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.
In any event, once they're all in position and have ensured no one but the Dolt can see them, the three women snap their fingers and morph into Phoebe, Piper, and Raige. The Dolt is stunned. "Wh-wh-wh-whuh?" he stammers. "Shhh!" Piper soothes. "It's all part of the plan." "What plan?" the dolt guhs. "Our plan to die," Raige hisses. "It's the only way to get our lives back," Phoebe whispers. "And to stop everyone from coming after us," Piper adds, "including all of them." She emphasizes this last by hiking both her thumbs in the federal agents' general direction behind her. "B-b-but..." the Dolt begins. "No buts!" Piper orders. "We're free! Nobody even knows we're alive anymore, not even the demons." "They think we died in there with Zankou, when it was just our astral selves," Raige clarifies. There's more babbling from the gals about leading normal lives and preparing the next generation to pick up where they themselves left off that doesn't matter at all in light of the renewal, until the Dolt finally smiles and asks, "How do I do it?" "You don't," Piper smiles. "We do." "Don't worry," Raige hastens to add, "we'll make you good-looking." Hey, Raige, if he made it through the last eighty-one years with that ugly mug plastered all over his skull, I don't think it'll matter to him one way or the other now. Raige ignores me. They all ignore me, in fact, in favor of snapping their fingers once more and glamouring back into Pamela, Paula, and Phucking Hag-Ass Trash. Paula snaps her fingers once last time, instantly transforming her Dolt of a husband into former male model and soap opera twinkie Agim Kaba, who, admittedly, looks disturbingly simian in this badly lit close-up, but I suppose that's appropriate, given who he's replacing. However temporarily.