Phoebe snaps out of it, explains away her attack as a sudden case of the hiccups, and bolts over to the bar for an assist from Piper. Piper, however, is on the phone with Pat Benatar's manager, and she's groveling miserably. "Pat Benatar cannot cancel on me," she pleads. "I know I didn't call to confirm, but I was busy creating life!" Pat Benatar's manager could give a shit about The Done One, and hangs up on her. Atta boy. Unfortunately, before Piper can strap on her bitch, the Feebs hisses, "My date is a demon! He devours his victims and I'm next, so freeze the room!" Please ignore her, Piper, and let the demon have his dinner. Please? She doesn't listen to me, choosing instead to sigh, "My sister, the demon magnet," before wearily tossing out a lackluster freeze. When the background noise cuts out, Liam raises his shaggy pate from his cocktail to find Piper and Phoebe glaring at him from across the bar. "Witches," he grumps. "Dammit." Liam rises to his feet and conjures a dagger into his right hand. Piper rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist around. Liam promptly erupts into a fireball and vanishes. His dagger drops to the floor before bursting into flames and disappearing as well.

"Thank you," Phoebe offers. Piper grunts and waves her hands in the air, breaking the freeze before announcing that she has "to get back to going bankrupt." "Scratch that," she amends, glancing at her watch. "I have to get back to fighting with my husband." There's a bit of babble regarding Piper's present difficulties with the Dolt, what with their new baby and their competing "careers" and all, before the gals exit the bar to head back to the Manor.

Cut to an outdoor café, where some deadbeat ratbag wails a version of "Greensleeves" that makes me want to kick him until he's dead. As an aloof businessman strides by without dropping change in the "down on [his] luck" ratbag's guitar case, a midget materializes in the shrubbery. We all saw the previews, so we all know it's a leprechaun, but the more pressing issue is: If I tied my socks together and wrapped them around my neck, could I strangle myself? Or would I pass out before they kill me? I'd live? Shit. The midget opens his stubby fingers to reveal a "nugget" of "gold." "Sláinte is táinte," he chants, and the "nugget" dissolves into a stream of sparkling gold bits that plows into the top of the ratbag's skull. Prepare yourselves: I'm pretty sure that's real Gaelic. I couldn't find "táinte" in any online glossaries, but I know "sláinte is" translates as "health and," so he might just maybe have actually wished "health and luck" on the ratbag. Of course, the midget mispronounced "sláinte," so this episode still blows goats. In any event, a glowy flare passes through the ratbag's body as a gust of wind ruffles his hair and slams shut his guitar case. A whimsical flute tootles in the background as that same gust sends a bit of sidewalk trash skittering down the street. Shut the fuck up, Whimsical Flute. The ratbag spots something green where the trash had been, and rises to investigate. It's a fifty-dollar bill. The ratbag, needless to say, is stoked. No surreptitious enforced sodomy at the Salvation Army shelter for him tonight! Nope, he's gonna get himself his very own cage at a roach-infested SRO! Score! The midget smirks to himself and super-speeds on out of there...