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`Christa sat in the middle of an old farm house, lying on the couch and staring at a lace doily on the arm. The intricate little designs, so many different patterns. There were grombies outside, but she didn’t really care. They had taken her brother. Killed him. Because of her.

She stared blankly, silent as the people around her fought, boarded doors and windows, watched newscasts, but she wasn’t really interested in it anymore. She needed to find her brother.

Shouts filled the air around her; a shot went off from a gun. Someone fell, and an explosion was heard in the distance… but she didn’t care. They weren’t her brother.

Boards cracked as grombies swarmed the tiny farmhouse, breaking through the front door in an attempt to feast. That wouldn’t help her find her brother.

Finally, she saw the other woman in the house, being clawed at and attacked by the door, she was struggling, they were winning, and Christa lunged forward. Fighting with all her might, she wouldn’t let them get at her if it was the last thing she did. She won.

The woman ran to the cellar to check on her child, and Christa remained. The grombies were overwhelming now, as the man next to her tried to help hold them off. A crack sounded, and they broke through another piece of wood. Arms, faces, whole torsos poked through the gap in the barricade, and that’s when she saw him.

Johnny. All remaining sense left Christa as she lunged forward, grabbing him, clutching him as the other man attempted to tear her away.

“Johnny, OH JOHNNY!” she screamed, shaking him, unwilling to believe that he had become one of them. That he had died. They dragged her into the heart of the mob, ripping at her, tearing at her, and suddenly, she lost consciousness.

In the safety of a tree nearby, the CK snickered, fingering a vile of G-Virus and grinning like a fox. That was the end of that.

Veliofi was at home when the GCDers confronted her.

“We know you’re the CK!” they shouted, shaking pitchforks and flaming torches in her face. “Give it up.”

“What?” Veliofi questioned, cocking her head in confusion just in time to avoid a torch.

“You shepherded your sister into jail so you wouldn’t have to kill her!” the crowd roared its approval, and Veliofi was seized before she could say “innocent.”

As she landed on the steamboat, she rolled into Peanut and sent her flying to the deck as well. The pair sat up, rubbing their heads, and Veliofi found that the scene on the boat gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “swab the deck.” People everywhere were dancing like maniacs, swirling their happy grinning mops in unison to a seemingly choreographed dance… only it wasn’t.

The mouse grinned mischievously from the captain’s cabin, rubbing his gloved hands together in a manner not too different from Dr. Not Evil, from Austin Powell. Veliofi was scared – no, TERRIFIED.

Amigo_amigo_amigo was enjoying a comedy act. The funny clowns and policemen on the screen in front of him amused him to no end, throwing pies and tripping on banana peels. The entire production was in black and white, but that didn’t really matter much – there wouldn’t be any color anyway.

Actually, black and white movies had begun to take over as preferred entertainment in Sniperville, either as a side-effect of being in black and white themselves, or because anything else they tried to watch simply gave them headaches, as most modern movies rely on color to differentiate characters and setting and are generally quite dark.
But back to the topic at hand: The movie was coming to a close, and after one final hurrah for the clowns, the policemen finally managed to pack them away into the paddy wagon, and the theatre lights came to life above their heads.

On the way out, a silent clown was standing at the door, distributing free pie to the patrons leaving the comedy. Amigo’s eyes lit up when he saw that they had his favorite – Cherry.

He managed to sweet talk his way into an entire pie from the cute little female clown in a polka-dotted miniskirt, and was just biting into his first forkful when he noticed something oddly sticky dripping from the bottom of the tin pie plate.

After careful inspection, he surmised it had to be cherry juice overflowing from when he stuck his fork in, and readied himself for what he figured would be the best pie he had had in ages.
Unfortunately for Amigo, the Crazed Killer had been to the same movie. And it had inspired them. Upon taking his first bite, Amigo promptly spat it back out, and emptied his stomach on the sticky carpet of the movie theatre’s lobby.

Amigo found out the hard way, that appearances can be deceiving. His cherry pie and, indeed all of the cherry pies sitting innocently on the table outside the theatre, had been constructed not with freshly pitted cherries, but with the intestines and the blood of one, [Cherry.Wine]. Poor Cherry just couldn’t catch a break it seemed.

Soon after Amigo had been rushed to the hospital, his stomach pumped and the pies taken as evidence, Amigo found himself in a pickle.

The entirety of the Sniperville police force – six donkeys, a baboon, and a cucumber named Horace – surrounded poor Amigo in his hospital bed, questioning him about his fingerprints being found all over the cherry pies at the theatre.

“I… I have a fetish!” Amigo blurted out upon being questioned, his face contorting into a good impression of the gonk emoticon as he spoke. “I BLAME THE SYSTEM!” he shouted, caressing a pie-stained fork as they hauled him off to the docks in tears.

“It’s all the system’s fault, my sweet,” he whispered to the fork, after he had been tossed onto the steamboat. “But they’ll never come between us. What we have is too special to be broken that easily.”
The raven-haired vixen was having her fun with the rest of the jailbirds, but now another woman had joined them - a much taller, much more succulent succubus. If not for the black and white around them that drained the color, her hair would be a brilliant shade of red to match her sparkling cocktail dress, cascading down to the middle of her back.

The pair of them together had managed to render the rest of the jailbirds – as well as the cat and mouse – pretty well useless. But their charm didn’t work on Amigo. As they advanced on the new arrival, leaving the other jailbirds whimpering and grasping for the edges of their slinky dresses, Amigo delicately licked his fork, savoring the flavor of the pie still clinging to its metal.

“Yes my dear, my sweet,” he moaned, paying more attention to the fork than to the two stunning bombshells before him.

The women were none too happy about this, and set about concocting a plan to pull his attention back to where it belonged – at them. They glided into the captain’s cabin, and locked themselves in.

Meanwhile, the deck of the steamboat had dissolved into utter chaos at the disappearance of their sirens, but Amigo didn’t notice. He just curled up in the corner and fondled his fork, whispering sweet nothings to the crumbs of pie crust clinging to it’s prongs.

Chikorin Moonie was free. Free as a bird, as a plane, free to snipe whomever she pleased. And her target? [N]ymphie. She stalked through the farmyard with practiced silence, black cloak flowing in the light breeze.

[N]ymphie however, was nowhere to be found in the yard, she had gone out with her little dog, RoRo for a walk, and hadn’t returned yet, so Chikorin set up camp. A good couple hours passed, and soon Chikorin began to wonder if someone had usurped her kill. Slinging her rifle onto her shoulder like a soldier, she wandered out of the hayloft she had found to take a look around the farmhouse.

Inside, Chikorin came across some startling evidence. The entire kitchen of the farmhouse was strewn with photographs, black and white of course. Each was of a dead villager, a large red X painted across the front of it, odd for it to show red in the black and white world, but Chikorin knew the reasoning.

As she stared at the photographs, a door banged shut and [N]ymphie wandered into the house with RoRo. Chikorin gasped and slung her rifle into firing position, aiming… aiming… BLAM!

Just as [N]ymphie entered the house, a round from a sniper rifle burst through her cranium, shattering her skull from such a close range.

“BOOM! Headshot!” Chikorin cheered, before she realized who had arrived with [N]ymphie. It seemed as though the sneaky Crazed Killer had been making friends with the local authorities, and had invited them over for a cup of coffee.

“But… it wasn’t me? [N]ymphie started it! Um… the duck made me?” Chikorin babbled as the handcuffs were thrust around her wrists, and she was thrown back onto the steamboat.

With the sniper caught and the killer dead, the GCDers took it upon themselves to ransack [N]ymphie’s farmhouse. Inside, they found a glittering pair of Red Ruby slippers, glowing colorfully in the black and white world.

“Ding dong, the killer’s dead. Which ole killer? The crazy killer! Ding dong, the crazy killer’s dead! She’s gone where the killers go, below, below below, yo-ho! YO HO-OH!”

Townsfolk rejoiced in the streets of sniperville, cheering and throwing confetti, as Mayor Steven announced the recapture of the sniper, and the death of the final killer.

“But wait – what about the color?!” someone shouted.

There was a moment of confusion, people didn’t know what to do, that is – until Steven mooed in triumph, stepping his hooves into the glimmering slippers, and mooing “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!” Only no one knew that. Because he was speaking cow.

Anyway, as Stephen mooed excitedly, the shoes glowed brighter and brighter until the ruby red consumed the entire town. Once he stopped, the red faded away, and left behind it the beauty of a fresh rainbow, twinkling in the bluebird sky, above lush green grass and colorful flowers.

The townspeople cheered, hoisting Stephen up above their heads and parading around town square. The color had returned. And as for the jailbirds? They sailed off into the smiling sunset on their happy steamboat, down the timeless river. Betty and Jessica are probably still trying to charm Amigo, and the rest have either killed each other off fighting for them, or formed an alliance to kill Amigo so that they can share the bombshells among them. We may never know for sure, but wherever they are, they’re probably still dancing with the smiling mops while Willie hijacks another steamboat from poor Pete.