The conversation is cut short when Pastor Williams pops up behind Phoebe to greet her warmly, noting that he had no idea she was back in town. They banter about New York for a bit before Phoebe books it to a nearby newsstand for some gum. Left alone with the minister, Piper stutters and stammers and concocts a story about a "friend" of hers who thinks she's a witch, and does this mean God will fry her "friend's" wicked ass if said "friend" tries to enter a church? Pastor Williams rather unhelpfully quotes Exodus: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Referring to Piper's "friend," he harshly adds, "If you go by the old school, it means put her to death. She's evil." How did this jackass land a job at an Episcopal church in San Francisco? I bet his "old school" lectures on Leviticus go down real well with the parishioners. Not. Asshole.

While Piper's receiving this rather un-Christ-like hectoring over at the van, Phoebe's trying to score some free gum by flashing her tits at the newsstand guy. As the newsstand guy is obviously one of the many San Franciscans who would love to see Pastor Williams's worthless ass fired immediately (reversed baseball cap -- do the math), he charges her for the Doublemint. Two wizened souls stand nearby with a blank lottery slip, wondering if they should play their "grandchildren's birthdays" for the "ten-million-dollar jackpot." The lottery's very important to these two, because "if [they] don't win, [they're] going to lose [their] house." Fuck. Me. Phoebe latches onto a blank slip of her own and is immediately flung into a premonition. And the winning numbers are: Four! Sixteen! Nineteen! Thirty! Thirty-two! And forty! Phoebe insists that the elderfolk play those numbers, and decides to pick up a ticket of her own.