It was a dark and stormy night. No, seriously. Thunderheads rumble in from the Pacific Ocean as we fade up on the interior of a rehabbed garret with a fabulous view of the glimmering Bay Bridge arching across a rain-swept Treasure Island, and I have a confession to make. I've never been to San Francisco. Nope. Not once. Two years ago, I was invited to tag along with a gaggle of sensitive Chicagoans for the whole Pride thing. However, the prospect of being trapped in a strange city with half a dozen corporate status queens filled me with paralyzing dread, so I remained in Illinois. Anyway, the point of all this is to let you know that I'm not basing any geographic commentary on firsthand experience of Northern California. I've actually been using a seven-year-old Rand McNally road atlas. I know, I know -- the shame! So when I say the rehabbed garret has a fabulous view of the glimmering Bay Bridge arching across a rain-swept Treasure Island, I'm talking out of my ass. All I know is, there's a bridge, and there's an island, and judging from the maps, the only locations in the Bay Area that might have this kind of view are Point Richmond in Contra Costa County and a small promontory near the Naval Air Station in Oakland. What view do these places have in common? The Bay Bridge arching across Treasure Island. Get it? Good.
The camera scuttles towards a bed positioned directly beneath the windows, then hops the remaining distance to take in…oh, my God! There's a Ratbag on the pillow! No, Raige! Don't touch it! It's evil! Raige ignores me. Presumably naked and post-coital beneath the bedclothes, Raige reaches over to trace the outline of a tattoo on Slampiece Ratbag's chest. Ratbag's eyes flip open, and pillow talk ensues. Raige identifies the tattoo as "The Celtic Wheel Of Being -- the four elements all in balance, all connected to each other." Ratbag's impressed. "How'd you know that?" he asks. "Nobody knows that." "I just…read a lot," Raige stammers awkwardly, "about different…things. Magic things." With a touch of desperate hope shading her tone, she asks, "Do you ever read about…magic things?" "Nah," replies the Ratbag. "I just got it 'cause it looked cool." Raige nods her head a bit, trying and failing to hide her disappointment. "Kidding!" Ratbag smirks. Bastard. Fortunately, Raige's cell phone chirps. It's Piper, calling from the attic with news that the "Creeper" potion is done, and she needs Raige to return to the Manor immediately for a vanquish. Raige is all, "Your timing? Blows goats," but Piper's not having it. She babbles on and on about The Done One's "Wiccaning," finally guilting Raige into leaving the Ratbag's lair. Raige snaps shut her phone, modestly wraps herself in a burgundy-colored sheet that looks a hell of a lot better than most of the crap she normally wears on this show, grabs Ratbag's shirt from the floor, and excuses herself for a moment. She sprints for the bathroom and shuts the door.
Attic. Raige orbs in wearing nothing but the shirt, and I'm sorry, but whenever I see a woman wearing nothing but a man's shirt, I immediately think of Stella Stevens in The Poseidon Adventure, which makes me think of a sweaty Ernest Borgnine screaming, "LINDA!" which makes my skin crawl right off of my body and down the toilet because the sewer is a far cleaner place to be, all of which is a roundabout way of saying that women wearing nothing but men's shirts are never The Sexy. Ahem. Anyway. "Oooh," Piper smiles with an arched brow, evidently finding her half-sister's fornication amusing. "Sorry." Raige whatevers and asks for the plan. She's to summon the leader of the Creeper Demons, after which Piper will nail him with the potion. As with the Kazis and the LesBiGay Vampires before them, should the Creeper underlings lose their leader to a Glamorous Lady vanquish, they'll all lose their lives as well. Raige grabs a notepad and reads the following: