“It’s over, Brineman!” howled Collier, president and CEO of Broccoli Barn. There was nowhere left to run, atop the giant lit broccoli beacon that advertised the latter’s business. The next step would lead to a terminal decline, and the beach a thousand feet below.

Mr. Brineman turned to his erstwhile nemesis, smiling even in the face of Mr. Collier’s unsheathed broccoli blade. “I know,” he said. “But we’ve had us a merry chase, haven’t we?”

“At least you’ve a modicum of dignity when you’re beaten, here at the end,” Collier said. “And now, I will do what that fool Harold Brassica never could, and lay the Pickle Beacon low forever! Would you rather plunge to your death, as Brassica did, or will is be a more classical end for you at the end of my sword?”

“I think a fall is in order, don’t you?” said Brineman.

“After you, then,” Collier said, gesturing with his broccoli blade.

“No, I insist,” Brineman said, bowing. “After you.”

“Wha…?” Collier said.

“NOW!” cried Brineman, into the hidden mic that his confederates Elle, Janice, and Quentin had been listening through.

A second later, on their signal, the Pickle Beacon hail mary streaked through the skies. The final project of Dr. Cukemann, the mad vision that had taken his life, rose up and streaked through the skies toward the giant broccoli crowning the Broccoli Barn.

The Pickle Dragon seized Collier in its briny claws, dashing part of the broccoli beacon to bits, before flinging the unfortunate CEO, howling, to his doom on the rocks below.

“Jarring,” said Brineman, adjusting his tie in the wind and snacking on an emergency pocket pickle. “Very jarring.”

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