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"What a fantastic shade of crimson..." the artist of the crowd breathed, as she stared open-mouthed at the horror before her. "So vivid... I wonder if I could replicate it..."
Well, folks, I propose a beginning. We've got a problem on our hands, and no way to solve it logically... at least not yet. So here is my solution: let's blame the butler. Everything is always the butler's fault, so there's the obvious answer.
Wait... what do you mean, we haven't got a butler? Fine... we'll do the next best thing. Let's all say Dancing Spawn of Ungoliant is at fault. If it wasn't the butler, let's blame the maid.
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