Yes! Maybe the chef can help you. Put down the killer with some kind of telekinetic attack, or something. Or telepathically extract some embarrassing secret from his head and shame him into submission. Hmmm. Just to be on the safe side, as you burst through the door to the mess hall, you begin droning "Don't think about the fat chick. Don't think about the fat chick." in your mind. You push through the swiveling doors doors of the kitchen and see the old black chef, smiling at you from over his heavenly tuna casserole.

"So, you secretly want to bone the fat chick, eh?" he asks jovially.

"Shut up!" you hiss. "There's a crazed murderous fiend after me and the other kids and WE NEED YOUR HELP!!"

"Now, hold on there, Doc." the chef tells you. You have no idea why he's calling you 'Doc,' but this is no time for stupid questions. "Relax. Sit down and let me pour you a cup of hot cocoa, and tell me all about it."

Mongoose and Tough Chick are probably fighting for their lives right now, but hot cocoa is hot cocoa. You grab a stool.

"Now what's all this business about killings, Doc?" the chef asks. Or did he? You're not sure if you actually saw his mouth move... *shiver*

You start explaining. "Well sir, there's this big guy with yellow eyes and an axe-drill and a beard - "

"Beard!?" the chef interrupts. "Aw shit, he found me! Do you have any idea what that bastard put me through? One hundred and twenty takes! ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FUCKIN' TAKES of a camera zooming on my face! I'm an old man, for Jesus's sake!"

You shake your head, not knowing what he's talking about, but he goes on.

"That fool wanted to make Jack Nicholson kill me over seventy times! Do you have any idea what it feels like to have an axe smashed into your chest seventy times? I have! GODDAMN SURE AS SHIT, I HAVE! I TELL YOU, THAT WAS ONE CRAZY NAZI BASTARD!"

The chef goes on like that for what seems like hours, complaining that the line "Here's Johnny" was his idea, and trying and failing to explain some theory about how all movie directors are fat, balding men with wild black beards and glasses. After a while, you're starting to think you'd prefer getting axed in the chest than listen to the old man rave for another minute. And by the time the killer rampages into the kitchen and makes hotdog filling out of your ribcage, you totally reconsider.

REVO TRATS! REVO TRATS! REVO TRATS!