You scrabble up the side of the picturesque range. Though it is a long and arduous journey, you eventually reach its highest peaks, winded, half-frozen, but alive. Alive!
"ALIIIIIIIVE!" you turn and scream to the onlookers.
Look at them down there: Like ants.
Not because they're so small, mind you -- they actually seem to be standing just a few feet below the mighty peak you've just summited (it felt like a way more impressive feat at the time) -- but because they're all growing ant faces right now. The fat Mant that used to look like Mr. Belvedere, sans moustache, now snaps his newfound mandibles in your direction and chitters something threatening. You screech and stumble, swatting at the phantom helicopters with your mother's face that suddenly swarm the skies above you.
You have to get out of here. This place is no good.
The Mothercopters have found it.
Turn to page 5.
Swatting frantically at the air and screaming about your mother for reasons you can no longer remember and indeed, may have never existed, you stumble into the city, drawing the suspicious glares of passerby.
"Help me! They're after me!" you grab the first man you find by the lapels, only to find his lapels growing tiny hands and grabbing you right back. "Get your fucking coatflaps off me, monster!"
"Whoa there, son, are you all right? Slow down. Who's after you?"
"I ... blue? Something blue, I think." Was that right? It was something else just a second ago, wasn't it? Man/beetles? Fatherplanes?
"Also, I think maybe my parents are disappointed in my life choices," you amend, fairly sure that this is an accurate, if not entirely relevant statement.
"Blu- are you on the drugs, son?" the man with the clutching lapels inquires, his voice gentle with concern.
Son? Holy shit, did the jackethands get your dad?!
"No! Or wait. Yes! A lot! Don't fucking judge me, dad! The color blue wants to kill me!"
And even as you speak its name, there it is: Two great, shifting, screaming blobs of powder blue -- one tall, one short -- rapidly closing in on you.
To your left is an ancient bomber, sitting unattended on a narrow strip of runway. To your right, a car idles, its driver nowhere in sight.