Fade up on the Manor kitchen and oh, Lord. It's going to be an evil night for fashion, kids. Phoebe sits at the table, tapping away at the keyboard of her product-placed Apple laptop, and -- her hair. An asymmetrical part shears the left third off to one side, and another part across the front cuts off the Phoebangs from the hair proper. The majority is pulled back into two demonic pigtails that sprout from the crown of her head like flaccid horns. She's wearing eyeglasses and a crimson beater over white sweatpants that appear to be spray-painted onto her unpantied ass. Seriously, my notes for the evening start out with, "She's kidding with this, right?" And you know what's really frightening? The clothing just gets worse from here on out.
Yuck. So, anyway, Raige tramps through, declining Piper's offer of "wheat-germ pancakes" in favor of a bagel. Wise choice. The Sole, in the background, babbles something about his cream-cheese-smeared depositions, then reminds Phoebe of a corporate function they're to attend that evening. The Sole wants to "show off [his] new bride" to his colleagues. Phoebe, rather than castrating him with her fingernails for that rabidly sexist remark, whines that she's on a deadline for her piddling little advice column. Piper chooses this moment to shove the platter of wheat germ pancakes under Phoebe's schnozz. "I know you want some of these," Piper prompts. "What I want," Phoebe singsongs patronizingly, "is quiet." "Pissy little bitch," Piper mutters under her breath, turning to slam the platter onto the center island. "If you want quiet, what the hell are you doing in the goddamned kitchen?" she demands, snatching up a skillet from the stove. Oh, Piper. Please whack Phoebe in the head with the frying pan. For me? "Dude. Word," Raige chimes in through a mouthful of bagel. "She can't work in her fucking bedroom?" "Exactly my point," Piper agrees, flinging the skillet into the sink with a clatter, and I weep for the missed opportunity. "Take it upstairs if you don't want to be bothered," Piper adds with a glare. "Idiot."
Phoebe, self-centered monster that she has become, ignores them as the Dolt orbs in off to the side to rifle through the kitchen cabinets for his toolbox. The Sole quietly flicks his hand at the toaster, which explodes. The sound sends Raige spinning around in alarm, and the platter of pancakes shatters on the floor. "Could everybody please be quiet?" Phoebe screams. She then notes with dismay, "Oh, no. My battery died." "They're called 'power cords,' jackass," Raige sneers as she squats to clear up the mess on the linoleum. "You might want to try one sometime." The Sole squints at the smoke detector on the wall near the ceiling, and the alarm's shrill beeping floods the room. The Dolt levitates upwards to shut it off as The Sole sidles over to Phoebe's side. "You know," he whispers in her ear, "you'd get all the quiet you want if we had our own place." Piper's sharp ears pick this up and she calls out, "She'd get all the quiet she wants if she hauled that lazy ass of hers up the fucking stairs." The Sole shrugs and announces he has secretaries to interview that morning. He pecks Phoebe on the lips and wanders out to the front door. Phoebe gathers up her laptop and heads off in search of silence in a furious snit. The Dolt eyes her exit, then turns to Piper and Raige. "You know, if I'd known what an demanding bitch she'd turn out to be, I'd have left her to fry down in Hell and saved Prue instead."