The Importance Of Being Phoebe

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Demian: C+ | Grade It Now!
The Importance Of Being A Deranged Serial Killer

Two Phoebes, huh? And here I thought my life couldn't get any worse than it already is.

Fade up on Raige's trusty little Volkswagen meandering down a tree-lined road. Behind the wheel, Raige natters into her cell phone about her latest witchy shopping excursion for potion ingredients. After Cole's crazy! involvement in last week's hijinks, Raige is more determined than ever to concoct something strong enough to rid the Glamorous Ladies of Phoebe's erstwhile demonic boy toy once and for all. Over on the Manor end of the line, Phoebe wonders if the eye of newt Raige purchased can help "vanquish" the woman who's suing both the Feebs and The Bay Mirror over a piece of rotten advice Phoebe dispensed in a recent column. Phoebe dispensing rotten advice? Go know. A lawsuit because of said rotten advice proceeding through the civil courts? Not buying it. And because of what we later learn about the origin of Phoebe's current dilemma, I can't even properly call it all a shout-out, so I'm left listlessly lighting another cigarette while muttering "Feh" as I exhale. Raige, puttering along at roughly three miles an hour, snarks something about the sanctity of the First Amendment just as the DemonCam On Crack zips past her to land on a bald gentleman loitering at the side of the road. The gentleman forks a couple of fingers in the air, and a bright flare of demonic mojo slams into the back of the Beetle, propelling it into a spin. Raige shrieks and drops her cell into her lap as her car crumples into another with all the speed of the Pacific Plate grinding into California. Phoebe shouts, "[Raige]! Are you okay?" as the bald gentleman smirks. The camera pans across the accident, taking in the dazed driver of the other vehicle and an unconscious Raige before shuddering into DemonCam mode to jitter us off to the other end of the city.

The DemonCam dumps us in an establishment I'll be calling Bada Not!, for lack of a better nickname. A blonde reject from the Adam & Eve catalogue writhes up and down a pole beneath black lights, clad in a Day-Glo orange velour brassiere with frilly accents, a knee-length white gauzy skirt, and white patterned tights. We don't see her shoes, but I'm sure they match the bra. And I'll just bet she's sporting a pair of lime-green ankle socks, too. It's like a Wham! video with breasts. Well, a Wham! video with breasts that the gentlemen in said video find arousing. The reject slides a hand along her torso before pumping her hips a couple of times in Cole's direction. Cole's splayed out on a nearby sofa with a half-empty martini glass clutched loosely in one hand and his tongue dangling into his lap. Now that's talent. He's shaved since last we saw him, and he's back in his stylish, lawyerly togs. Throughout the establishment, cocktail waitresses in demure Eisenhower-era two-piece swimsuits pass beneath go-go girls of near-Amish modesty as the bald gentleman from the previous scene flares into the middle of the room. One of the waitresses nearly rams into him; she would, had they money enough to pay her for a speaking role, tell him to watch where the hell he's flaring. As it is, she simply flips her hair around in a -- dare I say it? -- demonic snit and flounces off. So this is the Charmed version of a demonic stripper bar. Not to get too picky about such things, but shouldn't demonic strippers be, well, stripping? With bestial heads flailing around above their scaly bodies while they perform unspeakable acts with live poultry, or something? These mall-haired implant victims in granny panties just aren't cutting it. It's the Sunday-night family hour on the WB, guys. Why did you even bother?

Whatever. The bald gentleman approaches Cole with details of Raige's slow-motion accident, confirming that both she and the other driver were injured. "All you gotta do is a little mind control on the witnesses and maybe a cop," the gentleman adds, "and we're golden." Cole pounds the last of his martini and rises to leave, but the stripper reject boobs into his face and shoves him back onto the couch. "No time for one little dance?" she heaves. "Kaia," Cole leers after darting a "get lost" glance at the bald gentleman. Kaia? Ha! Where's the crap poetry, hon? Actually, this Kaia lacks the other's lockjaw and really looks more like Amaya after a nose job, what with the blonde hair and the vulgar simper and the massive bumper bullets protruding from her chest and everything. Cole settles back as K'Amaya swivels, and he mutters, "You know what I like." K'Amaya wiggles vacantly and morphs into Feeb form. K'Feebs grins, straddles Cole's waist, and grinds her nether bits into his groin.

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