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Ratchet felt... awkward wandering around Chris the Skeeze's bedroom. At least it was quite clean, and Chris's, er, dirty laundry was well put-away. Instead of ransacking the drawers, she examined the pictures in their various frames and picked up the chia pet. "Oh hey, here's this thing- it's the little beaver he always has with him." She put it back down, despite how cute it was, and stepped back to look at another one of the pictures.

"Um..." Takin' the man's marshmallows was one thing, but the one thing he seemed to hold dear? Ratchet looked down at her paws, which were still covered in flypaper. Crud. She'd have to do something about that before the campfire ceremony. "I, uh, I dunno, man. I mean... remember how freaked out Ozzie got when he lost his plushie? This guy's a grown man. Who carries around a chia pet. At all times. But... It's Chris... SAY. I'm going to go check and make sure he's still in the bathroom. 'K? And, uh, I think we should get outta here. I'll wait for you outside while you go over this place once more." Ratchet's courage had its limits, as did her pity. Something in her told her it was inherently wrong and dangerous to take that beaver.

On the other hand, it would make a fantabulous cabin mascot.

Either way... she was leaving this one up to Annabel.

Ratchet unblocked the door and peeked in on Chris. He seemed to be quite happy, curled up asleep in his bathtub. He looked the most innocent she'd ever seen him; like a little kid or something. Sleep tight, little Chrissy. She pulled the door shut, wedged the chair back under it, checked that the door was secure, then headed out of the RV, Annabel behind her. "'E's sleepin' like a baby, Miss Galore. Let's 'ead 'ome... I've got a wee problem with this flypaper."

"Goddamn Chris-man! Seriously, what the hell happened to yew?!" Chef growled, shifting the gibbering host to a more comfortable position before hurrying towards his RV, hoping that the host's struggles didn't tumble him onto the ground. "Was it an intern? Ah knew we should've locked the supplies with the tranqs up, nevermind th'emergency in which we'd, y'know, need'em."

He juggled the host from arm to arm, successfully opening the door after dropping his marshmellow launcher. He had meant to fire tonight's winners in such a way that left the two who were voted off to be the only ones still sitting in an upright position, but noooo, the host HAD to go and get himself drugged! He grumbled and half-set, half-dumped the host onto his couch. Now that was d-

Something wasn't right.

The large audio tensed, then went to close the RV door. Now that the outside wind wasn't there... hm. He got down onto his knees and sniffed. Funny, since Chris' trailer was off-limits to campers and anyone not himself (aside from Chef)... why did it reek of camper? The windows were closed, and the strength of Annabel and Ratchet's scent was strong enough to betray them. He followed their movements from the door to the living room, to the kitchen and to...

...the bedroom? What in [foghorn]'s name was going on? And why the [foghorn] was the foghorn going off! This was private property, no cameras or [foghorn] editing crew allowed!

Maaaan. Chef stared at the bedroom, specifically where Fluffy was. There... there wasn't any chance that someone just... y'know, hid the chiapet, right? He dropped down to peek under the bed, then shamelessly opened and closed drawers. No, no, and nope...

Well [FOGHORN].

He turned his back on the bedroom and prowled, looking for anything else that had been taken. If memory served him right, the campers who came in were beavers. Why did one of them smell familiar?

He had his answer when he looked at the kitchen. Kitchen, his kitchen, it was Ratchet who messed with his appliances! He growled, tail lashing before hushing up when he heard Chris' gibberish. "Sorry man," he said, lowering his growl. "But... man, can yew even hear me straight? How many fingers am ah holdin' up?" He held up two, waiting.

Producers save them all if he asked for Fluffy.

One mashed-up work could describe Chef right about now:

*FACEPALM.*

"Dude, ah didn't mean it like that," he began, only to give up before finishing early. What was he going to do now? He turned away from the host and began to pace, thinking. If he told him Fluffy was gone, then he'd either blow up or... wait. Chris wasn't exactly thinking. If he told him now, then what are the chances of him taking it seriously? YES!

"Chris-man, ah gotta tell yew: Fluffy's gone." There. That was easy, wasn't it?

Chef held his breath as Chris sat up. Here was the game face, here it comes, he was sc-

"That's not what ah meant man," Chef said, shaking his head. "Ah mean... aw, nevermind. Yew want some chicken fingers man?" Didn't the tranqs had a reverse-effect serum that canceled the drug's effects? Did he want to risk using it? He knew that the more snake poison antidote a person took, the more likely they would build up an immunity to the antidote, but not the snake poison. Did the same work for serums?

Times like this made him wish he knew about assassination too, not just about Audio-hunting. He'd need to take another night-course sometime to make up for it.

"Yeeah man, yew got burnt a lil. No fluff there man."

Chef turned away as Chris... well, it was some form of self-inflicting torture, but it was torturous enough to watch him hit himself with his own tail. Just...

He focused on the task at hand: operation chickenfingers. He entered the small kitchen area and nosed around, growling. Filthy campers! Their scent was everywhere! Thankfully they had left the freezer section alone. Chef ripped open the box of chicken fingers and scattered them onto a plate, then popped them into the microwave. These were the pre-cooked and pre-frozen kind, so a trip into the microwave should be enough to thaw them out and warm'em up for cooking.

'Cause [FOGHORN] if Chef was going to just leave the host by himself until the tranquilizer wore off.