[72 virg=ins], only they've renamed it "Anthony's" at some point in the last five years. Inside, a red-shirted, weary waiter who looks like the love child of Boris Karloff and Humphrey Bogart takes Piper's unnecessarily complicated order. How unnecessarily complicated, you ask? Try this: "I'll have the salmon and fusilli with the eggplant, and can you make sure they use basil and not Italian parsley, and could you ask them to sauté the eggplant lightly, and also grill the salmon after the pasta is done? That way it won't dry out." Boris Bogart rolls his eyes as she obnoxiously natters on about the proper way to prepare her meal, then exits with a sigh of relief once she's finally shut up. The Non-Amazing Eel Man wiggles his eyebrows. "What?" Piper demands. "Nothing," shrugs The Non-Amazing Eel. "I just never dated an ex-chef before." "Was I being too picky?" Piper asks. GOD yes. Christ. I can't imagine the nasty things that poor, harassed waiter is doing to your food right now to get even with you, honey. Well, actually I can, because I used to wait tables myself, and sweet Jesus did we do some revolting things to the food meant for customers we hated. Do not piss off the waitrons, people. Anyway, Piper and The Non-Amazing Eel engage in nervous first-date chatter, and I could not care less about this situation if I tried, so let's cut to the chase: My mud-spattered husband discreetly orbs into the curtained service area where Humphrey Karloff's molesting Piper's seared salmon, and motors on over to her table. Piper's shocked and appalled. By Big Gay Chris's entrance, I mean. She hasn't tried that fish yet. Speaking of fish, The Non-Amazing Eel asks, "Who is this?" "Me?" Big Chris perks, cocking a brow. "I'm from the future." Piper bugs out her eyes, hastily excuses herself, and drags Big Chris off to the side to tear him a new one. As he's dragged out of the frame, Big Chris sort of catches the tip of his tongue between his front teeth and shoots The Non-Amazing Eel Man a look that says, "I will always be pretty, and you will always be a loser, asshole." Also, Part Check: It's a little off-center, and his hair's hanging lankly down either side of his face from the crown of his head. Wow. I just realized that tracking the vagaries of my husband's hair has been far more entertaining than anything Piper's done this evening. Anyway, back to the scene. "You're not serious about that guy, are you?" Big Chris snits. Piper flusters a response before retorting, "You know what? That's none of your business." Eyeing his filthy clothes, she snaps, "Where have you been?" "That's none of your business, MOM," Big Chris snots back. Changing the subject, he advises, "You better get home before your sisters kill each other." It takes barely a moment for Piper to guess what's wrong. "Phoebe?" she sighs. Big Chris nods his head grimly. Piper glances back at The Non-Amazing Eel. Smell ya later, dork.
Manor. Raige stomps into the front hall from the kitchen, with Phoebe noisily clomping along behind her. "I said I'm sorry," Phoebe howls. "What more do you want from me?" "'Sorry' doesn't begin to cover it," Raige snarls back. As the two snipe about Phoebe's interference, it becomes clear that Raige believes Slampiece Buttfuck's version of events, and she virtually accuses Phoebe of aiding and abetting the enemy. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? God, I hate her. Big Gay Chris orbs into the hallway with Piper, who whistles to get her feral sisters' attention. Part Check: No part -- Big Chris's hair's been swept back from his forehead into what appears to be a low-elevation pompadour. A pompadour plateau, if you will. Phoebe and Raige rather loudly fill Piper in on recent events -- so loudly, the Dolt scampers down the stairs with a half-filled bottle clutched in his fist to yell at them, lest they waken the sleeping Tiny Gay Chris with their rampant bitchery. Phoebe hustles everyone into the parlor for a processing summit, which she begins by vowing that the Callapulets had nothing to do with Lord Montanague's untimely demise. Which we already know, so could you ladies move this along, please? Piper, acting as mediator, patiently posits that if the Callapulets and the Montanagues both insist they've maintained the truce, then it's quite likely "a third party" stepped in at some point to rain havoc, mayhem, and destruction upon the two families. Piper suggests that Raige convince members of both to meet on the Manor's neutral ground for "peace talks." Big Gay Chris, who has an egg with his name all over it somewhere in the Everglades, is all, "Oh! And you have an ever-useless Elder right here in the parlor! Who better to broker an armistice between these two warring houses, both alike in indignity?" He slaps the Dolt on the back and orbs out through the ceiling. Raige stubbornly harbors some doubts about the process, but Piper argues, "It's worth a shot."