Short Version:

A familial-funicular-coaster contrived circumambiently around an antiquarian-anachronistic-manorial megastructure.

Long Version:

Bob’s masterpiece began, as all great catastrophes do, with too many ideas and not enough supervision. He set out to build a single junior coaster—simple, charming, manageable. Instead, he constructed a four-section monstrosity stitched together by eleven different contractors, each of whom had twenty-two different opinions on what the station building should look like.

One guy wanted medieval stonework.
Another insisted on neon sci-fi panels.
Somebody added a pirate roof.
Someone else replaced half of it with a Wild West saloon façade.
And one contractor just kept installing flower boxes everywhere like he was fighting for his life in a gardening competition.

The result? A station so visually confusing that guests weren’t sure whether they were boarding a family coaster, entering a renaissance fair, or being recruited by space pirates.

But Bob wasn’t done. He installed special cars—each section of the coaster offering a totally different experience. Some spun. Some tilted. One jiggled for no reason. And the final car? It faced backwards. Permanently. Because Bob said, “Every coaster needs that one seat that ruins someone’s day.”

This meant the coaster provided eight entirely different ride experiences, all on one track, depending on where you sat and how brave— or unlucky— you were.

Most guests rode once.
A few rode twice.
And then there was Trevor.

Trevor attempted all eight experiences in a single marathon run, declaring, “How bad can it be? It’s a junior coaster!”

Trevor now lives permanently in the park’s aid station, wrapped in a blanket, sipping flat cola, and whispering, “The flower boxes don’t match the pirate roof… the flower boxes don’t match the pirate roof…”

Bob calls it a success.
The contractors call it “art.”
The guests call it “a dare.”

And the park accountant calls it “an insurance problem.”