A short time later, Buttfuck lopes into his brother's office. Benvolio has cut his hair since last we saw him, and is now doing pro bono work for various criminal defendants as a way of atoning for his past sins. Incidentally, those scabrous lesions that covered his face are gone as well. He still doesn't do it for me, though. Buttfuck too-casually mentions that he's been riffling through the family's old lists of potions, but couldn't find the one their father used to banish spirits -- would Benvolio know where to find it? Benvolio guilt-trips Buttfuck about using magic, but Buttfuck tells him to cram it. He needs that potion and he needs it now, so would Ben just tell him where it is already? Ben shoots Buttfuck A Look, but we get the feeling he's going to help him out -- I would imagine out of guilt for wasting Buttfuck's fiancée. Now that I'm reminded of that, why, exactly, are these two even speaking to each other? Stupid show.
Meanwhile, in a part of the world that most definitely is not France and in fact is indeed a section of Los Angeles masquerading as San Francisco, Chronic arrives for his shareholders' meeting -- in a mode of transport that most definitely is not an airplane and in fact is indeed a limousine -- to find Phoebe waiting for him at the curb. I hate this show. I do, however, appreciate the pair of passing extras who eye Phoebe with massive amounts of open contempt. Chronic goggles a bit at Phoebe's "attire" before attempting to push past her. Phoebe strips off one of her scarves and wraps it around his neck, snaring him so she can Fatal Attraction his ass. Chronic tells her to buzz the fuck off. "Are you saying you don't want me?" she simpers. "Not right now," he confirms, pushing himself away from her. Phoebe spews a few loud insults in badly accented French, including "cochon" and what the captioning tells me is "fils de pute." "You're crazy," Chronic gawps, finally breaking away from her to enter the hotel. "You think you can just walk away from me?" she seethes. "You think I'm crazy -- you think this is crazy?" Chronic vanishes with neither a word nor a glance back. "Just wait," Phoebe promises. The doorman leers at the slut on the sidewalk.
Oh, this is just silly. From the hotel's tackily decorated ballroom stage, Chronic addresses a group of champagne-swilling business types, delivering ceaseless yuppie boilerplate regarding emerging markets and bilateral trade and whatnot until the high-pitched whine of microphone feedback heralds the arrival -- at long last -- of Mata Whori. The throng of business types magically parts as the camera tracks through the resulting human aisle to land on the Feebs, who strikes a pose as she's struck by a spotlight. No, the lighting fixture in question does not drop from the ceiling to splatter her addled brains on the carpet. Would that it had. Mata Whori basks in the extremely unlikely glow of her very own key light for a moment before working the gentlemen in the crowd, stripping off scarves and winding them around the gentlemen's necks as she Norma Desmonds her way up to Chronic on the stage. "What are you doing?" he hisses. "You turned on me," Mata Whori croons as she swivels around him. "You rejected me, and I'd say you'd live to regret it, but you won't." The overexcited press corps fires off shots of the ludicrously garbed tramp as Chronic insists, "This isn't a game!" He whips off his jacket and wraps it around her nearly naked torso. Phoebe pushes herself out of his embrace and takes a step towards the crowd. With a grand flourish, she announces, "Curses on this merger!" and tosses a scarf above the assembled throng's heads, beaming at the resulting scrum amongst the business types to snatch the thing out of the air. Champagne bottles explode of their own accord. The escargot, frog's legs, and squab artfully arranged on various platters suddenly flare white and revert to actual snails, frogs, and pigeons. As is their wont, the frogs hop to the floor while the pigeons head to the ceiling. Meanwhile, the snails and I roll our eye stalks around and light a round of cigarettes. Kidding. Despite what you may have heard, there are no tentacles protruding from my forehead.