In the long long ago, there were three lovable rogues. You see, these three lovable rogues had been friends for a good little while, and though they were different in many ways, the main way in which they were the same was th fact that, at the end of the night, you always knew that you would rather hug them than hate them.
Well, one day, they were residing in a flower-pot buried in a mountain, discussing a problem that had been plaguing them of late - the arrival of an unlovable rogue. The three rogues were baffled, you see - they assumed that all rogues were just as lovable as they.
"I say we throw a pie at him," said the first rogue, who was very happy, and rather enjoyed food. He did not, however, enjoy pie. It reminded him of his mother's brutal slaying. "In this manner, mayhap we shall lighten his mood. At the very least, we shall get rid of a vile, vile pie."
"I say we trade him to North Austrian Cannibal Monkies for Slippery Bananas and Other Such Trinkets," said another rogue, who was tricksy, and wise in the ways of men. "We shall be prolonging a species that is doing everything to save our Ozone layer through Simian Super Science, and, maybe they shall have a use for him." This suggestion was not so cruel as it seemed, because Cannibal Monkies, obviously, only eat other monkies. If they ate people, they would not be cannibals. I bet you're glad you thought of that.
Oh, wait. You didn't.
"I say that we take him out back and stab him, then take all his money," said the third rogue, who was the most practical. However, this was not charming and lovable, so she added, "We can give the money to charity. That way, we get to stab somebody, we get to feed homeless children, and our shadows shall no longer have aspersions cast upon them."
Sadly, whilst they dilly-dallied in a most(ly) lovable manner, a sinister shadow was sneaking into the base. And, as they took turns smelling fresh flowers they had picked for each other (the third rogue had actually just stolen them on her way - she had forgotten it was Flower Day), that sinister shadow was pouring gasoline all throughout the base. And, as they held their annual Screeching Around the Bonfire Competition, the sinister shadow thumbed on a flamethrower and went to down.
Though the rogues made a valiant effort to escape, the colors of the fire so enraptured them that they first had to draw it - one in pastels, one in watercolors, and the third in the blood of her foes - and, because of this artistically fatal flaw, they all died.
So, while there were still rogues, and still flower-pots in mountains, none of it was REALLY the same. They weren't lovable rogues, and the pots were cracked, and the mountains not diverse enough in flora to properly support it's fauna. So everything died.
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It would be like that.
