Roswell
Chant Down Babylon

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Shut up...mon

The door bursts open at the Den of Porno, Jesse leading the way as Porno and Michael carry in an unconscious Isabel. And I guess there was a food incident on the way in, because Michael's hands are completely covered in Tabasco. Or something else that sure as hell isn't the blood that's reportedly coming out of Isabel at this moment. Kyle "The Buddha Of Suburbia" Valenti enters the living room in confusion, asking, "What's going on?" Porno reports that "she's been shot," sending Kyle to the garage with the directive, "There's a trauma kit in the garage. Get it." His what? His little black medical textbook! It's like a handbook they give to nurses. What's he looking for? I don't know, some book. I ain't never seen any book back there. Back at the couch, Jesse strokes Isabel's hair, pinkies up, asking where the doctor is. Kyle runs in with a big orange backpack (that queer girly thing is the trauma kit? Does it have a Care Bears oxygen tank and an EKG that plays "Quit Playing Games With My Heart" when a patient flatlines?) as Isabel calls for Max and mutters that she doesn't want to die. Knock knock knock. The next in Jesse's scruffy gallery of freaky friends enters through the front door with yet another, bigger, queerer orange bag, barking orders about monitors and cords and adrenaline shots in the freezer and Marcellus Wallace's wife. The boys lift Isabel onto the dining room table and put the oxygen mask over her face. He yells that they'll need to do a transfusion, asking what her blood type is. Michael jumps in that "I'm her type," because he's an alien and she's an alien and that's why we're not at the hospital.

Maybe her acting isn't believable because she's having her tummy tucked just to the south of the camera's steely gaze, but Morgan Fairchild looks like she's looking around the place for her check and she'll just be on her way, thanks. We cut to a canopy bed surrounded by beaded curtains, Morgan Fairchild sitting bedside, repeating to an unseen lump underneath the bed, "Clayton. Clayton, can you hear me?" No movement. Then, movement. And an echo-y voice asking, "Where am I?" Morgan Fairchild pulls the blanket back to find that Clayton Endicott III is no longer his original self at all, but instead…Max Evans! Couldn't have written that one, myself. And quite pleased that I didn't. Morgan Fairchild regards a man in her bed who still manages to look astonishingly older than her considerably infirmed late husband. But this guy clearly isn't Max. Because this guy is ACTING. He's even adopted a different, this-is-how-my-Clayton-Endicott-III-character-speaks kind of dialect, in which he tells Morgan Fairchild, "I feel like someone walked over my grave." She looks at him in horror, and he asks her in increasing gradients of alarm, "What? WHAT?" She hands him a mirror, proving to them both that reviving the dead turns you into Max Evans, but with the hair of Mickey Dolenz, it appears. Ladies and gentlemen, Figure 1-1 of the expression "fate worse than death." Clayton Endicott III jumps up and runs to the mirror, all freakin' out. Morgan Fairchild puts a hand on his back and celebrates, "You know I've always loved you just the way you were, but this does open up a whole new set of possibilities for our relationship." Oh, this is so horrifying. Jason Behr is making out with Morgan Fairchild. People, when it's your job to write that stage direction on a script and send it to Paramount and it's not April 1st or the introduction to the opposite sketch, quit your job. It's just not worth it.

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Roswell

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