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Current Location: Somewhere in Europe

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There is a flash.

There is a bang.

There is now a pigeon coop where one had previously not been.

There is also a strangely dressed man apparently running around in circles screaming hysterically, while a few inhabitants of the aforementioned pigeon coop look notably alarmed.

Particularly the white one.

Who is being clutched rather fiercely by the also aforementioned strangely dressed man.

For this, this is not a rooftop in New York, New York.

It is, apparently, rather alarming.

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"Perhaps," she says. "Where is your home?"

"New York, New York," he says simply. Considers.

Pigeons coo.

"Although I have friends in Argentina."

"Oh," says Red, sounding rather disappointed as she taps a painted nail to her lower lip. "I don't know where those places are."

"Oh."

More silence, then Franz comes to a decision. A decision that involves taking all his birds out of his coop and onto one very long resting pole.

"Then let's go find them!"

And so he marches over to the car.

Beware, Red. Do you want a more than slightly insane Nazi fanatic singing rather odd German songs for hours on end in your car with his whole flock of pigeons cooing along?

Her pencilled eyebrows arch suddenly.

"Wait! You didn't say anything about birds!"

Of course he didn't. It's a given.

"But they are my best friends!"

The pigeons coo happily in response.

"And they sing vith me!"

More cooing.

Red's right hand slides down out of sight where she's sitting.

"No birds," she says. "Not in my car."

"But...but..."

D:

D: D: D: D: D:

FRANZ IS NOT HAPPY.

Neither, it must be said, is Red Riding Hood.

"Nasty, dirty things. Not in my car."

She's being meeeean.

Sadness.

But even Franz knows he needs a lift, seeing that he's kind of in the middle of nowhere at the moment.

"FINE. They can follow. But you," he sneers, "vill never insult my darlings ever again!"

Her small chin lifts, all pleasantness gone.

"I do believe, dear sir, that you are in no position to tell me what to do."

But they're his birds!

And this? This is his gun, that's pulling out. A classic German Luger.

"Ja, I am," he challenges, all adorably defiant and all.

This is Little Red Riding Hood's shiny silver P99. And she's not brandishing it. She whips it straight out of the window and fires it at his gun hand.

There's a sharply little-girlish scream as Franz drops his gun to clutch at his suddenly bloody hand. Because ow. Ow. PAIN.

"MY HAND! YOU SHOT MY HAND!"

Meanwhile, pigeons flutter around madly, taking off. Of course, Franz notices this.

"WAAAAIT! Otto! Bertha! Wolfgang! ADOOOOOLF!"

Flail flail running-around-in-circles-bleeding-a-lot flail.

Red says nothing. Because she's too busy winding the window closed and starting the engine again.

By the time he calms down, she'll be dust on the horizon.

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