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Elsewhere on the island, morning was... really the same as usual. Birds were singing, squirrels were posing dramatically in front of the camera, Molotov was sleeping in -- it was picture-perfect, and not dramatic at all in any shape or fashion.

That is, until you reached the kitchens. There, the loud clatter of pots hitting pans mingled with the crackle and pop of breakfast cooking on the grills, all in sharp harmony with the ratty radio which used to belong to one Dude McHatchet.

It was pretty boring, really -- and Chef managing to hand-wash dishes in rust-colored water while also preparing breakfast at the same time wasn't dramatic enough to save and air over national TV.

"He's talkin' ta me, like ah'm a grou-" Uh-oh, Chef, karaoke time's over. He was elbow-deep in rusty bubbles, so changing the radio dial wasn't an option. Instead, as Chris roared, Chef grabbed the frying pan he was attempting to de-burntgreaseandgunkify and held it up in preparation. But alas, the host wasn't being followed, so all Chef managed to do was create a pile of tinted bubbles that lurched and bubbled as it slid its way to the drain build specifically for that reason.

"Come again?" Chef asked, just as the radio pointed out that Chris didn't want love, he just wanted his bling bling and he better listen 'cause Chris needs his thing things.

"Weeell s**t man," Chef replied, using his soapy hands to crank the water on in order to wash off the slimey bubbles. This was a typical host tantrum, right? I mean, the best thing to do (when it wasn't possible to run and hide) was to wait it out and... well... It didn't look like it was over yet. And it wouldn't BE over until Chris was allowed to demolish his entire trailer and get a new bed, new trailer, new wardrobe... And who's paycheck was that going to come out of?! Yew bet cho tail it would be Chef's.

"What the hell do yew want me to do about it?!" He growled, wiping his hands on a towel. "Lure'em out with food and pick'em off one by one with tranqs? Whose idea was it to store the tranqs in your trailer man?! You're the host, YEW think of something!" Was there a note of panic in Chef's voice there?

The radio had by now changed to another song, the music lost to the shrieks and cackles of interference with the reception. Chef personally didn't like it -- it was too loud, interrupted too many times by the various cackles and pops of static. But it belonged to Dude first, and from Dude it came into his possession after a late-night raid. Besides, it was one thing that was too poor and too shoddy for Chris to steal away. For now, at least.

The large Audio sighed, scratching the top of his head while trying to resist the urge to bite on his finger-claws. They were stubs enough as it was! Now wasn't the time to indulge in nervous habits though. "Well man," he began, trying to steady himself. "Well," he repeated, clearly lost for words.

"What the hell do YEW want to do? If yew take paintball action against them, then yer stuff or what's left of it gets torn to intern bits, and if we don't do nothin' then nothin' happens and it's hammer time for us. They wanted rights? Hell, don't we have backdrops or somethin' to put up and make'em satisfied before we claim it for ourselves dependin' on whether or not they've chewed through th'floorboards yet?"

Looking back at this moment, Chef would be very, very, very glad that no campers were here. As soon as he saw the tears, Chef dropped the towel and scooped him up in a hug, then stood there in contemplation.

"Well man," he began, "Why don't we jus' ask Fluffy how to get back at'em? I mean, he's still unhurt right? Bet he can think of somethin'." Or at least get Chris high enough to launch a hair-brained scheme that would miraculously work in the end.

Poor, poor Chris and his violations. Chef heard something about those earlier, but since his name wasn't being called he didn't pay attention. After all, he wasn't important enough to use the loudspeaker system unless Chris said it was okay. Even then, most of the time the stuff came out as mrrrphrghrlrrr mrr mhhhr hrrhrr rahhhffle. There wasn't anything that could stop or beat the good ol' bellow.

"Well nao," he began, beginning to rock Chris to soothe his own fidgety nerves as well. The host's trailer first -- was his kitchen next?! "First ah think we should fortify the area -- area bein this kitchen'n'all. Then second we have a niiice breakfast," ohshoot was the oven still on? He lumbered over to it and shifted Chris and Fluffy into one arm in order to flip the bacon sizzling inside to the paper-towel padded plate, as well as tossing the pancakes up. He winced at the burnt side, but hey! A little crunch wouldn't hurt.

"And then after that, we find yew yer cameo fatigues an' get to plannin. How's that sound?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Chef replied, moving to set the host on the table. A plate soon appeared next to the host, along with the plate of still cooling and still grease-drying bacon strips. "Th' pancakes won't be done for a bit man, so yas gotta wait and talk t'Fluffy about what sort of counter-measures to do," Chef said over his shoulder before he disappeared into the dining hall. The scraping of the large tables being moved could be heard from inside the kitchen -- it looked as if Chef was bunkering down now, rather than after breakfast.

A plate of slightly-burnt pancakes appeared next to the plate of bacon, followed by an empty smaller plate next to Fluffy. Chef was then back to fortifying his kitchen and messhall, jamming chairs against windows and doors and stacking tables against windows.

He appeared back in his kitchen long enough to grab his broom and jam it against the back door, then repeating the process with the mob and the front double-doors to the messhall. Once that was all done, Chef finally wandered to Chris' side.

"Got a plan yet?"