The jagged, snow-capped peaks of the German Alps loomed over the contestants like ancient giants. The air was crisp, smelling of pine needles and woodsmoke, a refreshing change from the biting frost of the Yukon. Below the slopes, a picturesque Bavarian village lay nestled in the valley, complete with half-timbered houses and the faint, rhythmic sound of an oompah band.
Chris McLean stood on a wooden balcony overlooking a massive stone courtyard. He was dressed in high-end, designer lederhosen that probably cost more than the prize money for the runners-up. He held a giant glass of sparkling apple cider and looked more relaxed than a man hosting a global chaos tour had any right to be.
"Willkommen to Germany, campers!" Chris's voice echoed through the valley. "Today, we're honoring the land of efficiency, castle-building, and really, really long sausages. The producers wanted me to make you climb the Matterhorn using only your teeth, but I told them that was too 'ninety-eight.' Instead, we're going to see who has the stomach—and the rhythm—to survive the Alps!"
The Great Sausage Slide
The first part of the challenge was a logistical nightmare. Each team was presented with a massive meat grinder and three hundred pounds of prime Alpine meat. The goal: fill a single, continuous sausage casing and slide it down a specialized wooden chute into a giant bun at the bottom of the hill.
Team Myrmidon, now down to just Alejandro, Noah, and Izzy, worked with a strange, frantic synergy. Alejandro acted as the foreman, his eyes burning with a need to reclaim the glory he lost in the Yukon. "Noah! The seasoning! Izzy, keep the pressure steady on the casing!"
"I'm giving it all she's got, Captain!" Izzy cackled, her hair tangled in the grinder's handle. "If this pops, we're all going to be wearing bratwurst!"
Team Victory was surprisingly calm. Ezekiel, still riding the high of being the "Yukon King," used his farm experience to jam the meat into the grinder with rhythmic precision. "It's just like making summer sausage back in the homestead, eh!"
But Team Amazon was a disaster. Courtney was screaming orders at everyone, her voice reaching a pitch that could shatter glass. "Gwen! You're not packing it tight enough! Heather, stop looking at your nails and turn the crank!"
"I'm turning it, Courtney! Maybe if you stopped vibrating with rage, the machine would actually work!" Heather snapped back.
The result was inevitable. As the Amazons pushed their sausage down the chute, it hit a snag. Because Courtney had insisted on "maximum density," the casing was under too much pressure. Halfway down the mountain, it exploded with a sound like a cannon blast, showering a group of confused local tourists in ground pork.
The Dance of the Alps
"Since Team Myrmidon finished their sausage first, and Team Victory actually managed to make theirs look like food, we move to the tie-breaker!" Chris announced, stepping onto a raised wooden platform in the center of the village square.
The platform was slick and suspended ten feet over a pool of ice-cold sauerkraut.
"The Schuhplattler!" Chris grinned. "A traditional Bavarian slap-dance. You stay on the platform, you keep the rhythm, and you don't fall into the fermented cabbage. I'll be the judge, alongside Chef, who spent three summers in Munich and is surprisingly picky about his footwork."
One by one, the teams stepped up. Most were eliminated quickly. Bridgette slipped during a particularly fast turn, and DJ accidentally knocked himself off while trying to slap his own thigh.
Soon, only two men remained on the platform: Alejandro and Harold.
Alejandro was a vision of perfection. His movements were fluid, elegant, and strictly traditional. Every slap of his boot was crisp; every spin was centered. He danced with a cold, calculated precision, his eyes fixed on Chris. He was trying to prove he was still the "Alpha," the man who couldn't be broken by a punch or a snowstorm.
"Gosh... he's good," Harold whispered, sweating under his glasses. "But he lacks... soul."
Harold took a deep breath. He didn't just do the Schuhplattler; he transformed it. He began a fusion of traditional Bavarian slapping mixed with 1980s breakdancing and "mad skills" he had learned from a secret VHS tape. He was spinning on his head, slapping his heels in mid-air, and doing a moonwalk that transitioned into a perfect Bavarian kick.
The crowd of locals gasped. Leshawna fainted into DJ's arms, her eyes rolling back. "That man... he's a rhythmic god!" she sighed.
Even Chris was tapping his foot. For a moment, it looked like Harold had it. But when the music stopped, Chris looked at his clipboard and then at the two dancers.
"Harold... that was, without a doubt, the most insane thing I have ever seen in hosen," Chris said. "But... Alejandro stayed within the lines. He respected the tradition. And honestly? I missed seeing Al in top form. The win goes to Team Myrmidon!"
Alejandro let out a breath he had been holding for two episodes. He stood tall, his ego finally mending. Team Victory took second place, safe for another day.
The Amazonian Collapse
The final part of the challenge required the teams to hold a pose on the platform for as long as possible. The Amazons were already on edge. Gwen was pale, her eyes darting around. The stress of the past few days—the humidity of Japan, the cold of the Yukon, and the constant screaming matches between Heather and Courtney—was taking its toll.
"Stay still, Gwen!" Courtney hissed, her face inches from Gwen's. "If we lose this because you can't balance, I will sue your estate!"
"I'm... I'm trying," Gwen whispered. "I just... the altitude... and I haven't slept because you keep crying about Duncan in your sleep!"
That was the breaking point. Courtney's face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. "I do NOT cry about that coward! He left me! He's a quitter!"
"You've been hugging your pillow and whispering 'D-Man' for three nights, Courtney!" Heather interjected with a wicked smirk. "It's honestly pathetic. Even for you."
Gwen's head began to swim. The combination of Courtney's shrieking and the mention of Duncan made her stomach flip. She wobbled, her knees buckling. "I... I think I'm gonna..."
Gwen plummeted forward. In her panic, she reached out and grabbed Courtney's suspenders. Courtney grabbed Heather's hair. Sierra, trying to save Cody (who wasn't even near the edge), lunged forward and knocked everyone over.
The entire Team Amazon fell into the sauerkraut with a sickening squelch.
The Night of the Long Knives
The elimination ceremony was held in the shadow of a medieval castle. The air was cold, but the atmosphere inside the Amazon camp was freezing.
Courtney was pacing back and forth in the First Class lounge, which they were about to lose. "Gwen is the reason we fell! She's weak! She's distracted! She's been looking at Duncan's old carvings on the plane!"
Heather sat in the corner, watching Courtney's meltdown with a calculating gaze. She saw an opportunity. She caught Gwen's eye. Gwen looked broken, her gothic makeup smeared by the sauerkraut.
"She's lost it, Gwen," Heather whispered, leaning in. "Courtney isn't playing to win anymore. She's playing to vent. If we don't get rid of her now, she's going to drag us all down into her 'Duncan-breakup' vortex."
Gwen looked at Courtney, who was currently yelling at a portrait of a German duke because he looked "slightly like a delinquent."
"You're right," Gwen sighed, her voice hollow. "I can't take the screaming anymore. I just want some peace."
Heather smirked. She had her vote. Now she just needed Sierra.
When the teams gathered around the campfire, Chris looked at the Amazons. "Well, well. The 'Invincible' team finally cracked. It's almost sad. Almost. But mostly hilarious."
"Just get on with it, Chris," Courtney snapped. "We all know Gwen is going home for her pathetic performance."
"The votes are in," Chris said, holding the tray of marshmallows. "Heather... you're safe."
Heather caught her marshmallow.
"Sierra... you're safe."
Sierra caught hers, immediately trying to feed a piece to Cody.
"The final marshmallow," Chris said, his voice echoing in the mountain air, "goes to... Gwen."
Courtney's jaw dropped. The silence was absolute. "What? No! That's impossible! I'm the leader! I'm the C.I.T.! You can't vote me off!"
"The votes say otherwise, Courtney," Chris said, actually looking a little relieved. "Honestly, your legal threats were starting to give me a headache again. And since I'm trying to keep my blood pressure low, you're a liability."
"This isn't over!" Courtney screamed as Chef Hatchet picked her up and carried her toward the "Drop of Shame"—which in Germany was a giant catapult aimed at a very large haystack in the next village. "I'll sue the network! I'll sue the country! DUNCAN, I HATE YOOOOOOOU!"
THWACK.
Courtney was launched into the night sky, her screams fading into the distance.
Heather and Gwen stood side by side, watching her go. They weren't friends, and they never would be. But for the first time, they had a common goal: survive the game that Chris McLean was now playing by his own rules.