Part II – Operation: Takedown

Duncan crouched in the shadows of the forest, peering out of the bushes furtively. He spied no movement.

The walkie-talkie in his hand crackled, and Trent's hushed whisper came through: "He's heading to the mess hall. You're clear."

"Got it," Duncan replied, although he never let his vigilance waver for even the slightest of seconds. At the mess hall or not, Chris still had other methods of watching them, and Duncan wasn't about to let a tapped squirrel interfere with the mission.

When the terrain proved itself clear of even the smallest wildlife, Duncan darted out of the cover of the bushes towards the lodge. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and a cruel smile spread across his face as he acknowledged the familiar thrill of rebellion.

The front door creaked ominously as he pushed it open, and he flinched away, shrinking back in the shadows. But no alarm sounded, and the lodge seemed to be quite utterly deserted. Duncan took a deep breath and tip-toed in, hugging the walls.

Even in the darkness, the luxury of the lodge was immediately obvious. Warm, plush rugs carpeted the gleaming, hardwood floor, and a homely-looking fireplace lay in the corner. There was even a huge, plasma-screen television perched on the wall and a giant stereo system curled around it; Duncan felt his hatred of Chris multiply tenfold as he realized that Chris had this all to himself when the ten other campers had to share a meager, co-ed cabin with drafts, no outlets, and absolutely no privacy.

The next room was even worse. It was kitchen with lustrous, white tiles and a gas stove, and Duncan could still smell the lingering scent of brownies. His stomach growled in anguish as he recalled the still-moving mystery meat they had to eat daily. He fleetingly considered destroying the room, but that would immediately give away their secrecy. He had to stick to the mission on hand.

Finally, Duncan found the bathroom, and there, perched on the sink, was the target. In Duncan's eyes, it gleamed as a symbol of all the pain and suffering he had endured the past month, but his blood trilled in his veins as he realized it was also a symbol of their eminent freedom. It was Chris' most prized possession – his hair gel. And it was the key to their liberation.

Working quickly, Duncan unfastened the lid and poured the rightful contents down the toilet. Then he pulled from his pocket a small bottle emblazoned with the warning: "Danger! Do not drink!" As if anyone would drink anything that was bright purple and shared the scent of the original hair gel – like rotten eggs. Why anyone would use such a putrid hair product was beyond him, but at least it made their job that much easier.

Then, his heart pounding with adrenaline, Duncan squeezed the solution into the hair gel container and screwed the lid back on. He placed the "gel" back on the sink, and, after a quick surveillance of the room to make sure he hadn't left any clues of his presence behind, he slipped silently back out of the lodge.

His job here was done. Now, it was just time to wait.

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Chris hummed happily to himself as he worked the gel into his hair, reflecting on the past day's events. It had been rather good work, in his opinion, and had made some pretty decent TV. Regrettably, Cody had gotten a little banged up in the free cliff-climb, but that would only pull on the audiences' heart strings and make the show even better.

Chris' nose twitched, and he sneezed. The scent of his gel was so strong that he was beginning to feel light-headed, and he took a step to steady himself. Perhaps this brand wasn't the best idea after all. Taking a deep breath, Chris put his arm out in front of him, and then . . . blackout.

Chris awoke to a rocking sensation. Bewildered, he rolled over groggily and felt the ground roll up into the wall beside him. He rolled the other way, and found the same situation there, too. Where was he?

Chris' eyes fluttered slowly, and then they suddenly flew open. He sat up sharply, staring blankly out a rolling expanse of water before him and feeling the monotonous rock of the canoe under his feet. Chef was curled up beside him, obliviously sucking his thumb as he slept. Chris blinked uncomprehendingly for a few seconds as he put two and two together, and then he cried out in a mixture of fury and anguish:

"Where's my lawyer?!"