Down in Hell, The Dole blazes into the Chamber Of D'Eartha to find the D'Erk impatiently tapping his foot in the dirt. The Dole morphs back into The Sole. "Well, it's about time," snips the D'Erk. The Sole waves his hand around, and the D'Erk morphs down to D'Eartha. This morphing? Is starting to annoy. The Sole tells D'Eartha that Raige saw him using his powers. D'Eartha insists that Raige must die. The Sole has other plans. The death of Raige would seriously dampen Phoebe's libido, thereby placing the conception of The Sole's heir at risk. The Sole intends to enlist the aid of a power broker. If Raige is infected with a power ball, and if The Sole can hasten her resulting decline, Piper and Phoebe will already be on their respective honeymoons before Raige can convince them of The Sole's demonic nature. Raige will then die alone, unwanted and unloved, unnoticed in the Manor. D'Eartha seems to see the wisdom in this. The Sole plants himself in a high-backed Gothic chair and flicks a jazz hand at the floor. A Corporate Nazi whooshes on in, squatting for some reason in his dark suit. The Nazi snipers to the dirt. "Who did this?" he peeves in a nellie squeal as he brushes himself off, and I think I just realized why he was squatting. "Who pulled me here?" The Sole rises and allows those black beetle eyes to roll around in his skull. The Nazi drops to one knee in obeisance. Or something. The dry-cleaning bill for his pants must be enormous. The Sole promises the Nazi powers unimaginable if the Nazi completes the mission he'll be assigned. The Nazi is raring to go.
Phoebe storms into the offices of The Bay Mirror, a tabloid that advertises itself as the "Newspaper of the Year." Her outfit bears description. It also beggars it. She's wearing a long-sleeved, scoop-necked, tight white shirt under a loosely-crocheted pink wool poncho trimmed with long, dangling tassels, over a hobblingly-tight knee-length denim skirt with fringe at the hem. At her throat is a blood-red choker with pieces of mother of pearl woven into the pattern. "Wow," says a passing reporter, though neither in disgust nor in disbelief. "Hi," he wolfishly continues. "You are?" "Married," Phoebe goofs. The Fun Bags, despite the layers of clothing, jut like a massive silicone ice shelf trapped in pink netting. That the strap of her shoulder bag bisects the Fun Bags does little to lessen the effect. Phoebe asks the reporter man to point the way to Elise's office. He does so silently. Phoebe adjusts her purse to cover her ass, like, that's not the protrusion he's staring at, moron, and heads over to a closed door inlaid with opaque glass. Before she can knock, Elise Rothman, Girl Editor pops out. Phoebe explains that she's there to account for Molly's absence. Elise explains that Molly's fired. Long story short, Phoebe bluffs her way into learning that Molly's an advice columnist with an eight o'clock deadline and a whopping pile of unanswered mail. I see where this is going, and I didn't find it amusing when it involved Charlie Sheen and went by the title of Good Advice.