All that said, the ladies look good. Simple dresses, simple hair. Grams tosses a little TK the CD player's way, and "Pachelbel's Canon" plays as the Halliwells descend the stairs to a waiting Leo. They move into place for the ceremony, with Leo beaming with joy and Grams looking on in maternal love. How long do you think this bliss will last? A Kewpie doll and rubber cigar for you if you guessed, "About two seconds." Leo's face contorts, and he gasps in pain as an unseen force pummels his body, then sucks him out of the house in a blaze of blue light. Piper initially stares in disbelief, but as what happened hits her, she begins to choke on her tears and hyperventilate a bit, asking Grams what went wrong. Grams attempts to comfort the three as Piper collapses to her knees, clinging to Prue and Phoebe for support while dissolving into a series of clutching sobs. Not bad, all that. Too bad I had to wade through an hour of nearly unmitigated shit to get to it.
But, wait! There's more! Cross fade to a scene from Hell. No, really, the scene is set in Hell. A male figure stands in the center of a circle formed by the Triad. The black-eyed, hooded members of the Triad congratulate the figure on his work not only in infiltrating the Halliwells' circle without arousing suspicion, but also in providing the information on Piper's nuptials that, when shared, prevented the ceremony. "You have gained useful information on the charmed ones," one of the Triad notes, "now you must gain their trust. Others have failed." The camera cuts to Cole, looking mighty fine in basic demon black as he notes, "Others weren't me." Yeah, we all saw that coming, but thank God we're off that marriage crap. And did I mention how good he looks? Calling the wedding "child's play," Cole notes that his next step is to focus his attention on Phoebe, as she's his "way in." He expositions that the Triad sent him up to figure out how to destroy the sisters, and he believes they're "well on [their] way." The Triad members smirk in approval, but Cole gives a hesitant little laugh, and looks down. Hey, Cole, you feeling nervous or guilty? Guess we'll just have to tune in next week, won't we?
Speaking of next week: Puree a quarter-pound of Poltergeist and fold the result into a bile-filled saucepan. Sprinkle liberally with chopped bits of Freaky Friday wackiness and hijinks. Set heat on medium, and simmer. As in me. In anger.