From ancient time this power came
For all to have but none to reign:
Take it now, show no mercy,
For this power can no longer be.

Ooof. You'd think after seven seasons of this garbage, I'd be immune to the pain elicited by the crap spells. And you'd be wrong. In any event, Zankou started boiling red about halfway through the above and by the end, he'd begun to steam. Now that the spell's been cast in its entirety, bright rays of light burst through his skin and clothes as he emits a mighty roar of agony. "This is it!" Phoebe shouts above the din, grasping at her sisters' hands. Zankou lets loose one final scream and explodes in a massive fireball that plows through the basement to engulf the Glamorous Ladies. Outside, the agents goggle as the fireball shatters the basement's windows on all four sides of the house. Or maybe they're just horrified at the dreadful CGI'd cloud of smoke that now drifts up from the Manor's lowest level. You choose. "Aren't you glad I told you to wait?" the Doormat snorts. Look at the Doormat, with the snide remarks to Homeland Security agents! No, don't. Shut up, Doormat.

There follows a lengthy, unnecessary, and boring sequence of the feds invading the Manor with guns at the ready and Geiger counters bleeping and wow. I so do not care about any of this. The Doormat and Agent Keyes eventually arrive in the basement where, upon surveying the wreckage, the Doormat gulps, "Thank God nobody was in here." "Who said nobody was?" Keyes intones ominously. The Doormat is shocked and appalled to learn the Manor Morons were indeed present at the time of the explosion, and I'm sorry, but if they're trying to make us believe that the Doormat thinks the gals are dead, it's not working at all, mainly because Keyes states, "Trust me -- we would have spotted them if they'd left the house," at which point the Doormat, well aware of Raige's ability to orb from one place to another, would instantly disengage from the entire situation and not stand there as he does now, all forlorn and wrecked, whispering, "There's got to be another way out of here -- oh, dear God, please." What the fuck ever, Doormat. And Charmed? You can kiss my fucking ass.

Out on the street, the bumbling Dolt tries to talk his way through the police barricade set up halfway down the block, but is quite firmly rebuffed by the officer in charge. The Dolt blunders his way back through the quickly gathering crowd of gawkers until some harsh, pinched-looking hippie chick with absolutely criminal blonde highlights in her cropped, auburn hair too casually wonders, "What's going on?" "What?" the Dolt blurts before admitting, "I don't know." "Boy, I sure hope nobody died in there," one of the hippie's two companions smirks and, oh, what the hell. Let's just call these women "Paula," "Pamela," and "Phucking Hag-Ass Trash," okay? "Do we know each other?" the Dolt splutters, not getting it. "Oh, I think so," Paula grins. "After all," she continues, sauntering on up to him, "we're married." The Dolt still doesn't get it, for he is the Dolt, so Paula leads him over behind a hedge, where they're joined by Pamela on Paula's left and Phucking Hag-Ass Trash on her right. Phucking Hag-Ass Trash, by the way, is sporting an absolutely hideous paisley-patterned wrap skirt, which I suppose must be some sort of tribute to She Who Must Not Be Named.