Meanwhile, back in the product-placed playpen -- it's a Kolcraft! -- Tiny Gay Chris mouth-breathes at the TV for a bit before conjuring one of the dragons out of the set in a stream of glowy orbs that passes through a crack in the sun porch's windows. Out on the rain-swept lawn, the orbs coagulate into dragon form, and that's one big, fake-looking motherfucker the ladies now have on their grass. However, I can forgive the flawed animation because the kid did yank this thing out of the TV. I mean, if he had pulled a triceratops out of Walking With Dinosaurs, it would look just as bad, right? So the effects team gets a pass tonight, and they can thank context for that. Anyway, the dragon bashes its head against the French doors, breaking the lock and allowing them to swing inward on the breeze to jostle a vase-laden end table. The dragon growls softly for a bit, then lifts off into the air. Tiny Gay Chris stands there with his tongue hanging halfway down to his knees.
Over in the parlor, the Ps catch the tinkle of shattering porcelain as one of the wobbling end-table vases finally crashes to the floor. Piper briefly wonders how locked doors could open of their own accord before Raige and Phoebe leave, instructing Piper to call "if anything weird happens." Piper spies the remaining televised dragon flapping about on the screen, and shoots a worried look at her tiny gay son.
P3. Big Gay Chris confers with his worthless father at the empty bar. Long story short, the Dolt wants Big Chris to assume responsibilities for an additional charge. Big Chris suggests Pops rot in Hell, because Big Chris time-traveled to protect Tiny Chris and Tiny Chris alone from as-yet-unspecified dangers, and that's that. Big Gay Chris huffs away from the bar, nearly ramming right into scruffy Nate. Yes, Nate is a bit scruffy. I've just decided. Shut up. Nate greets the Dolt with a warm smile and apologizes for being late. "That's all right," the Dolt kindly replies. Nate gifts Chris with a shy look and hesitantly extends his hand. Chris grasps it in his own, smitten. Aw. Young love. Sniff.
The Bay Mirror. Phoebe warily crosses the threshold into the main room and is immediately set upon by her harried assistant. Seems the server crashed, and everyone's frantically searching for hard copies of their otherwise-lost work. Frank The Violent Misogynist Twit storms past, bellowing something unkind at Elise Rothman, Girl Editor, who follows close on his heels with a few choice words of her own. Phoebe's Fucking Backup Band kicks in when she catches Frank's eye, so she taps Elise on the shoulder, then socks her in the eye once she's turned around. See what I mean about slinging Frank into jail? Sure, it'd be a bit extra-constitutional, but no one seems to give a damn about the Constitution anymore, so what's the big deal? We can just say it's a preventive measure and lock him away for life. Everybody happy? Also: Cram it, Phoebe. Just because you channel the intense emotions of others doesn't mean you're allowed to act on them. Hag. I hope Elise tosses your worthless ass into jail alongside Frank's. Anywho, Elise flies backwards from the impact and takes out a courier. The Violent Misogynist hoots and howls with glee, so the courier clocks him in the jaw. Hooray! The Violent Misogynist slams into another gentleman, and a tussle erupts. Phoebe attempts to intervene and for her trouble is thrown into a filing cabinet, upon which she gashes her forehead. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Slow-forward.