You always had a strong sense of self-preservation, as shown when you were the first kid outside when your kindergarten went up in flames. You were also the only kid outside, since you quickly barred the door. Plus you were the one who started the fire. But the police could never prove that, and right now you have more important matters than reminiscing. You leap to the side of the killer, squint your eyes devilishly, point at your 'friends' and sneer:

"Excellent! Now let's take care of the rest of them!"

You cackle madly for a while, until you realize that your friends aren't gazing at you with hurt looks of betrayal, just before the killer will run them down like a lawnmower. Actually, both them and the killer are staring at you with identical looks of puzzlement. Maybe you should lay it on more thickly? Like, throw your head back and laugh, howling like a lunatic? Rub your hands together and twirl your moustache? Tie a helpless maiden to a railroad track? Nah, probably not. Maybe you should do some damage control instead? Play it all off like a joke? Apologize to your friends? Claim you have Tourette's syndrome?

You're so absorbed in planning your next step that you don't notice your friends and the killer have all huddled together, whispering.

"Uh, guys?" you mutter. "Whatcha doin'?"

A few heads turn to look at you, but they continue to whisper conspicuously. You don't like the looks of contempt you're getting. After a while, everyone turns around.

"We've got good news, and we've got bad news." says Francis, looking bitter and old beyond his years.

"The good news is, we're all getting along now." Mongoose adds.

"Bad news is: we all a-decide you gon'be DEADMEAT fuck!" screeches Chin-Myu.

Well, great. The killer first kills you to within an inch of your life with his axe-drill, then your former friends gather around to stomp and kick the remains into an indecipherable mess. Then they go get a truck to back over your remains. Shortly after, some of them piss on what's left. Around the time where they're pouring you into a festive piņata, the killer remembers he's not supposed to fraternize with campers, and hacks them into neat little cubes. It would almost be a satisfying closure, if you weren't so dead.

RUN YOUR DEAD PAPER MACHE ASS BACK TO THE BEGINNING!