Shut Up, Dr. Phil

Episode Report Card
Demian: D+ | 7 USERS: B+
See The Funny Little Hardy Boys
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN! Briefly: Dean hated witches, Leviathans exist, one Leviathan in particular developed a special fondness for cheese, Darling Sammy met Amy Pond and Dashing El Deano killed her.

Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! We open on an upscale hair-and-nail salon, where we find an indifferently coiffed hairburner of the male persuasion leading a rather strident young woman over towards the salon's bank of industrial-strength space-age dryers. The woman's evidently getting her roots did, but that's really beside the point because what we should actually be focusing on are the words she's spewing into her cell phone at the moment. "Kaaaaa-ren!" she whines at her never-heard chatting companion. "Don't second-guess yourself! Yes, your house is beautiful, but didn't you tell me a million times that it's Rick's dream house? Selling it is how you punish his ass, and after what you've been through, don't you deserve that?" So, Missy Strident's a rapacious real estate agent? Got it. She's also remarkably persuasive, because Kaaaaa-ren! clearly agrees to sell. "I'll have the papers ready tomorrow," Missy Strident promises and hangs up her phone to exult, "I'm not good -- I'm very good!" The 'burner chuckles, straps her into one of the industrial-strength space-age dryers, assures her he'll return in ten minutes, and exits.

A set of stenciled glass doors slides shut behind him, effectively sealing tonight's first bit of Monster Chow off from the others out in the salon proper and, thus left so entirely alone, Missy Strident proceeds to flip impatiently through an off-brand lady-mag. After a moment, she starts squirming around in discomfort, tugging at the neck of her powder-pink beauty cape as the temperature inside that massive plastic helmet rapidly ratchets up to Saharan levels. "Chriiiiiis?" she calls out to no avail, for Chriiiiiis cannot hear her above the obnoxious thumpa-thumpa of the anonymous disco track now blaring through the salon's speaker system. Missy Strident first tries to push the dryer off her head, but the thing seems inexplicably stuck in place, so she next attempts to slither out from beneath the contraption, only to find herself slammed back up, ramrod-straight in her chair, by some unknown and invisible force. DUN! And as she screams, the dryer sizzles and zots, drilling a few flashing bolts of electricity into her skull while smoke pours out around her face, and her extremely high heels go flying off in two different directions as she kicks and spasms and howls and wails and finally goes limp in the chair. "Ohmigod!" Chriiiiiis gasps as he strolls back in from the salon proper, and when he gingerly lifts the dryer off the now most thoroughly dead real estate agent's head, the scorched plastic carries with it charred chunks of her scalp. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, writhing about atop his overstuffed armchair with a delight that only grows in volume when one of those charred chunks of scalp starts dripping vivid bits of gore onto the salon's otherwise spotless floor. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" For his part, Chriiiiiis unhinges his lower jaw to unleash a caterwauling cry of horror, but alas! The hairburner's sterling efforts leave him with little more than a mouthful of bitterly black demonic goo thanks to his lousy sense of timing and this evening's abruptly onrushing...

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