that, okay? The assembled swarm makes like they're on another show that used to be good before Rex The Wonder Preemie ties a knot in Prue's IV line and she crashes into a coma. The camera pans from a monitor down to Prue's body...
...as the color shifts to a deep sepia tone. Prue's neck brace is gone, though she does have a square of gauze plastered to her forehead with her own blood. The camera slides up from the bed to land on Sugar, and ew! Now he looks like an acquaintance of mine who spent far too much time in therapy after the current recession claimed his job as the manager of a Tower Records. The Nicholson Nasal is back as well, only this time the effects guy is running it through a processor that gives it an echoing undertone. Prue fumbles for her cell phone. "We're definitely out of range," Sugar sneers, plucking the phone from her fingers and dropping it to the floor. "Want a little wine with your death?" he asks, offering a handy glass of chardonnay. Prue furiously bats it out of his hand. Sugar growls, and we cut to an overhead shot of the hospital bed as Sugar wheels it out of the frame.
The Laboratory Of It's Not The Fall That...Splat. Andy cows a flunky into waking Sugar. The flunky gripes that it's not going to be easy, and exits. Andy and Darryl stare darkly at the sleeping cripple.
The Soundstage Of It's Not The Fall That...Splat. Prue's body wheels into view on the stretcher, and -- oh my. Pedicure. Cunning mules. A dark-green velvet floor-length embroidered gown with a draped décolletage. She looks stunning. Sugar should get out of the dream business and start designing evening wear for society types. Or for drag queens attempting to recapture the magic of Hollywood's Golden Age. "Like the dress?" he asks. Yes, Sugar. See above. Prue, however, begs to differ. "I've worn better," she snorts. Don't kid yourself, sweetie. That silver lamé atrocity from the third season still makes me bolt awake at two-thirty in the morning with night sweats. Sugar hoists her from the bed to set her gently on her feet in the center of The Soundstage.