Meanwhile, across town, a lab technician's working late, examining some slides beneath a microscope. I'd go into greater detail setting the scene, but this guy's going to be dead in about ten seconds, so let's just keep things moving, okay? What's that? How do I know that this pleasant young gentleman will soon be sprawled lifeless on the linoleum? Because the undertaker has reappeared, silly. The undertaker greets this "Alex Pearson" and makes with the scientific small talk. Mr. Pearson's examining some "soil samples from the Bindura Plateau." "Ah. Zimbabwe," intones the undertaker. "Their crops have been overrun by disease for decades." Actually, according to a front-page article in the New York Times the other day, Zimbabwe's crops have been overrun by government-backed militants intent on driving the predominantly-white farmers out of the country, leading to a seventy-percent decline in agricultural output in this year alone, but what the hell do I know from sub-Saharan post-colonial famine and strife? In any event, the undertaker babbles a bit more about Mr. Pearson's future role in eradicating hunger from impoverished Third World nations or something like, we. Get. It, Corpseman, so just kill the sainted Mr. Pearson already. But, no! Corpseman goes on! Mr. Pearson's work will also be instrumental in developing a vaccine! "A vaccine?" asks Mr. Pearson. "For what? What do you want?" "Your future," sneers the undertaker, latching his claw-like corpse hands onto Pearson's forearms. The two men struggle for a bit, and the camera takes pains to show us that Pearson manages to dislodge a button from the undertaker's coat. The button skitters across the tiled floor, coming to rest beneath a table. The shot then cuts to a close-up of the undertaker's face as a knot of flesh in his forehead swivels open. A metallic, eye-shaped knob attached to the undertaker's skull shoots blue laser into Pearson's head. The doomed lab tech howls and wails as we fade into the commercial break.

Manor, the following morning. In the kitchen, Piper pours out three cups of coffee as Prue enters with the paper. Prue thanks Piper, and asks her to confirm that the coffee is caffeinated. "Nope!" is Piper's pert reply. Prue gapes. "Never has been!" Piper continues. "I just say it is because it's ridiculous to make two pots of coffee when you're the only one who drinks diesel!" The Twinkly-Toed Tinkle whomps me on the back of the head with the Theme Mallet, then plonks himself onto the carpet to drool over last week's Entertainment Weekly feature on XXX.