It's the next one! Sorry I exploded you, Amber.

(Sweeny and Mrs. Lovett find themselves walking through a crowded marketplace for no apparent or particular reason. Everyone, for some reason, is wearing Dramatic Hollywood Black and Muted Bloody Red, except for an overweight sixty-four-year-old hippy of doom wearing an obnoxious amount of tie-dye and like, fifteen different headbands.)

Hippy: What the crap? Hugs not bad horror movies! Hugs not bad horror movies! Oh, crapness and sunshiney flowers, that doesn't rhyme. (disappears, with a sigh of relief from the audience and the extras)

Sweeney: Please, Mrs. Lovett, stop me if I try to go all Wiccan on that tofu…uh.... sixteen-foot pile, of.

Mrs. Lovett: Please revise grammar.

Sweeney: (jumping back in horror into the sixteen-foot pile of tofu) Augh! She's a robot movie version of Microsquash Word!

Mrs. Lovett: (ceasing to be the robot movie version of Microsquash Word) Oh, crapcraptastic. What the bloody hell just happened?

Amber: (running out of the movie theatre) No! NO NO NO NO! I can't take it anymore! Stop mildly cursing in my general direction and vicinity!

Iscrit: Geez, Amber, crap crap crap. Hell stupid damn. Oh, and flatulence.

Amber: (explodes in a big, fiery cataclysm of evil)

Tim Burton: Can we get back to the movie now? Please? I mean, I don't want to push anything, but-

Iscrit: Whatever you said, no. Okay. Getting back to the movie.

Sweeney: It's about time!

Mrs. Lovett: Hey, don't you know that guy in extremely tight pants who's making a fool of himself over there?

Sweeney: No, and I don't want to. Let's go find out who he is. And then kill him with a teapot.

OOPS, THAT WAS A SPOILER. I'M NOT SORRY.

Mrs. Lovett: Okay. I don't like life much today anyway. This, I think, will count as suicide.

Sweeney: (hopefully wanting Mrs. Lovett to give him clues on how to silently kill her if he has nothing better to do) Oh, why?

Mrs. Lovett: Cause his the Cheat just started singing. (dun dun dun!)

The Cheat: Meh meh meh. Habilijeemeh. Mehjileebameh. Douglas.

(Out pops Strong Bad in tight, shiny pants.)

Strong Pirelli: A-singin' come on, Fhqwgads, a-singin' come on, Fhqwgads-

Everybody to the limit, everybody to the limit,

Everybody, come on, Fhqwgads!

Sweeney: Uh…ideas…ideas…ideas…ideas...

God: CHALLENGE HIM TO A SHAVING CONTEST!

Sweeney: Why?

God: ISCRIT RISANA, CAPITALIZE MY NAME!

Iscrit: Jeez, GOD, settle down! In my world, you're just a fan fiction character anyway. Oh, blaspheme, blaspheyou, blasphaeverybody in the room! Sorry, that's a six-person joke.

Sweeney: Answer my question NOW!

GOD: OKAY, JEEZ. UH…I DON'T REALLY KNOW. I'M JUST BORED.

Sweeney: Okay! Here goes! Uh…Mr…uh…

Strong Pirelli: Call me "The Leg"

Sweeney: Like, tape-leg?

Strong Pirelli: No. Like, short for, "The Legend." Cause I am one.

GOD: HIS NAME'S STRONG PIRELLI.

Sweeney: I think I'm an atheist now. Anyway…Strong Pirelli, I'm challenging you to a completely random shaving contest. Of doom. It must be good, because I added "of doom" to the end.

Strong Pirelli: Sure, I'm doesn't have anything better to do.

(Sweeny and Strong Pirelli both drag unwilling participants by their noses out of the audience and start systematically shaving the everloving crap out of their six-foot Gimli-worthy beards. Strong Pirelli proceeds to sing while doing so.)

Fangirls: SWEENEY"S NOT BEING SEXY ENOUGH!!!!!(proceed to sue the pants off of Tim Burton)

Sweeney: (sexily shaves his guy in .0000000000003 seconds) Done and done, Fraser.

Strong Pirelli: Ow! My pride! It burns!

Sweeney: Imma blow this popsicle stick. Afore things gets oogly.

Wormtail: (popping out of a cloud that just died all over Sweeney's feet) I'm inviting myself over to your place for shaving cream pie this week. Is that okay with you?

Sweeney: Uh…

Mrs. Lovett: Yes. That's fine. Please. Now we're gonna go…place.

Sweeney: (out of earshot) That's all you could come up with?!?!? "Place?"

Mrs. Lovett: Ho-humsighfaintdie. I can't please anyone.

Entire Audience: Yes, we noticed.