Manor. Blind Prue hides in one of the hallway's coat closets. Enter Jennifer Abbey Leigh, toting an automatic and clad in the Paisley Tit Sling of Poor Taste, a tangled Prue-ish wig, and black capri pants. Prue astral-projects her image behind the skittish psycho, who spins around to fire off five shots at the false image. Prue APs again, in a different location, and Hedra fires off another four rounds. Prue, faintly discerning Abbey's form, takes advantage of her confusion by leaping from the closet to tackle Abbey to the floor. Prue fumbles her way to the front door but is body-checked by Abbey into the doorframe. Prue beats her off and stumbles to the kitchen, where, sightless, she remains trapped. Abbey moves in, takes aim, and fires, but she and the bullet are frozen by Piper. Phoebe and Piper hustle to Prue's side to comfort her, and Prue gets in one last telekinetic smackdown, hurling the frozen Abbey into a cabinet. You know, it must cost them a fortune to repair all of this damn furniture every week.
P3AD, flooded with two-drink maximum patrons. The product-placed poor man's Johnny Rotten wails out a tune I will not be rushing out to purchase at any time during this century. New club hire Rachel passes Prue and Phoebe a Coke and an Evian, respectively. I get it -- this must be how the club turns a profit: charge $3.50 each for the two-per-patron cocktails, then gouge the suckers by charging ten bucks a pop for soda and bottled water. Prue rudely quizzes Rachel on her life situation and aspirations. Rather than backhanding Prue, Rachel allows that she's engaged, and bartending only until she finishes her master's in education, after which she intends to be a schoolteacher. Prue stuffs the tip jar, then turns to Phoebe for the Weekly Summation. Phoebe asks Prue if Leo is really installing a security system in the manor. Prue confirms that he is, and adds this week's public service announcement. From now on, the Ps will have to "lock the doors and do all that other responsible stuff women should do in the big city." It's about frigging time, you nimrods. You're just lucky Richard Ramirez isn't stomping through the streets of San Francisco any more.