Hell, Coronation Central. Good God, they're going to beat this set until it bleeds, aren't they? A variety of dark demonic forces encircles the pentagram on the floor, chanting Craptin. Upon the pentagram itself stands Prior Pock, clad in one of those dark peach satin and burnt-orange velour Bob Mackie creations from a couple of episodes ago. "Dane, son of Goath," Prior Pock intones, "may the world's evil flow through your soul tonight and grant you eternal darkness." Aw. That's darling. Hallmark should use it to launch a new line of greeting cards for those moments when you want to spread a little Satanic joy. Dane, who had been kneeling before the Grimoire's podium during this, rises to his feet as Prior Pock crosses to open the book. "Are you prepared to take the power and position of The Source before these leaders of the Underworld?" Pock asks of Dane. "I am," Dane replies. Prior Pock eases The Grimoire open, presumably to the Votum Sanguinis. D'Eartha rays in at that moment, demanding that the assembled halt the coronation immediately. She's had another of her visions -- this one revealing The Sole's heir taking immediate control of the Underworld. Dane scoffs that an unborn infant "in the belly of a witch" cannot lead Hell's minions. Prior Pock agrees that Hell can't wait for the Spawn's birth, much less remain leaderless while the Spawn takes his sweet time reaching adulthood. D'Eartha icily insists that with her assistance, the Phoetus can take charge that very day. Dane protests mightily at this usurpation of his claim to the throne of Hell. Prior Pock reminds him that, despite "The Council's" vote in Dane's favor, Dane has "no direct lineage to The Source, by blood or by magic." Prior Pock tells D'Eartha that she has "until tonight to bring [The Council] The Source's heir, or the throne belongs to Dane." Dane tries to out-sneer D'Eartha, and fails miserably.
And we cut right to the office of your friendly neighborhood gynecologist for the first round of those wacky prenatal hijinks that leave me cold and dead inside. Gyno-Man, Gyno-Man, doing the things a gyno can, informs Phoebe that her hormone levels are dangerously elevated for a woman who's only eight weeks pregnant, and chides her for not coming in for an exam sooner. Phoebe doofs that she was in the care of "a Seer," which Piper covers as being "a New-Agey kind of doctor." Gyno-Man snorts derisively, as well he should, and smears some gel on Phoebe's abdomen for an ultrasound. The gel is cold, so naturally Phoebe's head catches fire. No, seriously -- a crown of flame erupts from her head to lick at the air. As several have noted on the forums, the Spawn of Sole must hate Phoebe's new hairstyle as much as everyone in the audience does. Fortunately for Phoebe's sake, the flames vanish before Gyno-Man sees them and freaks right the hell out of his office. He slides the ultrasound, um, wand-thingy around Phoebe's stomach, and the ronking "wah-wah" noises on the monitor eventually reveal a blurry squiggle that's supposed to be the Phoetus. The Phoetus doesn't like having his photo taken, and so zaps Gyno-Man with a bolt of electricity. Gyno-Man flies backwards to introduce his ass to the wall before slumping to the floor. Piper twitters and hoots as she helps Gyno-Man to his feet. "What happened?" he stammers. "That's a good question," Piper replies, freezing Gyno-Man with a flick of her wrist. "What happened?" she clenches as she advances on the Feebs. "Did your baby just electrocute the nice doctor man?" she spits. "Yeah," Phoebe reluctantly confirms with an infantile pout that makes me want to reach into the television to gouge the teeth from her gums with my fingernails. "Unborn babies don't perform magic tricks in the first trimester!" Piper wails. Phoebe grimaces, "What's going on?" Piper hasn't a clue, but orders Phoebe not to panic. "We'll wrap up here," she vows, "and then we'll go home and panic." She grips Phoebe's hand, and the two gape nervously at the still-frozen Gyno-Man.