Apparently, converting an uninhabited, run-of-the-mill island into a biohazardous wasteland was a crime in Muskoka, Canada. But instead of studying up on his environmental law, Chris McLean was torturing teens around the globe for Total Drama's third season. As soon as he set foot on the all-too-familiar Dock of Shame to begin pre-production, the RCMP had swarmed the island for a mandatory quarantine and strapped him in handcuffs.

The months went by and finally his court date arrived. As expected, appealing to the jury's sympathy with Gemmy-award-winning crocodile tears did not work. The slamming of the gavel as the guilty verdict was dished out surprised no one but Chris. Not even Hatchet, Chris's accomplice, could look shocked. For all rich people, however, a specific invincibility above the law is enjoyed. Millionaire heartthrob host McLean was no different. Rather than a hefty sentence of prison-time, the judge ordered the two sadists a lengthy period of community service. What better way to give back to the community, the judge reasoned, than to use the very island that Chris destroyed?

Yes, the judge lambasted Chris's irresponsible nature and the fact that there was not a single nurturing bone in his body. He was still willing to give Chris a chance, though. First, the show would be put on an indefinite hiatus. To this order, Chris winced. The judge's second caveat involved community service. If, for an entire summer, Chris McLean benefited the community by using the now-toxic-waste-free island, the judge would consider his punishment fully carried out. All the whining in the world wouldn't change the man in the powdered wig's mind, and when he returned to his chambers with a swish of his judge's robes, that was that for Chris. Hatchet, more used to discipline, stomached this penalty and grumbled under his breath instead.

While in their holding cell waiting to be released to do their civic duty–the two convicts scoffed at this idea–Chris and Hatchet pondered the type of community service their island would house. A carnival where 5% of the proceeds went to an unnamed charity? Too sketchy. A state-of-the-art animal sanctuary for abandoned pets? Too ambitious. A summer camp? Too…huh. To this idea, neither Chris nor Hatchet could object. Camp Wawanakwa was a summer camp, in theory. It housed all the facilities needed to make mediocre summer memories around a campfire. From the cabins down to the mess hall, the camp had it all. The fact that mysterious tentacles didn't shoot up out of the lake and drag down nearby victims anymore was a plus! Chris was bummed, though. Without dangerous challenges, dramatic marshmallow ceremonies, and cameras invading every inch of the teenagers' privacy, he couldn't help but feel like running the camp would lose some of its spice. Oh well. Not being able to torture teenagers for an entire summer was punishment enough for the TV personality.

And that is how Chris McLean found himself sweating under the morning sun on the first day of summer, waiting to welcome thirteen adolescents to summer camp.

When the boat arrived, with Hatchet at the helm in a sea captain's uniform, faces of confusion, surprise, and anger greeted Chris.

"Hold up! This ain't the Jersey Shore," Anne-Maria scoffed.

"Where're all the punching bags? I thought this was Future Olympians camp," Jo glared.

"Forget punching bags! Football camp is supposed to have a pigskin lying around somewhere," Lightning scratched his head.

"But I thought this was a wilderness retreat to connect with woodland creatures…" Dawn furrowed her brow.

"So this isn't an E-Sports tournament? Bummer," Sam frowned.

"I'm supposed to be vacationing in Belize, not here," Dakota retched.

The boat landed and a barrage of complaints were thrown at a smiling Chris. Cameron thought he was on the island to research Canadian butterflies. Zoey thought an art camp was taking place there. Staci wondered why no one was discussing their family history at genealogy camp. Scott thought the island was home to a dirt-farming workshop. B didn't say anything, but judging by his wide eyes, whatever he thought the island was home to was not home to it. Mike was the only person there expecting a cruddy summer camp. And Brick assumed he was at a boot camp.

"Boot camp? Get your head on straight, genius," Jo scoffed. "Do you see a drill sergeant anywhere?"

"Not boot camp like the army," Brick replied. "Boot camp like the camp where you learn to design military boots! See? Mine have a rhinestone attached on the sole," he explained, proud of himself.

"Ignore me then. I wouldn't want to step on your stilettos," she laughed. Brick's face burned.

Cameron groaned like a cornered cat. The others watched him squirm. He slowly raised his hand.

"Yes?" Chris asked.

"Pardon me, Mr. McLean. I know you're notable in the public eye for hosting your demographically-popular TV show, so, why are you at this camp? And why do I get the feeling that you brought us here under false pretenses?"

"Yeah!" Lightning nodded. "And you tricked us, too!"

"Camper, campers," Chris held his hands to his chest in a show of surrender. "I know you're all very confused, but let me explain."

"This isn't about your nosedive in Hollywood, is it?" Dakota removed her sunglasses. "My daddy works in PR, and he told me you got sentenced to running some dingy summer camp instead of filming the next season."

"Not enough punishment for letting that awful corporation ravage this beautiful island," Dawn lamented.

Chris gritted his teeth. "Thanks for saving me the explanation, Dakota." He straightened his collar. "And you're right! I'm in a tiny legal rut, but by giving you guys the recreational time of your lives, I'll be in the clear. Now who's ready to have some fun!"

His bright smile was met with dull looks of disappointment and betrayal.

"Chef," Chris whispered into a walkie-talkie. "Back me up here, dude!"

Back in the boat, Hatchet ducked under the steering wheel.

"Do it, or I'm not cutting you in on your half of the camp fees they paid!"

Emerging from the boat, Hatchet straightened up and marched to the dock, where the cheated teens grumbled and groused.

"That's it, I'm calling Daddy-" Dakota began, but Hatchet promptly snatched her phone and chucked it into Lake Wawanakwa. Dakota gasped, but Hatchet shushed her.

"Listen up, maggots!" Hatchet barked. "Your lives for the next eight weeks are under our supervision and our supervision alone!"

"This doesn't feel legal," Mike muttered.

"Contracts: ironclad," Chris held up a bulky 32-page packet.

"Do we really have to spend most of our summer here?" Zoey asked.

Chris nodded. "If you want a fourth season of Gemmy-award-winning Total Drama, you do."

"Forget this!" Jo slapped the contract copy out of Chris's hand and ran to the edge of the dock. She hopped off, and made a splash as she swam away. "I've done 5k swims with less effort."

"You sure about that?" Chris smirked.

As if at his signal, a swelling red tentacle shot out of the water and wrapped around Jo. She cried, and it shook her around in midair until it chucked her back onto the dock. Wet and grumbling, she trudged away from the edge.

"All in one piece?" Chris marveled. "It must really like you! To most interns it catches, it just drags them underwater, never to be seen again. That's what happened to my last intern…what was his name again? Her name…?"

"Uh, what is it?" Sam asked, one eye glued to his Game Guy and the other on the lake.

"Some hostile form of Architeuthis dux: giant squid," Cameron guessed. "How do you do that with your eyes?"

"Lots and lots of practice," Sam swelled with pride. "When Mom wants me to do chores but I can't pause on an online match, I do that."

Cameron stared. "An anatomical anomaly…"

"If the contracts with all of your signatures on it weren't enough of a deterrent, that lake bodyguard will be!" Chris said. "Look, I really need a win right now for my public image, and if "Former Washed-Up Host Turns Charitable Summer-Camp Director" isn't enough of an underdog story for you guys, you have no heart! Besides, eight weeks here won't be so bad. You all have each other," he said, gesturing to the thirteen bummed teens.

"No training equipment and a camp full of geeks," Jo scowled. "Real enticing, McLean."

"Why'd she look at us when she said 'geeks'," Cameron stared at his shoes.

"When who said what?" Sam asked, both pupils entranced in his Game Guy.

"I'll allow you guys five minutes to grab your luggage, and we'll take a tranquil tour around the camp." Chris sauntered off, leaving the involuntary campers to grab their things and check their cell phones for signal, to no avail.

The tour went about as wonderfully as expected. It started at the very place the campers were standing.

"The Dock of Shame!" Chris spread his arms open, as if the dock's creaky wooden planks were one of the Seven Wonders of the World. "Formerly home to tearful goodbyes by eliminated campers, now home to the place the Boat of Losers will land to deliver food and mail. Any questions?"

Someone sneezed.

"Moving right along! Chris stepped off the dock onto the beach. The waters of Lake Wawanakwa bathed the shore's edge with incoming tide. Shark fins and pieces of floating bones adorned the not-so-sparkling waters. Bits of trash and seagulls with rat-tails wearing plastic-ring necklaces milled about the sand.

Dawn gasped. "Poor creatures." She ran to remove the pollution from the birds' necks.

"Good call. Plastic jewelry is a fashion no-no," Dakota said to Anne Maria, who nodded.

"This beach," Chris began, "is where you'll make amazing summer memories, swimming with your buddies, holding sandcastle contests, spiking each other with volleyballs, escaping aggressive crabs, competing in brutal challenges–"

Cameron gulped.

"Oh, sorry," Chris sighed. "I'm still not used to how boring it'll be here as a non-host."

A walk away from the lakeshore to the camp's clearing brought everyone to the cabins.

"There are two cabins," Chris explained. "One for the guys, and one for the gals."

"Which one does she go in?" Scott snickered, pointing his thumb at Jo.

Jo jabbed her fist into his chest. "Same as you, freckles. The girls' cabin."

Dakota raised her hand. "Are goosefeather pillowcases, silk bedding, and air-conditioning part of the cabins' amenities?

Chris doubled over in laughter. He hooted and hollered for a good thirty seconds. When he brushed himself off and looked at the campers, their unamused expressions sobered his expression.

"I'm guessing that's a no," Zoey whispered to her.

B pointed at a third wooden building to the right of the cabins.

"Ah, yes," Chris looked in his direction. "The mess hall! Follow me, campers."

As they walked, Staci regaled everyone with the history of her Great-Uncle Ernesto who invented mess halls, before which all summer-campers had to forage for berries and nuts outside.

"Speaking of foraging, did you know my Great-Great Grandma Gertrude-"

"Can it, mouthie," Anne-Maria groaned, and with that, she stuck a can of hairspray in Staci's mouth. A few moments later, she removed it to give her hair its semi-hourly coating of the day. High-maintenance? Sure. Hygienic? Debatable.

"Thank you, Staci, for those amazing stories," Chris said with a dead-eyed expression. "Please shut up for the next hour." The chatterbox blushed like an apple. "Now here we are!"

A dining-hall with wooden benches, half-open windows, a food counter, and a kitchen door housed the campers.

Lightning shrieked as a giant beetle scurried past him. It looked back, and its beady eyes turned white-hot as it blasted lasers at him. He ducked and kicked it away. It dashed to a cracked window, but its fat, slimy body got stuck. Outside, a large Venus flytrap wrapped one of its leafy tendrils around the insect and pulled it through, swallowing it whole in its mouth.

"Sha-bam! No one messes with Lightning. That was all me."

"You and that abnormally coordinated carnivorous flora," Cameron gasped.

"Cool," Sam giggled. "A mini-boss battle."

"What…was that!" Zoey's eyes bulged.

"A few of the mutated plants and animals might still be residing on the island. Couldn't make the camp too boring," Chris smiled.

"I am not staying here. Wait 'till I tell Daddy," Dakota stomped away and opened the door to the mess hall.

"With no cell service and mutant monsters outside? Good luck!" Chris called after her.

A few moments later, Dakota skulked back inside and crossed her arms.

"Fine," Chris held his hands up. "I exaggerated a little. The mutant monsters aren't that dangerous. I'm pretty sure. I think. 30% sure…Just be careful, okay?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Brick huffed.

"Weird, but thanks," Chris eyed the cadet. "Onto the next location!" This time, the campers were slightly less eager to follow him.

As they walked down the mess hall's steps, the campers' foreheads beaded with sweat when they spotted a stray beetle leg near the building.

Touring the arts-and-crafts center was mundane, much to the campers' relief. A shed with a small workshop inside, tools, craft supplies like tubs of glue and scrap metal, and rusty bikes ("The ones from Season 1 we managed to salvage!" Chris beamed) was ordinary enough. So were the two picnic benches outside the shed. By the center, a grassy hill led back down to the beach. They could see Dawn feeding sunflower seeds to a flock of seagulls with shifty, yellow eyes and rat-tails surrounding her.

The bathrooms, in all their barely-cleaned glory, were just as dull–and a little smelly, too. Initially thinking she was suffering from sunstroke, Nurse Hatchet, in a white nurse's uniform, found that she had only fainted. The trigger of this swooning? Finding out the bathrooms were communal.

Off to the right of the island, Chris briefly pointed out his cottage where he and Hatchet would be staying that summer ("Nothing to see there," he said absentmindedly). The converted Playa de Losers was as magnificent and envy-inducing as ever, and the campers (all except Dakota, who said it looked "a little small" for a summer cottage) gawked at their camp counselor's living quarters.

As for their inspection of the legendary outhouse confessional, that too, aside from a tentacle shooting out the toilet and snatching a fly, was safe enough. Each excited camper got to sit down ("One at a time, people!" Chris called) and give a confessional as if they were on Total Drama. The only difference was the removed camera taped to the door ("Privacy laws are such a bummer.") and the line of impatient teens waiting to live out their dreams of reality-TV stardom.

Cameron went first. "From life in a bubble to tabloid fame. Winning Total Drama was a dream come true!"

Lightning followed. "Mess with Sha-Lightning, you'll get shocked!"

Zoey flubbed what she would say. "I'm so excited to meet some new people at this camp. They all seem so cool, and I feel so bleh! Wait, is the flower in my hair crooked? Chris, can I try again?"

Dakota treated the outhouse like a film lot. "Take one: Dakota Milton here, and I just want to thank all my admirers for their encouraging fan mail! …Take two: Hollywood heiress Dakota here, and thanks, guys, for all the amazing letters I've gotten! …Take three…"

Mike entered, but he didn't sound like himself when the door closed. "Bah, what's with this stupid phonograph-looking doohickey? Back in my day, we didn't use these silly contraptions! We painted and took time out of our day to produce quality! Modern technologists and their cheap trinkets…"

"I didn't know Mike was such a geezer at heart," Jo smirked. "He certainly has the flimsy arms for it."

She followed. "I'm going for the gold, Total Drama windbags! No challenges or puny 'competitors' are gonna stop me."

Anne Maria, in particular, took ten minutes perfecting her introduction and catty catchphrase:

"Awww, yeah! It's ya girl, Anne Mari-ri–"

"And I told that boy–" She said, spraying her hairspray, "Talk to the can!"

Scott shoved her out. "These guys think they're crafty? They haven't met me."

B went next. He snapped his finger, pointed at the camera, smiled, and left.

Dawn continued. "Meeting these interesting auras is a rewarding experience."

After her was Sam. "Sam's the name! Power-ups are my game!"

Staci continued. "Ooh. My great-great aunt Mildred designed the very first outhouse confessional. Before her, people had to confess things outside in nature. Weird, right?"

Brick finished out the faux confessionals. "Brick MacArthur, here to play. If eliminated, I hope to be dishonorably discharged."

"You guys are naturals," Chris leaned against the confessional as Brick exited. "We've got one more stop and then we're done. I've got a special surprise at the end of our camp tour, too." They followed Chris into the thick of the woods–everyone except Dawn, who returned to feed her feathered rodent friends.

A trek through the woods and up the hill did little to calm the campers' worries. The first red flag involved the rusty, leaking barrels of toxic waste strewn throughout their path. On tall looming redwood trees that casted spooky shadows, gargantuan mushrooms billowed spores of pale-purple and gangrene-green. Flower patches of tiny, spiky sunflowers soaked in the sun's rays and grew until they burst into thorny explosions. Swampy grasses, bogs with sour stenches, blinking lily-pads (as alive as the four-eyed frogs on them), shrieking birds with every jaw-dropping mutation imaginable, vicious arachnids and insects, ravenous vines that squeezed scale-covered grizzly bears, swollen beehives whose queens brawled with poison-dripping stingers, inconspicuous puddles of quicksand, and other natural grotesqueries haunted the deep forest. Chris looked unsurprised as ever. "A few mutated plants and animals," my butt, the thirteen quivering kids thought. Chris hurried along the path, agreeing to meet them at the top of the cliff. Alone, they huddled near each other, as they slowly advanced through the thicket.

Near the top of the hill, a single misstep nearly cost the campers their lives. It started with Sam seeing all he needed to of the "last world's hostile mobs" and gluing his eyes to his Game Guy. He stepped into a small mud puddle. Or what he thought was a wide patch of mud. By the time the quicksand was up to his waist and his eyes widened in alarm, it looked to be too late for Sam.

"You cannot be serious, dude," Lightning rolled his eyes. He grabbed Sam's arms and pulled upwards.

"My Game Guy, save my Game Guy!"

"What a joke," Jo said, watching Lightning try and fail to pull Sam out. She rolled up her sleeves and wrapped her arms around Lightning's waist. She pulled with him.

"I've never had a dude hold me like this! And it feels kind of nice…"

Jo kicked Lightning's shins. "I'm a girl. You sure your head isn't filled with this quicksand?"

After a few more moments of pulling, Brick joined them. "I have a duty to my comrades! Lightning, Jo, let me assist you."

"I've got this in the sha-bag."

"I don't need your help, Brickhead."

But Brick put his arms around Jo's waist and pulled with the two jocks anyways.

When that didn't work, B shrugged and joined them. Their combined net force opposite to the quicksand's suction force would surely save Sam, right? he thought.

After the inevitable failure, Sam was becoming neck-deep in the quicksand. With his Game Guy in his mouth, he threw his neck in Dakota's direction. She caught it. A smell from the handheld made Dakota sniff it, then pull it away from her face in disgust. "Chips and soda…Cheetos and Mountain Dew?"

"I get hungry during late-night raids," Sam blushed.

One by one, the campers wrapped their arms around the others' waists, trying to hoist Sam out of the quicksand, to no avail. When the very front of the line, Lightning, pulled forward, and the very end of the line, Anne Maria, pulled backwards, chaos and collision sent the campers tumbling away. All eleven of them fell into the puddle, now at the mercy of the almost-aggressive quicksand.

"Four hours away from my bubble, and my life is flashing before my eyes!" Cameron flailed around as he sank deeper and deeper.

"Kick your legs and lie backwards" Indiana Jones' voice rang out from above. Only instead of Indiana Jones, it was Mike, donning a fedora, swinging toward the drowning campers from a vine like a leafy pendulum.

"What the–" said Anne Maria, weirded out.

"What the…" said a doe-eyed Zoey, not so weirded out.

However strange Indiana Mike's new accent was, the campers had no other suggestions, so they did as he said. Surprisingly, their bodies began to emerge nearly out of the quicksand, before instantly starting to sink again.

"Great," Jo fumed. "I die before getting gold in the Olympics, and the last thing I hear is a scrawny beanpole's bad impersonation of someone from Down Under."

"Hold on, Sheila. This wily dingo's got a plan!" Indiana Mike called. "Now link arms and line up, and he held his arm out as the vine descended to the quicksand. Thanks to their slightly elevated position, he could reach their hands. Grabbing onto Zoey's palm, who latched onto B, who latched onto Stacy, and so on, the ten campers' bodies ripped free of the sticky sand and they flew through the trees. Still in the quicksand, Brick called out for help, but the vine's swing was moving back up, away from the doomed soldier. Suddenly, a ratgull-riding Dawn held out her hand, and Brick grabbed onto it. Flying next to vine-holding Indiana Mike and the ten vine-riders, Dawn gave a serene smile.

"Where were you, dollface?" Anne Maria looked at Dawn.

"Speaking with this island's tortured creatures. Apparently, the ratgulls dislike the way their tails interfere with flight, but they manage! Such resilient auras deserved to be admired."

As the vine's swing reached its peak, Mike hopped off, with the other campers in tow. Dawn and Brick dismounted the ratgull, who gave a friendly screech at Dawn and flew off.

"We're here!" Mike said. "Uh, how are we here–oh…"

"That was a scene straight out of Raiders of the Lost Ark," Zoey gushed.

"You watch Indiana Jones?"
"It's an old movie, I know…"

"No, I love Indiana Jones! Well, Mani– one of my friends does."

"Meh. As far as shovelware goes, it's not the worst video-game adaptation to reach the Atari," Sam shrugged. "Oh, and thanks for saving my Game Guy!"

"How about your life?" Cameron furrowed his brow.

"Yeah, that too."

"Semper Fi!" Brick saluted Dawn and Mike.

Lightning coughed and flexed a bicep. B patted his back in silent recognition.

At the top of the cliff, Chris and Hatchet observed the quicksand-covered campers.

"Yikes! You guys look awful. What happened?" Chris sipped a coconut drink.

"No thanks to you, we almost died! I so can't wait until I star in my own documentary about this place," Dakota fumed.

"Did you stray from the path? There's quicksand near the end of it, I forgot to mention."
"Now he tells us," Scott grumbled, licking a bit of the sandy dirt from his neck. Anne Maria gagged.

"A born hero," Hatchet nodded. "You may have the guts to brave this island yet, Twig Boy!"

"Yeah, yeah," Scott waved the compliment away. "But what was with that dorky voice and hat?" He sneered.

"Oh!" Mike swallowed. "Using an Australian accent and wearing a fedora always helps me…connect to my Grandpa Oz! Yeah, he's from the Outback, and imitating him always…gets me in the mood for heroics!"

"I totally know what you mean! My Grandma Ruthie was a scientist in Antarctica, and whenever I wear a parka, I always feel like researching melting ice caps!" Staci nodded.

"Exactly!" Mike agreed. "I think…"

"You dropped this, by the way." Mike took a whittling knife out of his pocket and handed it to Scott, who snatched it and nodded at Mike.

While slightly weirded out, Mike's explanation and Staci's agreement sufficed for the campers and the camp director. Scott, however, was not buying it. What grandparent would ever be interested in Aussie heroics instead of lacing rat traps with pesticide-covered dirt? This shifty schemer knew a lie when he heard it, and Mike was fibbing–no doubt about it.

"Welcome to your final spot on this campground tour!" Chris gestured behind him. "Wawanakwa Bluff! The highest point in this camp, and all of the islands in Muskoka, might I add. Enjoy your beautiful sunset view of the lake below."

While just as hazy-yellow with air pollution as before, the campers couldn't help but admit that the landscape was pretty incredible. The lake almost looked like it was glittering, if you ignored the fact that the "glittering" was coming from the sun reflecting off the empty metal cans strewn in the water.

Sam pointed at birds in the water. "Duck hunt!"

In the middle of the lake, a wobbly line of Canadian geese paddled behind their mother. A shark fin advanced on the feathery family. A bull shark hopped out of the water and gulped up the mother and dove back in. The goslings honked loudly, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. They chomped at the shark until a gaggle of shark bones floated to the top of the murky reddish waters. The ruffled mother goose shook her feathers and they continued on.

"Brutal!" Chris grinned, binoculars plastered to his eyes. He looked at the campers' stunned faces.

"I mean– Let's head back to the cabins, kids! Lunchtime!"

Trudging through the forest was slightly less dangerous for the kids with their insane camp counselor leading the way. Using the "scenic" route, Chris pointed out the deadly dandelions, the venomous violets, the poisonous poppies, the roaring roses–complete with manes made of petals, the toxic tulips, and the stinging spider flowers.

After the bouquets of blood-curdling flora had passed, the camp clearing was finally in sight. Chris pointed at the left cabin. "Guys." He then pointed to the right. "Girls."

They started to file into the shacks until a booming voice halted them in their tracks.

"Mushtime, maggots!" Hatchet called behind them. "1400 hours, sharp."

And even though it was their first day at camp, the thirteen aforementioned maggots had a feeling that they did not want to keep Hatchet waiting.

There were only six beds on each side of the boys' cabin. With seven campers between them, they decided to divvy up the rooms. Four on one side, three on the other. Brick insisted ("It would be my honor…") on staying with one of the people who helped save everyone's lives earlier, so he and Mike would be bunking in the same room. Cameron, desiring a protector should any other "statistically improbable, but nevertheless possible" encounters with quicksand occur, chose to stay with Mike, too. Feeling that the room was becoming too crowded, Lightning entered the other side of the cabin for enough space for his daily workouts. B entered Lightning's side too: Less campers there equaled less noise. This plan quickly proved to be shortsighted though when Sam, eager to test out some multiplayer sports games he smuggled in his suitcase, and Scott, eager to prank these "unsuspecting suckers", moved onto that side too. With three campers on one side and four on the other, the bunk assignments were set. No take-backsies.

The girls' cabin had only six campers living in it. They could either sleep together in the same room, or split up the space, three campers to each side. Deciding on more space for their haircare and skincare products, respectively, Anne Maria and Dakota moved to one side of the cabin. Eager for some girlfriends on the island, Zoey stayed on the more populated side with Staci ("My Great Uncle Richard invented bunk beds…"), Jo ("I'd rather miss a day of reps than listen to their girly chit–chat"), and Dawn ("Your auras are exceptionally colorful!"). With four girls on one side and two on the other, their sleeping areas were set in stone too. All that was left to do was unpack. A military whistle's shrill sound outside, however, let the campers know that their luggage could wait.

"The chow hall, the mess hall, you runts can call it whatever you want," Hatchet said, pacing back and forth in the dining hall in his characteristic apron and chef hat. "Just know that I expect you to lick your plates clean with whatever I slap onto your trays. Understood?"

Dakota raised her hand. "In terms of catering–"

Hatchet stared into her low-carb soul. "UNDERSTOOD?"

"Eek! Yes!" She stepped back.

Hatchet cleared his throat and continued pacing. "Breakfast is served at 0800 hours. Lunch, at 1400 hours. Dinner, at 1900 hours. Understood?"

Brick nodded once, with the force of a million obedient schoolchildren. "Sir, yes, sir!"

Jo leaned over to him and whispered, "Careful. If you nod any harder, the few brains in that blockhead of yours might spill out."

Brick scoffed. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never–"

Hatchet halted his speech about inedible food's "character-building nutrients" and stared daggers in Jo and Brick's vicinity. "Do I hear TALKING while I am SPEAKING?"

Brick coughed and Jo straightened up. "Sir, no, sir!" they yelled.

"Good. I would hate to make an EXAMPLE out of you two RABBLEROUSERS before your first meal."

"That is, if we can eat it," Scott snickered.

Hatchet laughed so hard a tear squeezed out of his battle-hardened eyes. "Carrot Top here is a comedian! Do you know what I do to comedians, Carrot Top?"

"Surprise me."

"I make them SUFFER." Hatchet grabbed a serving spoon, barged outside, and re-entered a few moments later with a large scoop of dirt. An earthworm still crawled around in it, and bits of rock and dead grass were poking out. Hatchet dumped the mound of ground onto a tray, slammed the tray down onto an eating bench, and gestured for Scott to sit there. "Bon appetit, wise guy."

"Gourmet on the first day? This is my kind of camp," Scott sneered, and he sat down. Spoonful after spoonful, Scott devoured the dirt with a sense of what looked like…genuine enjoyment? Polishing off his meal by using a stalk of hard, dry grass as a toothpick, he patted his stomach. "Just like Mawmaw used to make."

This display had even grossed Hatchet out, and as he made the campers line up to receive their lunch (only slightly more delicious than the dirt scoop, he promised), Scott went outside, presumably for seconds.

Lightning shrugged. "I would've just eaten the worm. There's no protein in dirt!"

"Dirt does lack significant amounts of the protein macronutrient," Cameron agreed.

"I've never been more grossed out in my life," Mike frowned.

"I'd throw up right now, but I don't wanna get any flecks in my poof," Anne Maria gagged.

"Ditto," Zoey said. "I guess spoonfuls of dirt are a delicacy in Alberta? It's so alternative!" She caught Anne Maria's weirded-out stare. "But mostly gross! Alternative and gross…"

Little did they know, Scott had run off and snuck his way into the other side of the boys' cabin.

Throwing open the door, he hurried to Mike's bottom bunk and hauled his suitcase onto the floor. Unzipping it, he began rummaging through the contents. Assuming that Mike would be the type of sap to keep a few photos of family with him to travel, Scott assumed correctly.

"Okay, Outback Mikey. Let's see what your family's really like."

"Mom, blah. Dad, blah. Little sibling? Blah, blah, blah," Scott began tossing aside photo after photo.

"Other little sibling? Snooze. Other other little sibling? Yawn. Psychotherapist's note? Bore– huh?"

Holding up a note from a psychologist, Scott stared at it as if he struck gold. "Bingo! 'Dissociative identity disorder'? 'Alters'?...So 'Manitoba' was that Indiana Joke's name…This'll be fun," the weasel folded the note into his pocket, zipped the suitcase back up, and placed it back on Mike's bed. Whistling a tune he heard at a country fair about snooping coming back to bite an old critter or something stupid, he couldn't remember, Scott left the cabin. What to do with this info? What to do…

Stepping off the cabin's porch onto the grassy camp clearing, Scott was just in time to see Chris, Hatchet, and the other campers gather.

"I guess you guys have some downtime before our Beach Bash Bonfire Bonanza!" Chris inspected his nails, looking out the corner of his eye and waiting for the campers' excited expressions.

Cameron raised his hand. "What's a Beach Bash Bonfire Bonanza?" he squeaked. "The alliteration makes it sound fun, but also confusing…"

"Duh," Dakota answered. "It's gonna be a rockin' beach party recorded by MTV! I bet they're gonna do a close-up on yours truly being the life of the party."

"They better not focus just on you!" Anne Maria clapped her hands. "I got the perfect idea to get Snooki to notice me in case she needs a proton jay–"

"Protege?" Cameron offered.

" –protege for a spinoff show, and it all starts with me in a bangin' bikini."

"You're all half right. Rockin' beach party? Yes. Recorded by a popular premium cable network? Not so much," Chris said, much to Anne Maria and Dakota's eye-rolling chagrin. "Cut me some slack! This "summer-camp community service" stuff has me on a budget! You're free until dinner, then the Bash will start right after that. Take some time getting to know each other. Surf's up in the water, maybe?" Chris sighed. "I'll be making phone calls to my ex-producers begging them to take me back…later!" With that final sentence that reeked of a washed-up celebrity's looming midlife crisis, Chris and Hatchet left the campers to their cottage.

"Hey, Mike!" Scott called at the top of the porch. "What do you think about that Jersey Shore Reject's bikini– whoops!" Feigning a trip down the cabin steps, Scott grabs onto Mike's shirt and rips it off him as he falls.

"What'd you just call me?" Anne Maria removed the top off her hairspray, ready to attack, when Mike's shirtless body halted her in her tracks.

"What do I think…I think I'd like to get a piece of that action!" Vito winked at Anne Maria, who stared at the Italian biker's abs. The other girls fell into a similar trance, minus Dawn, who seemed to be charming a two-headed snake into an actual trance.

"How's a guy so scrawny so muscular?" a blushing Jo grumbled. "I need that abdomen routine, stat."

Lightning fumed. "Whatever. The real ones know biceps are where it's at!" He kissed both upper-arm muscles. "Don't worry, Storm. It's alright, Cloud."

Anne Maria swooned. "If it's action you want, it's action you'll get…?"

"Vito's the name, poppin' wheelies are my game. Maybe I'll see you at the Bash, toots?"

"Maybe you will," Anne Maria giggled as Vito entered the boys cabin.

The campers dispersed to occupy their time in the June afternoon sun, which boiled the camp down into a polluted pulp. All except Zoey, who stood gazing at the door Vito exited into. She looked down, kicked a pebble next to her, and went to the campfire pit to receive a palm reading from Dawn and a lesson on the history of beach parties from Staci. Spoiler alert: All of her relatives contributed to the inventions of tiki torches, balloons, and beach balls in one way or another.

The guys began planning for the night ahead. "Leisurely recreation on our first night here?" Brick stood erect with a grim expression. "We can't let our guards down after our crazy run-ins with these creatures in our camp! I'll stand guard during the party." Marching out of the cabin, Brick started scoping the beach for the perfect surveillance position.

"I'm scared, too," Cameron admitted. "I've never been to a party before."

Now fully clothed, Mike glanced at Cameron as if he were one of the three-eyed mutants. "Never? What about birthday parties?"

"Mom gives me a rice-cake with reduced sugar and I get to listen to Mozart twice a day instead of once!"

"Rice-cake with reduced sugar?"

"Usually they're sugar-free!"

"Oh. That's…a step up!"

"Your mom doesn't make you rice cakes for your birthday?"

"Nope," Mike licked his lips. "Ma always makes her neighborhood-famous lemon ricotta cookies."

"I've read about those in The History of Italian Dessert. They sound delectable."

"They are! I'll write to her and ask to send some."

Cameron smiled. "I'd like that."

After a moment, Cameron frowned at him. "But what's with the accents?"

Mike froze. "Oh, you heard more than the Australian one?"

"Correct. One more to be exact. You puffed out your chest when Scott not-so-subtly ripped your shirt off and called yourself Vito. You then engaged in coquettish social behavior with Anne Maria I've heard called 'flirting', then you came in here, put on a shirt, and stopped your impersonation."

Mike laughed. "What can I say? My…other Grandpa…Grandpa Tenerelli! He loved acting like one of those tough Italian bikers in those B-movies, ha…" His awkward laughter tapered off as he noticed Cameron's serious expression.

"Do you remember what you called Anne Maria before you came in here?"

He gulped. "P-probably dollface or something, but who cares about the details! Is this an interrogation or something?" Mike's nervous expression turned cagey and defensive.

"You don't remember, do you?"

Mike turned around and started folding his clothes.

"Mike…do you have dissociative identity disorder?"

He turned around and gaped at Cameron, whose eyes went wide with remorse.

"Sorry! How presumptuous of me! It's just, I re-read the DSM-5 to myself every other night to fall asleep, and…not to sound like an armchair psychologist or anything, but you fit each symptom to a T, from what I've seen today."

Mike sat on his bunk. "I guess someone as brainy as you was sure to notice something eventually. You don't think I'm some weirdo or anything, right?"
"Of course not! DID is nothing to be ashamed of. I can't say the same for these," he flapped his noodly arms and tapped his thick glasses.

"You're probably going to grow up and cure cancer one day. Your brains have tons of brawn, dude."

"Thanks…and don't worry! I won't tell anyone about your disorder."

Mike shrugged. "It's not some super-secret, anyways. I'm sure everyone will find out eventually, and I'll tell them if they ask. Sorry for being so caught off guard earlier, I've just never had a stranger piece my disorder together so quickly."

"Oh! It's okay. I shouldn't have sprung it on you so quickly! The Journal for Smooth Social Interactions recommends we leave personal matters to later conversations when the relationship has grown closer, but I guess I forgot to brush up on my reading before I got here. If you don't mind, could you tell me a bit more about your alters? If it's no trouble!"

"Sure, I don't mind, buddy," he said the last word casually, but Cameron's face shone at it. "But be warned–their triggers can get kinda weird."

"I'm already positively intrigued!"

TO BE CONTINUED