Somewhere else, a uniformed police officer takes a round of bullets in his chest and collapses to the floor of a dank, forbidding alleyway. Dude. I can't remember the last time I saw a dank, forbidding alleyway on this show. But where are The Convenient Shipping Pallets Of Grave Bodily Injury? Sigh. As the perp clomps away, a crappy green digital overlay opens in one of the walls. A pleasant-looking Valkyrie emerges to soothe the dying cop. Unfortunately for her, Big Gay Chris orbs in with pendant-snatching on his mind. "The witches found [the Dolt] sooner than I would have liked," Chris explains. "That's not my problem," she replies evenly. "We kept our end of the deal." Chris assures her that he's "forever grateful" for the Valkyries' compliance up to this point, but he can't risk the Glamorous Ladies figuring out his plan. He reaches out with his right hand, curls his fingers into a fist, and flicks his wrist. The pleasant-looking Valkyrie grasps at her chest, gasping for air, and presently falls to the asphalt. Chris slowly approaches her lifeless form, whispers, "Forgive me," and yanks the jade pendant from her neck. The Valkyrie's remains promptly disappear into the ether. Chris then hovers over the prone cop, hesitates for a beat, and retrieves the two-way radio clipped to the cop's shirt. "Officer down," Chris reports. "Eighth Avenue sewer. We need an ambulance." A sewer? Dammit! I don't think I'll ever see a dank, forbidding alleyway again.
And am I right, or am I right? Over in another corner of the city, Darryl muscles a handcuffed, mouthy Chinese gangsta into the back of his car as Phoebe and Raige rather obviously orb in nearby. It all happens in an alleyway, sure, but this one's Neon-Lit! And Inviting! The bastards. Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: Darryl, pulling his apoplectic-with-stuttering-disbelief thing, hustles the Ps over to a corner, wondering loudly what the hell they think they're doing. The gals explain the Dolt sitch and ask for his help. Darryl immediately agrees, so Phoebe perks, "Great! We just need to borrow your soul for a couple of hours." Darryl's decidedly nonplussed. "It's perfectly safe!" Phoebe insists. "Your body will slip into a coma, and as long as we get your soul back in time, you'll be fine! Just a little headache, that's all. Whaddya say?" Gotta admit -- La Milano's delivery here is rather amusing. Still not too fond of the hair, though. Darryl quite naturally demurs and wheels on his heel to storm away, tossing a snicker-worthy hissyfit the entire time. Raige whomps his retreating back with a bottle of something that knocks his body to the ground. Darryl's oblivious soul carries on ranting down the alleyway. Heh. "Darryl?" Raige interrupts hesitantly. Incorporeal Darryl spins back around. Raige wrinkles her nose and points to his comatose body on the concrete. "Oh, that's just great," pouts Incorporeal Darryl. Hee! More Darryl, please, especially if you intend to keep slinging him into tight black t-shirts. In the meantime, Phoebe uncorks a vial, captures Darryl's soul, and mutters, "I hope this works," as she and Raige exit the frame.