Tied up. Ingrid beside me. I look over and breathe a sigh of relief that her brain is still in her body.

"'I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're so beautiful. Everything's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.'

Andy Warhol said that, Fillmore. He had it right. He didn't want to just create art: he wanted to BECOME art. Can you understand how much of a revelation that was for me?"

Given that he spent the better part of the last few days trying to rip apart the student body, I had an inkling.

"Artists...we all spend our days toiling and toiling to create art while our bodies waste away to nothing. I realized that this was the greatest service I could do to my fellow artists. I'm combining our essences, Fillmore. I'm creating the perfect installation piece from the sum of our parts."

I try and wiggle free. The knots are lose...but I need more time. "What's with the 'our', Randall? seems to me that you're not doing your share."

Flava Sava sighs. He sounds...disappointed.

"Believe me, Fillmore, there's nothing more i would love than to give my life for art. But it's not my time yet. I need to collect...I need to pull everything together before I can add the final piece....my own heart."

"ENOUGH TALKING! CHOP 'EM UP!" Randall Weems shouts. "CHOP 'EM UP GOOD!"

Flava Sava chuckles and reaches for a saw. "Right! Ingrid: Let's create art!"

I begin to panic. Just a few more seconds...what can I do?

Then I notice Randall left his "friends" out. And one happens to be near my left foot:

Sorry, Maggie.

Randall screams so loud that I could swear glass shattered: but it stopped Flava Sava in his tracks. "MURDERER! MURDERER!" Weems shrieks at me, hefting me up by the collar. I take a second to appreciate the irony before I shake off the rope.

He manages to let out a single "Oh." before I give him a nice tap on the jaw and a free trip to Dreamland.

"No..no....It's all lost...." Flava Sava mumbles as he starts to run. I untie Ingrid before I go after him.

I'm finally able to get a sense of my surroundings as I chase Flava Sava: We're in the janitor's closet on the top floor.

It then dawns on me what Flava Sava's plan B is as he climbs to the roof. I get there in time to see him run to the edge.

"I wanted....I wanted to do right by my fellow artists...I wanted to make them part of it...." Oh no.

"I'm sad that I'm the only one who can become art now...."

He sees the crowd gathered below. He thrusts his arms out and tips himself over the edge as he shouts " I HAVE BECOME PERFORMANCE ART!"

I barely manage to grab the leg of his pants...then I realize that my balance isn't so hot either. For a second I think BOTH of us are going to "become performance art"...before Ingrid grabs me. Working with her, we all manage to get back on the roof. "Perfect timing as usual, Ingrid," I chuckle.

A few hours later, Randall and Randall are both being led away for a nice long rest in some white coats. I'm no psychologist, but I bet Randall the vandal will get some good of out art therapy. Let him paint with something besides blood for once.

Other Randall...I'm not so sure. But Ingrid at least takes pity on him: she gives him a new "Maggie" he can call his own.

"Looks like a closed case, huh Ingrid?"

She grins at me. "Good thing, too: Don't know how you'd manage without me around to do the thinking."

"What?" I chuckle.

"Hey, he didn't want YOUR brain."

Snap.