A/N: Violence, strong language warning.
May 1987
The last notes of Chandler's guitar faded through the auditorium, and Phoebe leapt to her feet, clapping furiously.
Chandler stood up and took a bow, and Phoebe's face burst into a grin. She began to slide past the knees of the other people in her row, clutching the bouquet of flowers she'd bought, and ducked down a side exit, heading for the dressing rooms.
She headed Chandler off as he came out of the wings, still looking a little dazed. He'd been nervous as hell about this recital... he'd thrown up twice beforehand.
"Hey, sexy," she called, throwing her arms around him.
"Hey, you," he grinned back, circling her waist. "Didn't think you'd want to be huggin' up on me... I probably still smell like puke."
"It's okay, I brought stuff to cover the smell." She laughed, pressing the flowers against his chest.
"Hey, good idea." He kissed her cheek. "Thanks for these."
"And ooh, ooh! Sign my program!" Phoebe fished a pen and her "CHANDLER BING: SENIOR RECITAL" program out of her purse and pressed them at Chandler.
"Are you kidding?"
"Hell, no! That baby's gonna be worth something someday!"
"To Phoebe Buffay... my first and best groupie... Chandler Bing," Chandler said as he wrote carefully, balancing the program on his knee.
"So, let's celebrate. What do you want to do?"
"I dunno, I thought maybe we could..."
All the color drained from Chandler's face, and Phoebe whirled. His gaze was fixed on a couple standing in the wings... a tall, beautiful woman and her even taller male companion.
"You were woooonderful, son," the woman trilled, advancing wobbily towards Chandler. "Just woooooonderful."
Chandler's mom? But she'd seen Chandler's mom, at camp, she wasn't so tall, she... oh.
"Hi, Dad," Chandler said miserably, trying not to wince from the whiskey breath.
"Very nice job, Chandler," the man said stiffly. "Excellent playing."
Chandler tried his damndest to shrink into the curtains. "Hi, Philip."
"Where are your manners, son? Introduce us to your friend," Charles demanded.
"Dad... Philip... this is Phoebe."
"I'm his girlfriend," Phoebe said fiercely, threading her arm through Chandler's.
Philip's eyes flashed. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you," she said primly.
"This calls for a celebration," Charles announced. "We're taking the two of you out. Where's a good place around here?"
"Dad, I... I think we're too young for anywhere you'd want to go."
"Then we'll go to your house," Charles said, swaying a little and catching hold of Philip's arm for support. "Don't you have a house? I thought the bitch told me you had a house. Lead on, MacDuff... we'll follow you."
***
Phoebe stared over at Chandler anxiously as he ground the gears for the third time in a row. His jaw was set, and he was staring out at the road like he wanted to blow it up.
"Chandler... I'm sorry."
"Why are *you* sorry?" he exploded. "I'm sorry you had to meet them. I can't believe he came to my fucking *recital* drunk. Is it too much to fucking ask to get wasted at eight o'clock instead of six?"
He rammed in the clutch, and the engine whined. "Look, Pheebs... I don't want you to have to go through this tonight. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere? I could pick you up once they're gone."
"Are you kidding? I'm not letting you do this alone."
He turned to face her, his face pale and drawn in the light of the dashboard. "Pheebs... you're the best friend I've ever, ever had."
"Well, you're the best friend I've ever had. For a pretentious Goth boy. Y'know."
***
"So then I said, 'Oh, stuff it, Steve, pull the tampon out and live a little'," Charles brayed, gesturing with his glass, sending vodka sloshing across the couch.
"That's a great story, Dad," Chandler winced. Phoebe tightened her grip on his hand.
"So tell me about *you* two," Philip purred, downing the last three inches of his own glass. "You're such an *adorable* couple. However did you two *meet*?"
"At camp," Chandler said through gritted teeth.
"At *camp*!" Philip sang out, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "Oh, isn't that *sweet*, Charles! At *camp*. Oh, it's just like a *cute* little *movie*."
"That horrible 'sharing and caring' camp for delinquents that the bitch sends you to?" Charles slurred, holding out his glass for Philip to fill.
"Yes, ma'am," Phoebe said, catching Philip's eye. "I had to go. I shanked some bitch who touched my boyfriend."
"Sheeeeee's a fiesty one, Chandler!" Philip crowed. "She must be a *tiger* in the sack."
"Well, son," Charles said, getting to his feet with difficulty, "You got somewhere an old broad can pass out?"
Chandler looked at Phoebe, and she nodded. "Sure, Dad. You can sleep in the uh, the guest room."
"Fan-caaay," Charles drawled, swaying towards the door of Phoebe's room. "My *teenager* has a *guest* room. I think my alimony needs to be increased...!"
Phoebe's door shut behind Charles, and Chandler closed his eyes in relief.
"Y'know, Penelope," Philip began, pouring himself yet another refill.
"Phoebe," she replied flatly.
"Phee-bee. Whatever. Chandler wasn't always straight, y'know."
Chandler's eyes opened in horror.
"Actually, sir," Phoebe said. "Chandler's always been straight. Although I heard a rumor that he was once molested by some creepy old bastard."
"Is *that* what you heard." Philip's voice dripped with poison. "What an interesting, *interesting* story."
"Okay," Chandler jumped up from the couch. "This night is fucking over. Philip, go to sleep. Pheebs, go to my room."
"Aww, Chaaaandler... the conversation was just getting *amusing*," Philip sneered. "Or don't you want your girlfriend to know that you're a slutty little tease?"
"Shut up," Chandler cried.
"I don't know what Chandler told you, Penelope," Philip hissed, "But I think you'll like my version of the story better. For one thing, it's true... and I really like the part where Chandler *begs* me to..."
"I said shut up," Chandler trembled with rage. "Shut up."
"Don't you think she ought to know? Don't you think she has a *right* to know?"
"Get out of my fucking house."
"Make me," Philip laughed. "Oh, you can't. 'Cause you're a skinny little guitar-playing rent boy, and you'd get your blazer dirty."
Chandler ran at Philip, pushing him with both hands. Philip swayed but didn't budge, delivering a roundhouse punch to the side of Chandler's head. Chandler fell against the couch, gasping.
"Get away from him," Phoebe demanded, brandishing a kitchen knife. "I know how to use this."
"Oh, nooooo," Philip giggled. "Barbie's got a steak knife!"
"I'm serious," Phoebe said, moving towards Philip as Chandler struggled back to his feet. "Get out right now."
"This should be funny."
Phoebe slashed at Philip. He grabbed her by the wrist and twisted, wrenching her arm upwards. Tears sprang to Phoebe's eyes.
"Get off her... get off her, you bastard," Chandler sobbed, attacking Philip wildly, wrestling the three of them to the ground. The knife fell out of Phoebe's hand, and Chandler grabbed for it... but Philip got there first.
Chandler pushed Phoebe out from underneath him. "Pheebs, run, get someone, run..."
"I can't leave you..." She grabbed the empty vodka bottle off the coffee table.
"Run, dammit! Get the neighbors, get out of here, get..."
Chandler screamed, and Phoebe's eyes flew wide as blood spurted out across the floor. She lurched forward, bringing the bottle down on Philip's head. It cracked beneath the force of the blow, sending glass shards everywhere.
She rolled Philip's limp body off Chandler. "Chandler, oh my god! Are you okay? Are you okay? Where are you bleeding?"
She saw his hand and bit back a scream. "Chandler, I'm calling 911. Hold on."
She ran to the kitchen, slipping in Chandler's blood, finally wrenching the phone off the wall.
"It's 825 Laurel Street... my friend's really messed up... oh god, please hurry."
She sprinted back to Chandler, dropping to her knees in the spreading pool of blood, ripping off the hem of her dress and wrapping it around his hand, putting pressure on it.
"Pheebs... that hurts..."
"I know, Chandler," she sobbed. "But you're losing so much blood..."
"Can you... do you see the rest of it?" he said weakly.
"I'll look. Keep holding this, okay?" She gently placed his other hand on the makeshift bandage, trying not to gag as her hands searched across the bloody floor, trying to find Chandler's fingertip.
Sirens in the distance.
"Pheebs... you've got to go now."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"You can't be here. You've got a record. You ran away from foster care. They'll put you in Juvenile."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Don't go far. Walk to the dorms. Stay with Steven tonight. I'll come get you."
"Chandler..."
"I'll come find you, okay? But you've gotta go now."
"But..."
"Pheebs, dammit, go... they're getting closer. Don't make it worse."
"Chandler..."
"Go!"
Phoebe ran for the door, and Chandler let the darkness take him.
***
"This is all your fucking fault! All your fucking fault! How could you let this happen to our son?"
"Dammit, Nora, I didn't know. And you didn't either, so don't act all Mary Mother of the Year with me."
"His hand, Charles. His goddamned *hand*. Do you know how many years, how many years he's spent on guitar? It's his *dream*, Charles. You took his fucking *dream*."
"Do you think I don't hate myself right now? Because I do. You don't know how much."
Chandler pried his eyes open and immediately regretted it. The pain in his hand was excruciating.
"Nora, shut up -- he's awake."
His parents rushed to his bed, looming over him.
It was the first time in years he'd seen either of them without makeup.
"Chandler? Honey?" Nora held his good hand to her chest. "Say something, baby."
"Where's Phoebe?"
"Who's Phoebe?"
"That's his girlfriend," Charles said.
"I don't know, baby. We haven't seen her."
"How long -- how long have I been out?"
"About a week, sweetie. They had you on really strong painkillers."
"A week? I have to go to the house."
"No-no, honey," Nora said, moving his hair away from his forehead. "I got you out of your lease, I've already shipped your stuff home. You're coming home with me. I canceled my book tour, I'm gonna take care of you."
"You canceled my lease?" Chandler said in horror.
"We got everything out as soon as the police were done. I want you home with me. Things are going to be different, baby."
"Oh, god... Pheebs..."
"You can write her when you get home, baby. I'm sure the two of you can visit."
"She doesn't have an *address*," Chandler moaned. "She doesn't have anything she *owns*. She doesn't even have her *wallet*."
Charles and Nora shot each other an uneasy look.
"Honey, I think you're a little delusional... maybe you should go back to sleep."
"No sleep. Gotta find Phoebe..."
Nora nodded towards Charles, and he pressed the button on Chandler's morphine drip.
"I told her I'd find her," Chandler mumbled, sinking back into his pillow.
***
Chandler looked out the window of the limousine, watching skyscrapers roll by.
"Darling, I just don't... I just don't understand."
"It's what I want, Mom."
"But baby... you got into *Yale*. You got into *Princeton*. Why, why in the world would you want to go to NYU?"
"It's what I want, Mom."
***
Ross Geller watched in shock as his new roommate tucked a five-dollar bill into a styrofoam cup, leaning down to have a short conversation with the man holding it.
"Dude," he said as the headed down the street. "Don't *do* that. It just encourages them. I thought you were *from* New York."
"I am," Chandler said simply, tucking his hands into his trenchcoat pockets.
Ross shook his head. This guy was intense. "You don't *act* like it. Giving money to bums, going on walks in the middle of the night in shitty neighborhoods... do you have some kind of death wish?"
"I like to walk." Chandler turned up his coat collar against the wind.
"So walk in the *park*."
"I already looked in the park." Chandler pushed the door open, setting the little bell jingling.
"You're seriously weird. You know that, right?"
Chandler didn't answer. He was staring in awe at a waitress, moving in between the tables, her long ponytail hanging behind her.
"Pheebs," he called. "Pheebs?"
The girl didn't turn around. Ross looked on in confusion as Chandler jogged up to the waitress and caught her by the arm. "Phoebe."
"Nope, sorry," the girl snapped, shrugging Chandler's hand off.
"Pheebs... it's me. Chandler."
"I'm sorry, Chancey, but you have the wrong person. Buzz off, I've got tables."
"Phoebe, what... what are you doing?"
"Look, buddy, you've got the wrong girl. My name is Ursula."
"Oh my god," Chandler said. "Phoebe's twin?"
"Look, who are you?"
"I'm a friend of Phoebe's. I've been trying to find her forever."
"Well, good luck, 'cause she's dead."
"She's dead?"
"Or something. Excuse me." she brushed past him.
"Ursula, Ursula, wait. What do you mean, she's dead?"
"Dead. You know, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, pushing up daisies?"
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"Uh, I dunno, I guess I was twelve? It was right before I went to live with my grandma."
"Whoa. You have a grandmother? Here, in the city?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Your sister spent years living in a box, and you had a grandmother living in the city?"
"Oh, yeah," Ursula sighed. "Well, that would kinda be my fault. Oops!"
"How, exactly," Chandler growled, "Would that be your fault?"
"Well, you know, it was so chaotic when Mom bit it. And Phoebe was really getting on my nerves, you know?"
"Don't." Chandler held up a hand. "Just... don't."
He walked across the restaurant and grabbed Ross' arm, hauling him outside.
"Dude... what was that about? We didn't eat!"
"We'll eat somewhere else," Chandler said through gritted teeth.
"What was wrong with that place?"
"If I'd stayed there one minute longer, you would have watched me kill a woman."
"You... you have *serious* issues, dude."
"You don't know the half of it. C'mon, there's a deli up the street."
May 1987
The last notes of Chandler's guitar faded through the auditorium, and Phoebe leapt to her feet, clapping furiously.
Chandler stood up and took a bow, and Phoebe's face burst into a grin. She began to slide past the knees of the other people in her row, clutching the bouquet of flowers she'd bought, and ducked down a side exit, heading for the dressing rooms.
She headed Chandler off as he came out of the wings, still looking a little dazed. He'd been nervous as hell about this recital... he'd thrown up twice beforehand.
"Hey, sexy," she called, throwing her arms around him.
"Hey, you," he grinned back, circling her waist. "Didn't think you'd want to be huggin' up on me... I probably still smell like puke."
"It's okay, I brought stuff to cover the smell." She laughed, pressing the flowers against his chest.
"Hey, good idea." He kissed her cheek. "Thanks for these."
"And ooh, ooh! Sign my program!" Phoebe fished a pen and her "CHANDLER BING: SENIOR RECITAL" program out of her purse and pressed them at Chandler.
"Are you kidding?"
"Hell, no! That baby's gonna be worth something someday!"
"To Phoebe Buffay... my first and best groupie... Chandler Bing," Chandler said as he wrote carefully, balancing the program on his knee.
"So, let's celebrate. What do you want to do?"
"I dunno, I thought maybe we could..."
All the color drained from Chandler's face, and Phoebe whirled. His gaze was fixed on a couple standing in the wings... a tall, beautiful woman and her even taller male companion.
"You were woooonderful, son," the woman trilled, advancing wobbily towards Chandler. "Just woooooonderful."
Chandler's mom? But she'd seen Chandler's mom, at camp, she wasn't so tall, she... oh.
"Hi, Dad," Chandler said miserably, trying not to wince from the whiskey breath.
"Very nice job, Chandler," the man said stiffly. "Excellent playing."
Chandler tried his damndest to shrink into the curtains. "Hi, Philip."
"Where are your manners, son? Introduce us to your friend," Charles demanded.
"Dad... Philip... this is Phoebe."
"I'm his girlfriend," Phoebe said fiercely, threading her arm through Chandler's.
Philip's eyes flashed. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you," she said primly.
"This calls for a celebration," Charles announced. "We're taking the two of you out. Where's a good place around here?"
"Dad, I... I think we're too young for anywhere you'd want to go."
"Then we'll go to your house," Charles said, swaying a little and catching hold of Philip's arm for support. "Don't you have a house? I thought the bitch told me you had a house. Lead on, MacDuff... we'll follow you."
***
Phoebe stared over at Chandler anxiously as he ground the gears for the third time in a row. His jaw was set, and he was staring out at the road like he wanted to blow it up.
"Chandler... I'm sorry."
"Why are *you* sorry?" he exploded. "I'm sorry you had to meet them. I can't believe he came to my fucking *recital* drunk. Is it too much to fucking ask to get wasted at eight o'clock instead of six?"
He rammed in the clutch, and the engine whined. "Look, Pheebs... I don't want you to have to go through this tonight. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere? I could pick you up once they're gone."
"Are you kidding? I'm not letting you do this alone."
He turned to face her, his face pale and drawn in the light of the dashboard. "Pheebs... you're the best friend I've ever, ever had."
"Well, you're the best friend I've ever had. For a pretentious Goth boy. Y'know."
***
"So then I said, 'Oh, stuff it, Steve, pull the tampon out and live a little'," Charles brayed, gesturing with his glass, sending vodka sloshing across the couch.
"That's a great story, Dad," Chandler winced. Phoebe tightened her grip on his hand.
"So tell me about *you* two," Philip purred, downing the last three inches of his own glass. "You're such an *adorable* couple. However did you two *meet*?"
"At camp," Chandler said through gritted teeth.
"At *camp*!" Philip sang out, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "Oh, isn't that *sweet*, Charles! At *camp*. Oh, it's just like a *cute* little *movie*."
"That horrible 'sharing and caring' camp for delinquents that the bitch sends you to?" Charles slurred, holding out his glass for Philip to fill.
"Yes, ma'am," Phoebe said, catching Philip's eye. "I had to go. I shanked some bitch who touched my boyfriend."
"Sheeeeee's a fiesty one, Chandler!" Philip crowed. "She must be a *tiger* in the sack."
"Well, son," Charles said, getting to his feet with difficulty, "You got somewhere an old broad can pass out?"
Chandler looked at Phoebe, and she nodded. "Sure, Dad. You can sleep in the uh, the guest room."
"Fan-caaay," Charles drawled, swaying towards the door of Phoebe's room. "My *teenager* has a *guest* room. I think my alimony needs to be increased...!"
Phoebe's door shut behind Charles, and Chandler closed his eyes in relief.
"Y'know, Penelope," Philip began, pouring himself yet another refill.
"Phoebe," she replied flatly.
"Phee-bee. Whatever. Chandler wasn't always straight, y'know."
Chandler's eyes opened in horror.
"Actually, sir," Phoebe said. "Chandler's always been straight. Although I heard a rumor that he was once molested by some creepy old bastard."
"Is *that* what you heard." Philip's voice dripped with poison. "What an interesting, *interesting* story."
"Okay," Chandler jumped up from the couch. "This night is fucking over. Philip, go to sleep. Pheebs, go to my room."
"Aww, Chaaaandler... the conversation was just getting *amusing*," Philip sneered. "Or don't you want your girlfriend to know that you're a slutty little tease?"
"Shut up," Chandler cried.
"I don't know what Chandler told you, Penelope," Philip hissed, "But I think you'll like my version of the story better. For one thing, it's true... and I really like the part where Chandler *begs* me to..."
"I said shut up," Chandler trembled with rage. "Shut up."
"Don't you think she ought to know? Don't you think she has a *right* to know?"
"Get out of my fucking house."
"Make me," Philip laughed. "Oh, you can't. 'Cause you're a skinny little guitar-playing rent boy, and you'd get your blazer dirty."
Chandler ran at Philip, pushing him with both hands. Philip swayed but didn't budge, delivering a roundhouse punch to the side of Chandler's head. Chandler fell against the couch, gasping.
"Get away from him," Phoebe demanded, brandishing a kitchen knife. "I know how to use this."
"Oh, nooooo," Philip giggled. "Barbie's got a steak knife!"
"I'm serious," Phoebe said, moving towards Philip as Chandler struggled back to his feet. "Get out right now."
"This should be funny."
Phoebe slashed at Philip. He grabbed her by the wrist and twisted, wrenching her arm upwards. Tears sprang to Phoebe's eyes.
"Get off her... get off her, you bastard," Chandler sobbed, attacking Philip wildly, wrestling the three of them to the ground. The knife fell out of Phoebe's hand, and Chandler grabbed for it... but Philip got there first.
Chandler pushed Phoebe out from underneath him. "Pheebs, run, get someone, run..."
"I can't leave you..." She grabbed the empty vodka bottle off the coffee table.
"Run, dammit! Get the neighbors, get out of here, get..."
Chandler screamed, and Phoebe's eyes flew wide as blood spurted out across the floor. She lurched forward, bringing the bottle down on Philip's head. It cracked beneath the force of the blow, sending glass shards everywhere.
She rolled Philip's limp body off Chandler. "Chandler, oh my god! Are you okay? Are you okay? Where are you bleeding?"
She saw his hand and bit back a scream. "Chandler, I'm calling 911. Hold on."
She ran to the kitchen, slipping in Chandler's blood, finally wrenching the phone off the wall.
"It's 825 Laurel Street... my friend's really messed up... oh god, please hurry."
She sprinted back to Chandler, dropping to her knees in the spreading pool of blood, ripping off the hem of her dress and wrapping it around his hand, putting pressure on it.
"Pheebs... that hurts..."
"I know, Chandler," she sobbed. "But you're losing so much blood..."
"Can you... do you see the rest of it?" he said weakly.
"I'll look. Keep holding this, okay?" She gently placed his other hand on the makeshift bandage, trying not to gag as her hands searched across the bloody floor, trying to find Chandler's fingertip.
Sirens in the distance.
"Pheebs... you've got to go now."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"You can't be here. You've got a record. You ran away from foster care. They'll put you in Juvenile."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Don't go far. Walk to the dorms. Stay with Steven tonight. I'll come get you."
"Chandler..."
"I'll come find you, okay? But you've gotta go now."
"But..."
"Pheebs, dammit, go... they're getting closer. Don't make it worse."
"Chandler..."
"Go!"
Phoebe ran for the door, and Chandler let the darkness take him.
***
"This is all your fucking fault! All your fucking fault! How could you let this happen to our son?"
"Dammit, Nora, I didn't know. And you didn't either, so don't act all Mary Mother of the Year with me."
"His hand, Charles. His goddamned *hand*. Do you know how many years, how many years he's spent on guitar? It's his *dream*, Charles. You took his fucking *dream*."
"Do you think I don't hate myself right now? Because I do. You don't know how much."
Chandler pried his eyes open and immediately regretted it. The pain in his hand was excruciating.
"Nora, shut up -- he's awake."
His parents rushed to his bed, looming over him.
It was the first time in years he'd seen either of them without makeup.
"Chandler? Honey?" Nora held his good hand to her chest. "Say something, baby."
"Where's Phoebe?"
"Who's Phoebe?"
"That's his girlfriend," Charles said.
"I don't know, baby. We haven't seen her."
"How long -- how long have I been out?"
"About a week, sweetie. They had you on really strong painkillers."
"A week? I have to go to the house."
"No-no, honey," Nora said, moving his hair away from his forehead. "I got you out of your lease, I've already shipped your stuff home. You're coming home with me. I canceled my book tour, I'm gonna take care of you."
"You canceled my lease?" Chandler said in horror.
"We got everything out as soon as the police were done. I want you home with me. Things are going to be different, baby."
"Oh, god... Pheebs..."
"You can write her when you get home, baby. I'm sure the two of you can visit."
"She doesn't have an *address*," Chandler moaned. "She doesn't have anything she *owns*. She doesn't even have her *wallet*."
Charles and Nora shot each other an uneasy look.
"Honey, I think you're a little delusional... maybe you should go back to sleep."
"No sleep. Gotta find Phoebe..."
Nora nodded towards Charles, and he pressed the button on Chandler's morphine drip.
"I told her I'd find her," Chandler mumbled, sinking back into his pillow.
***
Chandler looked out the window of the limousine, watching skyscrapers roll by.
"Darling, I just don't... I just don't understand."
"It's what I want, Mom."
"But baby... you got into *Yale*. You got into *Princeton*. Why, why in the world would you want to go to NYU?"
"It's what I want, Mom."
***
Ross Geller watched in shock as his new roommate tucked a five-dollar bill into a styrofoam cup, leaning down to have a short conversation with the man holding it.
"Dude," he said as the headed down the street. "Don't *do* that. It just encourages them. I thought you were *from* New York."
"I am," Chandler said simply, tucking his hands into his trenchcoat pockets.
Ross shook his head. This guy was intense. "You don't *act* like it. Giving money to bums, going on walks in the middle of the night in shitty neighborhoods... do you have some kind of death wish?"
"I like to walk." Chandler turned up his coat collar against the wind.
"So walk in the *park*."
"I already looked in the park." Chandler pushed the door open, setting the little bell jingling.
"You're seriously weird. You know that, right?"
Chandler didn't answer. He was staring in awe at a waitress, moving in between the tables, her long ponytail hanging behind her.
"Pheebs," he called. "Pheebs?"
The girl didn't turn around. Ross looked on in confusion as Chandler jogged up to the waitress and caught her by the arm. "Phoebe."
"Nope, sorry," the girl snapped, shrugging Chandler's hand off.
"Pheebs... it's me. Chandler."
"I'm sorry, Chancey, but you have the wrong person. Buzz off, I've got tables."
"Phoebe, what... what are you doing?"
"Look, buddy, you've got the wrong girl. My name is Ursula."
"Oh my god," Chandler said. "Phoebe's twin?"
"Look, who are you?"
"I'm a friend of Phoebe's. I've been trying to find her forever."
"Well, good luck, 'cause she's dead."
"She's dead?"
"Or something. Excuse me." she brushed past him.
"Ursula, Ursula, wait. What do you mean, she's dead?"
"Dead. You know, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, pushing up daisies?"
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"Uh, I dunno, I guess I was twelve? It was right before I went to live with my grandma."
"Whoa. You have a grandmother? Here, in the city?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Your sister spent years living in a box, and you had a grandmother living in the city?"
"Oh, yeah," Ursula sighed. "Well, that would kinda be my fault. Oops!"
"How, exactly," Chandler growled, "Would that be your fault?"
"Well, you know, it was so chaotic when Mom bit it. And Phoebe was really getting on my nerves, you know?"
"Don't." Chandler held up a hand. "Just... don't."
He walked across the restaurant and grabbed Ross' arm, hauling him outside.
"Dude... what was that about? We didn't eat!"
"We'll eat somewhere else," Chandler said through gritted teeth.
"What was wrong with that place?"
"If I'd stayed there one minute longer, you would have watched me kill a woman."
"You... you have *serious* issues, dude."
"You don't know the half of it. C'mon, there's a deli up the street."
