Welp, I'm back! To tell you the truth, I had totally forgotten about FHI until RoseInStillWaters posted the last comment, and it showed up in my inbox. And I thought: HOLY COW! I HAVE ANOTHER EPISODE LEFT! Ergo, here is the concluding chapter of this idyll of Idol. I got about halfway through after writing that forward, and then I sort of got sidetracked with things such as school, and like my bazillion attractive boyfriends and flying to and from Greece LIKE EVERY WEEKEND and oh yes did I mention that I won the Nobel Peace Prize. Not really, I actually forgot about it again. Shameful, I know. Anywho, I am finally getting around to finishing it up. I believe my only reference of the pop culture variety is to Simon Schama, who, being an actual person, belongs to Simon Schama. And the BBC. Same disclaimers as before.

I would also like you, dear reader, to observe a moment of silence for my dear cat, upon whom Zuzu was based. She passed away in the interval between the last chapter and this; however, she led a long and happy cat life, and is surely romping through fields full of loud, shaky grass to chase.

Now, sit back and enjoy, and don't forget to leave a few parting comments!

The scene opens to something totally different than anything from before. The dias from the last two episodes remain, but ovens, microwaves, sinks, and counters line the walls. There are plastic-looking bowls of fruit on the tables, and Martha-Stewart-like tea towels, potted plants, and pink plaid curtains that are fluttering in an artificial breeze. The budgerigar from the talk show portion is back, this time whistling selections from Celtic Woman.

Poof!

With a bump, our five men, somehow and against all odds still here, land on the checked parquet. Holden looks just overjoyed to still be there, whilst Rab and Alex have their game faces on. Sherlock still appears to be gloating from his victory in the courtroom, and Erik, bless his heart, is SMILILNG and looks CONTETNED. You are most shocked by this last development.

Paisley: Welcome, gents, to our finale round! Give yourselves a pat on the back for making it this far!

Holden: Even me?

Paisley: Umm, no, but you can give yourself a high-five.

Holden: does. Hey, this is just like clapping! You phony ol'-

Paisley: Don't test me, Shirley Beans-

Sherlock: (with a forgiving smile. Nothing's going to bring down his mood today.) DON'T call me Shirley!

Alex: (rolling his shoulders and jumping from foot to foot) Can we just get ON with it?

Paisley: Yes, yes, don't get your metal skirt thing in a bunch. Ahem: The way I have decided to organize this is quite simple. Erik and Sherlock, our two finalists, each get a cooking station. Your task is to create the best dish you possibly can, given the motley array of ingredients I will provide you with. Meanwhile, Alex and Rab will have their own challenge: that's right boys, FLOWER ARRANGEMENT. Whoever creates the best bouquet of flowers will present it to me as if asking me to prom, and then put his point total up against the cookoff winner! From there, whoever has the highest score will win fabulous prizes! You ready, campers?

Holden: (whiny, of course) But what about meeeeeee?

Paisley: YOU, Holden, shall do things like compost veggie leavings and set oven preheats and lift heavy chopping blocks, and complete other menial tasks. Okey-doke?

Holden: Beats sitting where that phony-baloney, spinachin' sparkly thing sat last time.

Paisley: Then, grab your stations!

Erik and Sherlock tear over to two ovens, but are dismayed to find frilly aprons, in delicate shades of mauve and periwinkle, as the only possible cover-ups.

Erik: You presume to give I, the Phantom himself, anything in a color besides red or black? You little viper!

Paisley: Chill pill, Erik, chill pill…

Sherlock: (all aproned up) come come now, my good fellow, it's the last step of humiliation in this contest. *pats Erik on the back*

Erik: (leaps back with a hisssss) Touch me not! I am Red Death, stalking abroad! (he begins to, well, stalk.)

Paisley: Erik! Man up! It will go so very nicely with your cape!

Erik: NO. non. Nunca!

Alex: Listen up, you glorified pleb! Just because you can carry a tune doesn't mean you can hold up my winning spree!

Rab: (trying to sound supportive) Umm, uh-huh.

Erik: (dirty glares all 'round) Fine. But if I don't win…something…a disaster beyond your wildest imaginings shall occur.

Everyone watches with baited breath as he drops the apron over his cape, and ties the sash. A sigh of relief echoes from the others.

Paisley: Now, your ingredients. I will make this difficult. You must each use at least five of your ingredients. You have in your cupboards other important cooking tools, such as frying oil, water, and baking powder. Sherlock, here is your list:

Plantains

Paprika

Rock Salt

Black Licorice

Soy Milk

Bacon

Cabbage

Butter

Spicy green onions

And…A Gourd

Sherlock: This is ridiculous! One cannot make proper bangers and mash, or roasted roe-buck, or Yorkshire pudding, with only this paltry list of foods!

Paisley: Ya get whatcha get and ya don't throw a fit.

Sherlock: grrrrrrr….

Paisley: Erik, your list is:

Cumin

Eggs

Grits

Lox

Pita Bread

Goat's milk

Parsley

Crisco

Baker's Chocolate

And…an ear or two of corn.

Erik: oooh, corn! I shall chop into it with pleasure!

Sherlock: By golly, you're right! It's a GOURD. Wait…This isn't-

(you will, dear readers, remember that Raoul and Moriarty were turned into a gourd and corn, respectively, as punishment for their losing the trial.)

Paisley: No, I'm sorry, boys, but the union would have my head if I actually let you cook your archenemies. They are just lookalikes, though I'm sure they are equally tasty.

Sherlock: Ah well…Prepare to meet your maker, gourd!

Erik: Yes, corn, now YOU will hop jolly high!

Both look sadistically overjoyed to be able to chop into vegetables that so closely resemble Moriarty and Raoul. Holden subsequently fetches whetstones and hulking knife racks.

Paisley: We will leave these two to their capers and now move along to our flowerboys. How's it shaping up, fellows?

Rab: Can't…talk…must…concentrate… (he is busily fluffing mounds of Babies' Breath in his vase.)

Alex: Yes, if you don't mind, Lady Paisley, this is a very vital and delicate process. (he is counting the petals on a bunch of pink daisies, making sure they are all symmetrical.)

Paisley:

Rab: Umm, Miss Paisley? You're blocking my light. I need to judge the purpleness of this fuchsia vine, so if you could move… (The painting has somehow been hovering, and unhappily scoots back to its place on the wall.)

Holden: Anything I can do yet?

Paisley: NO! This episode is turning out to be BORING and it's supposed to be ENTERTAINING! This is so not fair! (you can hear her drumming her heels.)

Erik: (from background) DIE, you foppish vegetable you! *dicedicedice*

Sherlock: Heheheheheh… *sizzle* (he seems to be frying gourd chunks)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TIME PASSES~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paisley: Ohmygarsh, I am just dying over here!

DING! Two oven timers go off at once. Alex and Rab also shout "DONE" right about now.

Paisley: Wow, that just worked out too perfectly, almost as if I was ready to get this over with! My arm hurts.

Sherlock: What from?

Paisley: Just work on finding you some garnish, Sherlock dear. First, we'll review our semifinalists' charming little bouquets…

Both of our pugnacious horsemen proudly present their creations. Alexander's looks rather like an explosion of firebombs and flaming javelins. He has used birds of paradise and orange gladiolus expertly. Rab's is a study in red, white, and blue, utilizing babies' breath stars, lily-of-the-valley and red carnation stripes, and a blue background of dyed roses. Both are pretty jimcama'ing amazing.

Paisley: I just don't know what to say! They're fantastic! Fortunately, it's all in the presentation. Rab, you go first.

Rab: (shuffling forward, rather awkwardly) Uhhhhhhh…

Paisley: come now, Rabbers! Spit it out!

Rab: Heresabouquet. Hopeyoureallylikeit. (he shoves the flowers at the painting, hanging his head and blushing.)

Paisley: Rab? What was that? Where is your typical debonair bearing? Your smooth and silent confidence?

Rab: Well, see, I get really nervous when it comes to asking girls out, which is what you do with a bouquet…

Paisley: But this is PRETEND!

Rab: I know, I know, but it's a, umm, phobia. I'm fine when I'm just talking or dancing, but, well…why do you think a gorgeous, kind, talented fellow like myself doesn't have a steady girlfriend? I'm afraid of commitment! I mean, this is 1776 we're talking about! Most people are already married by my age!

Paisley: Which is what? Sixteen? Seventeen?

Rab: yep.

Paisley: Well, that was disappointing! I guess Rab does have a flaw after all. Alex? This'd better be good.

Alexander: There is a problem.

Paisley: Problem?

Alexander: (frustrated) That's what I SAID!

Paisley: Well, do elaborate

Alexander: You see, I am Achilles reincarnated, the Son of Zeus, Emperor of the Eastern world and dictator for life. I don't give gifts. I take them.

Paisley: Are. You. Kidding. Me.

Alexander: I'm sorry, that's just what we dictators do. Hey, I don't make the rules…well, actually, I do, but still…*trails off into incoherent mumbling.* Oh, that didn't turn out well at all. Let me rephrase this: I don't make the rules- I JUST BREAK 'EM! FOR…FOR…MACEDONIA!

As if it is physically impossible, Alex tries to bend a knee and present the bouquet. Sweat begins to pour down his handsomely glowing face- remember, challenges make Lexi glow- and his muscles begin to shake. Everyone stops what they are doing to get a load of this spectacle. Holden snickers irreverently. You can hear Paisley smiling loudly.

Alexander: Must…kneel…give in to…ego…BUT I CANNOT MAKE MYSELF SUBSERVIANT!

In the end, though, he just can't do it. Poor Alex looks most dejected, but he gets a fist bump and a manhug, the type that involves a complicated handshake, from Rab.

Paisley: Aww, you two done good. I'm proud to have you on my gameshow any day. *sniffles* (suddenly upbeat) But since both of those presentations of bouquets were most embarrassing, now it's only on between the two finalists! Once bitter enemies, these two were united last episode against the common evil of nemesienesses…

Sherlock: (squinting dubiously) What?

Paisley: Nemesissesess! Nemisesisses! Nemisii! Plural of Nemesis!

Sherlock: Verily.

Paisley: NEMESISES, and are now amicable as partners in stopping law crime! But now, oh now, they are pitted cheek to jowl in a cook-off to blow the roof right off this popsicle stand! Ladies and Gents, but mostly gents, it is time for the TASTE TEST!

The trumpet fanfare from the talk show begins to roll, and, despite their recent losses, Rab and Alex begin to dance a pair of very nice robots in time with the music.

Holden: Hey, wanna learn how to two-step? (Holden starts two-stepping like a true gangsta. Everyone stops and stares, mouths agape.)

Paisley: Holden…you CAN dance! But still probably not as well as Rab. But at least you've redeemed yourself somewhat- GOLD STAR!

A gold star, similar to Rab's, but perhaps not as shiny, appears on Holden's grimy lapel. He stares at it in disbelief, and then quickly wipes away a tear. He then shuffles off into a corner to croon over it.

Paisley: Well, we lost our kitchen boy, but he also just might have found the will to live. Garsh I'm good. But back to our contenders! First we shall go to the dish prepared by Mr. Holmes! Sherlock, please explain your recipe.

Sherlock: It was a disgrace what you gave me to work with. No meat? No eggs? What sort of culinary travesty is this? We British make it a point to only consume dishes heavy on the protein.

Erik: (whispering) bacon is a meat, you great booby!

Sherlock: Not a real one! It's bloody American! Where are my kippers?

Paisley: Well, what did you make? Come now, show us.

Grudgingly, Sherlock removes a covered dish from the oven where it has been warming. A suspicious smell issues from it, and Holden begins to choke on the aroma from his corner.

Sherlock: I was strapped for ideas until I remembered what my secret, unnamed, not-even-present-in-the-books Mum used to make for me and brother Mycroft way back years ago, before I was a great detective. We had bubble and squeak every day! And, lo and behold, I was given both butter and cabbage, important components in this lovely dish, in my list of ingredients! But, since I had neither potatoes nor sausage, I had to improvise. I would like to present to you GOURD bubble and squeak!

He throws open the top of the dish with a dramatic flair, but instead of bubbling and squeaking, the food is making other sounds…

Food: sizzle…pop…hissssss…rumble…buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp!

Rab: Did that food just…belch?

Erik: How very rude!

Food: errrrrrrrpppppp….

Paisley: Perhaps the gourd did not agree with the butter and cabbage-

Sherlock: Or paprika, rock salt, or spicy green onions I used for flavour.

Paisley: That's six ingredients, Sherlock! Don't you think that the paprika was a little superfluous?

Sherlock: It adds colour!

Paisley: Did you just pronounce "color" like "colour" with a "u?" Of course you did, you're British. Strange, this never occurred to me before…

Sherlock: I can pronounce coloUr any way I chUse!

Paisley: Choose with a "u" too? Stop it stop it stop it! We need to stop getting sidetracked and focus on reaching the end of this thing!

Sherlock: I see no conneXion betwixt my pronunciation and this cook-off!

Paisley: Wargblahgfglarbletwiffffffff!

Sherlock: (peevishly happy) DInisty. SSHedule. ISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSue.

Paisley: Oh, now you just sound like Simon Schama! Give it a rest, SHIRLEY.

Sherlock: hmph. I will let my cooking speak for itself, then. (he folds his arms and turns away haughtily. Or "hotty-ly," as some of our viewers may opine.) And don't call me Shirley.

Paisley: Well, let's get on with it. Holden! You're the food tester today.

Holden: (unhappily leaping up from his corner of starry wonder) But…that looks alfalfasprouts-leeks'ed nasty!

Paisley: Deal with it dearie, or it's the box for you.

Holden: *angsty siiiiiiigh*

Paisley: Come now come now, we haven't all day!

Holden takes up a knife and fork, and carefully carves off a chunk of the viscous, entirely un-bubble-and-squeak-like glob.

Glob: squelllllllch….fiiiizzzzz….burrrrrrrrrble…..

Holden: Goodbye, fair world.

Holden takes the bite. His facial contortions are a wonder to behold. His eyes begin to stream, and he starts to go leaping around the kitchen set, mouth open, fanning his tastebuds and screaming like a boiling kettle. Or a Banshee. He finally procures a pitcher of water and dumps it down his throat, effectively soaking the front of his sweater.

Holden: That…was…rhubarb-acornsquash-haricot-cauliflower-broccoli-ROMAINLETTUCE-scallions NASTY!

Sherlock: (drily) I lack the words to counter this offensive affront to my cooking abilities. I call for a second opinion.

Holden: *Screeeeeeeeeeeeech!* Nasssssssssssssst-yyyyyyyyyyyy!

Paisley: Will you pipe down for a minute, Holden? Sherlock, who would you like to take the next bite? Our favorite Catcher could just be being pernicious.

Sherlock: *eyes Rab and Alexander* Dictator boy. (Alexander, offended, points to himself quizzically.) Yes, you in the skirt. I command you to try my Bubble and Squeak.

Alexander: (barely holding in his temper. He is turning a pleasant beetroot color and is glowing suspiciously.) First of all, it is a MAIL KILT. A functional CHAINMAIL KILT. I would like to see you try to pull one off, with those skinny legs of yours. Second of all, I do not take orders, but I may deign to try your "fizzle 'n' belch" for the good of the competition. And third of all-

Sherlock: Just deign already, your majesty. (this last said with acidity.)

Alexander: Fine. I will prove that I am man enough to eat anything I have to.

Alexander strides up to the plate, and shovels a handful of bubble 'n' fizzle 'n' squeak 'n' belch into his mouth. With his hands. He chews thoughtfully, makes a deciding face, and then turns to address his audience. You can tell he enjoys being in the spotlight once again.

Paisley: I forgot that forks weren't invented in your time, Lexi. If we had an etiquette challenge, I'm afraid you would fail miserably. Anyway, spit it out; what's the verdict?

Alexander: This concoction is-

Paisley: HAHAHAHA, I just made a funny! Spit it out…and food…and spitting it out….HAHAHAHA!

Rab: (with a snort of laughter) You've interrupted yourself, Miss Paisley.

Paisley: Excusez-moi?

Rab: Well, you said a few minutes ago that you wanted this episode or whatever to be done already, and you're just further impeding the process…

Paisley: Aww, Rabbers, always lookin' out for the good of everything! GOLD STAR!

A third? No fourth? No fifth? Gold star appears on Rab's lapel. He looks pleased as punch. Holden snarls and makes a disenchanted face. There will be a brawl unless a distraction happens!

Paisley: Look over there it's a bouncing taco!

Holden: COOL! Where? (completely and utterly distracted)

Paisley: Well well well, moving right along! Alex, how is it?

Alexander: Disgusting, but, frankly, on the campaign trail we have worse on a daily basis. I give it a solid two out of five stars.

Sherlock: Ah well, at least that will be better than anything Mr. Phantypants over there can do.

Erik: I beg your pardon!

Paisley: Not going to strangle him, Erik?

Erik: While the impulse to Punjab does make Erik's xanthous fingers twitch, Erik knows that the skinny, rude Englishman LIES. So he will let his cooking speak for itself.

Paisley: the third person? That's never good. She said anxiously.

Erik: BEHOLD! My entry to this finale performance-

Holden: WHERE'S MY BOUNCING TACO?

Paisley: hush! Or I will let Erik strangle ya until you're PURKLE!

Erik: Ahem. Where was Erik? Oh yes: BEHOLD! I give to you a new dish that is certain to win for Erik his rightful title of "Best Fictitious Hero:" Quiche a la Don Juan Triumphant!

Sherlock: (resentful) that is a long name. I'm afraid none of us will be able to remember it. Especially that one. (he points to Holden, who is still searching for his taco.) Weak phrenology, you know. Not prone to quick wits or logic. Did you know I have written a monograph on the subject?

Erik: ERIK IS DISPLEASED. (one look from his eyes/glowing yellow dots silences Sherlock.) But if you MUST, you may refer to my culinary masterpiece as "Quiche DJT." Please, Monsieur Caulfield. Try some.

Holden looks up from under a potted fichus and scuttles over to Erik's cooking station. Erik hands him the plate of quiche, which is admittedly pretty and yellow and garnished with a photogenic sprig of parsley. It smells good, that is if you like eggs. He has obviously included cumin a lox in a way that will taste not at all bad; he had also created a fluffy-looking crust from the pita bread and Crisco, for we all know that good crust involves Crisco. You are very impressed.

Holden: This one might not be so bad y'know? It's probably better than a greenonion'in taco, for radishsake.

Holden picks up a fork and takes a bite. A boyish smile lights up his face as he chews.

Holden: Gee, that's swell! It kills me, it really does!

Paisley: Nice, is it? Alex, try some.

Alexander: Gladly (he tries some.) Excellent! Even better than all that honey stuff we got in Halicarnassus! Five of five stars! I would go so far as to say that it is worthy of my royal palate.

Erik: At last, I am appreciated.

Sherlock: (dismayed) But…but…how? You sing and plot and kill people, not cook! By Jove, this is impossible!

Erik: (very smug. He sweeps his cape 'round for effect, although the mauve apron rather ruins it.) You forget, my good detective, that I am FRENCH. Je suis francais! Vive la francais! Les francais, nous sommes TRES BON avec la nourriture, non? HAHAHAHA! *manic laughter*

Paisley: Brav-o, Monsieur Le Fantome! Bravo indeed! You hereby win this cooking challenge!

A PALL SILENCE SUDDENLY FALLS OVER ALL PRESENT!

Every contestant stops what they are doing, quite shocked. Each sports a becoming deer-in-the-headlights expression. The budgerigar makes a cricket noise.

Budgie: eee-eeee. Eee-eeeeee.

Sherlock: Odd's Fish!

Rab: Golly Gee!

Alex: By my sword!

Holden: Zuuuuu-chini!

Erik: I….I….Erik has WON!

Here, Erik breaks into a fantastic victory dance. Gameshow music blasts from unseen speakers, and all the heroes have a spontaneous and fabulous dance party. Holden teaches the others how to two-step and dougie; Rab moonwalks and busts out some breakdancing. Erik tangos with himself, while Sherlock and Alex, not the dancing type, shuffle around without rhythm; however, they look like they are enjoying themselves. Jack Sparrow and Cedric Diggory are invited in, and they all form a moshpit. It is truly a spectacle. When the music ends, the security gents disapparate after waving goodbye to the audience and the others assemble on the stage.

Paisley: It has been so much fun working with all y'all! I'm going to miss you! But first, before we get all mushy, May I present to Mr. Erik, Phantom of the Opera, with the grand prize: a happy ending to his story! I'm sorry there's not concrete trophy or anything, Erik, but this is an intangible concept. How about I write up a contract for you?

Erik: This will suffice.

Paisley: *scritch scratch of pen* Well here you go! It reads: "This contract hereby entitles Mr. Erik of the opera to One (1) Guaranteed Happy Ending to his story." How does that sound?

Erik: Logical.

Paisley: And I am so glad you've won, Erik, because that ending has already been written for me by a Mr. Andrew Lloyd Webber!

Erik: WHAT?

Paisley: Oh, yes. While I was in the process of writ- er, producing this fanfiction/show/entity, dear Mr. Webber, who is responsible for putting you on the map fictitious-hero-wise, Erik, wrote up a sequel to your original plotline!

Erik: Tell me; it IS happy, then?

Paisley: Oh, I can't say! But I was quite disappointed with it-

Erik: RACONTE! Tell me! I must know! You cannot rip myself, Erik, off in such a backhanded manner!

Paisley: Well here's a spoiler: you go soft. (Erik goes all livid behind his mask.) Ball's not in my court, though…I wash my hands of responsibility. (Erik starts shaking violently. Paisley's tone becomes more conciliatory.) I'm sorry, But you do get some pretty amazing solos, so don't be too angry-

Erik: ANGRY? Erik is BEYOND angry! Erik is rampantly violent, and awfully, horrendously terrible! You have crossed the wrong Phantom, Miss Paisley! In fact- (he draws four nooses from his cloak)- I will take all of your precious heroes HOSTAGE until you meet my demands! (In a flash, Erik, has lassoed Rab, Alex, Sherlock, and Holden. He grabs all of their nooses together in one fist and strikes a scarily dramatic pose as the four others splutter and gag.)

Paisley: ERIK! Need I call security?

Erik: Do you not remember that you just dismissed them, stupid girl? Promise me a satisfactory ending, or your detective, your dictator, your revolutionary and your, ummm, disenfranchised youth will DIE!

Paisley: Okay, I give you my word that one of the three next fanfictions- er, writings I create will give you a second chance at a happy ending!

Erik: It will do. (he lets the four go. They all squirm out of their nooses and begin to rub their necks, all the while giving Erik some very resentful looks.)

Paisley: *sigh of relief* No promises that it will be a perfect sequel to your original body of work, but I won't let you down. Sooooooooooo, We have our victor! Erik, take a bow! (he does with many flourishes.) In second place we have Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street, detective extraordinaire! In third place, we have Mr. Rab Silsbee of Boston and His Royal Majesty Alexander of Macedon! Fourth place finds us with Mr. Holden Caulfield, most lately of Pencey Preparatory School for Boys but generally of the New York area! (They all bow in turn.) Now, I guess it's time to say goodbye, men. First, let's give a shout-out to all the fans!

The five guys wave at YOU (yes you) enthusiastically. Erik blows kisses; Alex does the Miss America wave as if on parade. Holden blushes profusely. Rab is just all smiles, and Sherlock cheekily makes the "call me" sign.

Paisley: Any parting words, fellas?

Alexander: I would like to congratulate each and every one of you, gentlemen and ladies in the distant audience, for having the pleasure of beholding my glory for the time we have spent together! After all, I am Achilles reincarnated, Son of-

Sherlock: (pushes him aside) –And I would like to thank you for supporting this, erm, presentation, and sincerely hope that you have cultivated your deductive skills after my fine example!

Rab: Umm, thanks for watching. It was an honor to meet you, men, and…*wink* to Miss Thursday, for being my only fan.

Holden: Yeah Holden Caulfield! WOO! But seriously, it was, like, fun, or whatever, to have good role models like all you guys…not like I'm gonna cry, or any of that ol' phony crap…(shuffles away, sniffing.)

Erik: Thank you, really, for the chance to redeem myself, and for loving me, dearest ladies in the audience. You have seen beyond my disfigurement to recognize the true heroism behind this mask. Gentlemen, it was an honor serving alongside you, who were so very easy to Punjab *snicker.* Miss Paisley, I expect a satisfactory ending, and in fact look forward to living it out. Now, I will go back to my own story, to my dear Christine, full of hope and, for the first time in my pitiful life, the knowledge that I am LOVED! (you can see a Phantom tear glistening in his Phantom eye.)

Paisley: (between sobs) That was BEAUTIFUL Erik! *sob* For me, fellas, please group hug!

They do. It is slightly awkward but very touching. The camera stills on this sentimental scene, and Paisley's voiceover takes control.

Paisley: Viewers, readers. Thank you ever so much for staying with this behemoth all the way through! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. If you ever write any fiction about one of these fellers, or any of the jury, or just in general, I would love to read it! Shoot me a private message! Again, thanks, Erik's happy ending will surface one of these days.

'Til next time, this is Paisley, signing off!

IT DONE!