A Darker Shade of Pale

After the incident with the old man and the boy on the foggy day, I didn't think this town could get much weirder. Evidently, I was wrong. On a certain Thursday morning after the incident, I embarked upon my usual walk past Rainbow River to get my weekly dose of peace. This time was different, though. As I passed the river, I noticed it was decked out in Rainbow colors. What sort of celebration was this? Was there a gay pride festival that I was unaware of? Intrigued, I approached the river to get a close look. I recognized one of my mates from the Victorian, Boaz Johnson. He was fishing, and he acted as though the environment we both stood in was perfectly normal. "What's the deal with the water?", I said.
"There's loads of rainbow trout in this here river now! I'm just here for my daily dose!"
His rhetoric sounded familiar.
My conversation with Boaz didn't continue, as he was intent on his fishing, but I continued my walk toward the river. I began to perceive colorful shapes just on the river's edge. As I got closer to these mysterious objects, I realized that they were some kind of plant that had been thoroughly manipulated by god knows what. It was also at this vantage point that I saw the huge Crayola Factory that I hadn't spotted earlier, looming over the river. Behind its rainbow-colored facade was an aura of noxiousness that was hard not to ascertain. I saw plants of all different colors, some seeming more like fruits and vegetables than others, which seemed more like sessile animals. I was mesmerized, but I couldn't help it. My vision became blurry and all I could think about were this newfound creations that looked almost good enough to eat. I found myself walking toward a certain blue-colored plant. Before I could even attempt to stop my progress, I had taken an ever-so-slight nibble of the plant. Apparently, blue was not the color that would appease my fantasies, because I found myself spinning out of control. In no time at all, I was on the ground. I was out cold.
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I woke up to the soothing, southern voice of Mr. Boaz Johnson. He told me that everything was going to be alright if I just lay there for a little bit longer; he had to get back to his fishing.