A Serious Case of Cooties
Chapter 1: Cooties
written by SqueakGirl - illustrated by Neavvs and SynnesaiStan Marsh sat at his dining room table one February morning shuffling through a stack of red, pink, and white construction paper. With a thick pair of child proof scissors, a large bottle of glue, and a jar of silver glitter, Stan set about making a Valentine's Day card for his girlfriend Wendy Testaburger. He cut carefully along the edge of a paper heart, trying to get the shape smooth and curved. Setting down the scissors, he grabbed the bottle of glue and, kneeling in his chair so that he could hold his hands up above his head, Stan drew swirly patterns around the perimeter of the paper heart. When he had finished, he sprinkled the silver glitter, taking care not to let any fall upon his mother's kitchen table. Shaking the heart free of excess sparkles, Stan held the heart up to the light. It shimmered with gloppy drops of glue and smeared glitter, but Stan felt proud anyway. Wendy would love it. She always liked the things Stan made for her.
Placing his Valentine's Day card back on the table, Stan went about collecting his art supplies and packing them away in his pencil bag. At that moment his older sister Shelley entered the dining room. Roughly four years older than her brother, Shelley stood several inches taller. With her mouth hitched up to uncomfortable wire headgear, the girl perpetually wore an angry scowl. She eyed Stan's mess on the table and stomped over to where he sat wrapping a rubber band around a cluster of pens and pencils.
"Hey, Turd, what are you doing?" she asked, her words slurring around the headgear to create a half lisp.
Stan jumped and shrunk away from the girl. "N-nothing."
"Don't look like nothing," she pointed out, nodding towards the glitter that had managed to slip over the edge of the newspapers Stan had so carefully lain out. "Does Mom know you're making a mess in here?"
Stan hastily wiped his hand over the sparkles and shoved them back into their little container.
"Yeah, Shelley," Stan said hastily, "she's the one who bought me the construction paper and glitter."
Letting out a disgruntled sigh that whistled through her headgear, Shelley moved to stand over Stan's shoulder. The little brother hunched his shoulders, moving out of the girl's reach. After he'd packed everything away, he reached out to grab Wendy's card, but Shelley beat him to it. She held the paper heart at arm's length and examined it with narrowed eyes.
Stan dropped down out of his seat and raised a hand.
"Shelley, give that back. It's Wendy's."
"Wendy?" Shelley said slowly, tilting the card one way and then the other to watch the glitter shimmer in the dining room light.
"Yeah," Stan replied nervously. "It's her Valentine's Day present."
Shelley didn't respond. She was lightly touching the sloppy letters Stan had written in glue. They were simple X's and O's, but for some reason Shelley stared at them with a strange intensity. Stan, confused about his big sister's sudden silence, ventured out a small hand to snatch the card back. Without warning, Shelley took the card in her fists and tore the paper heart in two.
"Stupid, Turd! What girl would want this for Valentine's Day? You're so stupid!"
And with that said, Shelley bolted out of the room, covering her face as she took the steps two at a time.
Back in the dining room, Stan stared down helplessly at his Valentine's card. He had worked all evening on the gift, and now in one swift movement his sister had destroyed it. Stan sniffed hard and knelt to the ground to try and pick up the pieces.
A few moments later and Stan heard the back door open and his mother's shoes click against the linoleum floor of the kitchen. He could hear her carrying plastic grocery bags and setting them heavily down upon the counters. For a brief instant, Stan wanted to run to her crying and tell her what Shelley had just done. But Stan felt too old to do something like that now. Instead, he just sighed and wondered how much of his whiskey he had left under his floorboard.
It was as he contemplated taking three sips instead of his usual one that his mother walked into the dining room with a little box of candy hearts.
"Here, Stan, I bought these so you can give them to Wen — Stan, what's wrong? What happened to your little paper heart?"
Stan stood up and placed the pieces on the table.
"Nothing."
"Why did you rip it up?" Mrs. Marsh asked, stepping forward and kneeling in front of her son to pick up a few stray red scraps he'd missed in the carpet.
"I didn't rip it up," Stan explained, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Mrs. Marsh swept her eyes over him once, and Stan broke. He started to cry. He hated himself for it, but he'd really worked hard on Wendy's gift. His mother's concerned gaze had sent him over the edge, and he suddenly let go all of his bravado.
Sharon pulled her son into a hug and patted the top of his little red poof-ball hat.
"Shh, Stan, just tell me what happened, okay, sweetie?" Sharon whispered, wiping at Stan's face with her sleeve. Stan sniffed and tried to reel in his tears.
"S-Shelley…s-she ripped it up for no reason," Stan murmured, hugging his arms around his mother's neck.
Mrs. Marsh's eyes grew round and then narrowed sharply.
"She did it?"
Stan nodded, now scared because he knew his mother was now going to go have a talk with his big sister.
"Don't tell her I said anything," Stan begged, rubbing at his running nose with his jacket sleeve. Sharon pursed her lips.
"Stan, I'm just going to have a talk with her. This isn't the first time she's broken something of yours. And I'm not going to allow it to become habit," Sharon said, standing up. Stan clung to her hand.
"I don't care about that anymore, Mom. Just don't tell her, okay? She'll be mad at me again," Stan wheedled. Sharon sighed.
"Stan, pick up the rest of your art supplies and later you and I can go buy Wendy a nice new card." She patted Stan on the head once more and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. She retreated to the kitchen, and Stan stooped to pick up the rest of his things.
Still sniffing and rubbing at his eyes, Stan ascended the stairs. He didn't know what it was about his mother that made him so emotional; perhaps it was because she was good at understanding him when no one else in the house did. Or maybe it was how alike they were at times. Both his father Randy and Shelley could be irrational to a point of dysfunction; on the other hand, Stan and Sharon tended to exude a sense of calm and often exasperation at their family members' overreactions.
Upstairs, Stan had to tiptoe past his sister's bedroom door. He paused for a second and listened. A strange noise between a hiccup and sob escaped the confines of Shelley's room. For a moment, Stan reached out a hand to take hold of the doorknob, but stopped himself.
She'd only kick my ass, Stan thought sadly to himself. He continued on down the hall to his own room. Safe in his bedroom, Stan tossed his destroyed Valentine's Day card into his trash bin. He stared at the crumpled pieces and sighed. Retreating to his bed, he dropped to the floor and shuffled his way under it, pulling himself by his elbows. Finding the loosened floorboard, Stan pried it up with his fingernails and grappled around in the splintered hole for his whiskey bottle. Grasping the cool glass, he brought the bottle out of its hiding place and unscrewed the lid.
It was rather difficult sipping whiskey while squished between his floor and the underside of his bed, but Stan managed to take three long gulps before stuffing the green bottle back into its hiding spot. Scooting backwards, Stan emerged from under his bed and sat down heavily on the floor.
He felt much better now. He smiled to himself, watching his room spin lazily. Now with his buzz, he found that he could care less about Shelley and her attitude. Let her rip up everything Stan owned, he could take it.
Yeah, he thought, smiling at his nightstand, she doesn't scare me.
Stan stood. He swayed on his feet, smiling at his reflection in the window glass.
"She doesn't scare me," he slurred. He turned on his heel and marched to his door, pulling it open and stomping his way back down the hallway. He stopped at Shelley's room and kicked open the door. Inside, Shelley started, snapping a purple-colored notebook closed and stuffing it under her pillow. When she saw who had entered, her face melted into a heavy frown.
"Go away, Turd!" she hissed, rubbing at her face. Stan stood his ground or as best he could with the alcohol seeping into his senses.
He pointed a wavering finger at his sister. "I'm not scared of you."
Shelley's brows narrowed dangerously.
"I said go away."
"No. I don't want to." Stan giggled and stuck his tongue out. Shelley slid off her bed.
"Get out, Turd, or I'll make you get out!"
Stan curled his hands into fists bringing them up to his chest. He grinned. "Make me."
Lunging forward, Shelley threw Stan to the ground, pinning him beneath her. At first Stan gave out a snort of laughter. He beamed up at the girl, until she boxed him in the ears. Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes, and he curled into a ball instinctively. Shelley continued to pelt away at any exposed skin she could find. Thumping her little brother soundly on the skull, she yanked off his poof-ball hat and tossed it away from her.
"Stupid. Turd. I. Said. Get. Out!" She emphasized each word with a swift knock to Stan's head. He tried to cover his face, but Shelley smacked him in the nose.
"STOP! STOP IT!"
Stan's cries came out in gasps, his drunken mind suddenly clearing.
A rush of footsteps echoed up the staircase. Seconds later Mrs. Marsh stood horrified in the entrance of her daughter's room. Sharon had Stan's hat clutched in her hand. Without a word she raced forward and grabbed Shelley around the waist, heaving her off her little brother. Shelley continued to fling her fists about as if hoping to catch a blow against her brother despite the interruption. Sharon shoved her daughter down onto the bed.
"What the hell is going on?" Sharon shrieked. Shelley straightened up and pointed at Stan, who still cowered on the floor.
"He wouldn't get out of my room!" she snapped. Sharon's jaw dropped.
"You do not hit your little brother! I don't care what he did. You do not hit your brother, ever!" Sharon hurried to Stan's side and helped him sit up.
Shelley glared at them, her fingers sliding under her pillow to touch the purple book. Mrs. Marsh handed Stan back his hat. She stood up, holding onto her son's hand.
"You apologize, Shelley," Sharon demanded. Stan sniffled, hiding behind his mother. Shelley looked away.
"No."
Sharon blinked, her hands limp at her side.
"I told you to tell Stan you're sorry. Do it now."
"What if I'm not sorry?" Shelley countered. "I thought you wouldn't want me to lie?"
Taken aback by her daughter's boldness, Sharon knelt down to Stan and told him to wait in the bathroom. She'd be in there in a few minutes to help clean up his face. Stan nodded, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He sprinted from the room without a backwards glance.
Mrs. Marsh faced her daughter.
"What's gotten into you? This is the fourth time in the last two weeks that you've done something to Stan. Your father and I have told you over and over again not to hit him! Nothing, and I mean nothing, should provoke you enough to do that! You need to learn some self-control." Sharon's voice shook, but Shelley turned her face away and stared out the window. Her fingers traced the spine of her purple book.
"You should tell Dad to learn self-control," Shelley whispered. Sharon frowned.
"Don't avoid this, Shelley. This is between you and Stan right now. You should not lash out at your brother, no matter what the reason."
"He wouldn't get out of my room," Shelly hurled back lamely. Her fingers clutched at the book.
Sharon threw up her arms and let out a strangled noise.
"Do you honestly think that's good enough? Would Stan have hurt you if you refused to listen to him? No. He would never do that to you!"
Shelley sniffed. "He's too much of a baby."
Sharon shook her head.
"Alright, fine. If this is how it's going to work," Sharon folded her arms over her chest. "You're grounded for two months, Shelley. No Internet. No TV. You come straight home from school and go nowhere else. You will do Stan's chores. And you aren't going to see that new concert."
Shelley jumped up from her bed and crossed to her desk. She shoved everything off of it, letting her books, papers, pens, and toys cascade to the floor. Sharon opened her mouth, startled.
Shelley whipped around. "FINE! I didn't want to see that stupid concert anyway."
Sharon had one more stipulation.
"You will also babysit Eric for Liane this weekend. I'm not going to help you back out of it, and I'm going to tell Liane not to pay you."
Shelley gritted her teeth.
"I don't want to! I hate that fat turd!" She didn't really, but at the moment it seemed right to just hate everything her mother suggested.
Sharon turned on her heel and marched to the door. She pulled it closed behind her, pausing to warn Shelley once more not to leave her room and that her father would be up later to unplug her television and computer in order to lock them away.
Mrs. Marsh then slammed the door and hurried to the bathroom where little Stanley waited.
The Cartman house was just as Shelley remembered it: kitschy, with the rooms too hot and the smell of chocolate constantly wafting in the air. Mrs. Cartman greeted Shelley at the door with her usual kind smile and airy hello. She wore a long blue dress with her mousey brown hair done up in a tight bun. Following the woman inside, Shelly found herself standing in an all too familiar living room with the television blaring something idiotic, and Liane's overweight and only son Eric Cartman lounging on the couch, stuffing his face with processed, cheesy snacks. Shelley and Eric met gazes. No words passed between them as they shared a glance; the two simply gave one another the slightest of nods. Liane did not notice the exchanges, instead she asked sweetly for her son to turn down the volume, to which Eric replied that the oven timer was going off and that he did not want his mother burning his cookies.
In the kitchen Shelley watched Mrs. Cartman pull out two large baking sheets covered in chocolate chip cookies. She set them down to cool by the window. Shelley glanced around the spotless kitchen. Despite Eric's constant desire for baked goods, Mrs. Cartman always managed to keep the kitchen neat and tidy without a drop of batter, flour, or sugar to besmirch the homemaker magazine quality the whole house exuded.
"Now, Shelley, make sure Eric eats his supper. I left some lasagna in the fridge to heat up. And make sure he's in bed by sleepy-times which is nine o'clock. Feel free to help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen, dear. My cell number is taped to the freezer door should you need anything," Liane explained, pulling on her overcoat and slipping long black gloves onto each hand. She beamed at Shelley.
Trudging after the woman to the front door, Shelley waved goodbye to Mrs. Cartman. Returning to the living room once the mother had gone, Shelley stood in the middle of the room eyeing Cartman on the couch. He muted his television program.
"So, are we doing this the hard way or the easy way?" asked Cartman, crossing his pudgy arms over his wide chest. Shelley placed both hands on her hips.
"I don't want to be here either, Fat Turd, so let's just call a truce, and you obey me for the rest of the night," Shelley warned.
"What if I don't want to?" Eric countered. "I don't know why my mom called you. I don't need a sitter anymore."
"You're a stupid turd; you would set the house on fire or something without adult supervision," Shelley argued with a smirk.
"Hmm," Cartman tapped his chin, "Adult supervision, you say? Adult supervision. I'm sorry; Shelley, but I don't see any adults here. I just see a preteen skank. "
His round face broke out into a toothy grin. Shelley stood her ground.
"I'll beat the happy right off of your fat head."
"And I tell my mom on you, and she'll tell your mom."
Shelley cracked her knuckles. "I'd like to see you try, Turd, with your mouth swollen shut."
"I don't think Mrs. Marsh would like you beating up another little boy, Shelley." Cartman said, trembling his lip mockingly.
Shelley frowned.
"You know about that?"
Cartman snorted. "Stan's fucking black eye is a dead giveaway. Though he's such a pussy he didn't want to tell us who beat the shit out of him. Kahl of course had to be all faggy and try to talk about it with him. God, I swear those two need to just get a room. I can't believe Wendy still hangs out with Stan if he clearly already has a boyfriend."
Eric turned his attention back to his TV remote. He pumped up the volume as if Shelley and his conversation had conveniently ended on that note. Shelley rolled her eyes and placed herself in front of the TV.
"Shut up about my brother, Turd. And turn this stupid TV off. You're eating supper now."
Cartman raised an eyebrow.
"You beat the shit out of Stan, and you're concerned about some gay jokes? Bitch, you're crazy," Eric laughed. Shelley lunged for the couch and threw Cartman down upon the floor. She raised her fist preparing to strike.
"I said shut up about Stan, Fat Turd."
Cartman struggled underneath her.
"Get your girl-cootie hands off of me, skank!" He reached into his back pocket for his phone, but Shelley knocked it away.
"AY, BITCH, don't fucking do that to my phone! Now, your nasty ass cootie germs are all over it!"
Shelley rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up. There's no such thing as cooties. Now, get your ass to the kitchen so I can make you supper."
She heaved herself off of Eric and glared him down.
"I'll tell my mom you manhandled me with your disgusting girl fists and that you totally tried to rip my head off and —"
"Shut up!" Shelley screamed, stalking into the kitchen. "God, why are you so stupid?"
"There's nothing stupid about personal hygiene, Shelley," Cartman explained. "Everyone knows that girls' mouths are the most disgusting place ever. You can totally die if you're exposed to cooties for too long. I wonder how long until Stan drops dead. He lets Wendy kiss him all the fucking time," Cartman explained. He followed Shelley into the kitchen and sat down at the table watching the girl toss a plate of lasagna into the microwave to cook.
Shelley rubbed at her temples. Sometimes Eric could say the most idiotic things, and she had to repress the desire to choke the stupid right out of his fat head.
The microwave beeped and Shelley took out the food. She threw it down before Cartman and retreated to the fridge to get some milk. While she poured herself a glass too, Shelley thought of her little brother and his girlfriend. She had seen Stan and Wendy holding hands on numerous occasions. Shelley had even witnessed her little brother hurl his guts onto the marble floor of their church after little Wendy had given him a swift kiss goodbye after Easter service last year. At the time she had felt a little less annoyance towards him, an almost endearment towards Stan and his fumbling ways with his little girlfriend. However, now Shelley's mind wandered back to the little purple book she kept hidden beneath her pillow, and all signs of fondness vanished from her.
Turning back to Cartman, Shelley set down his glass of milk. Occupying the seat opposite the fat boy, Shelley sat in silence for a few moments as she watched Eric eat. He raised an eyebrow as he scanned her face.
"What's wrong now, bitch?"
"Where do you get all this bullshit about cooties anyway? Aren't you a little old to still think like that towards girls?" Shelley asked. Cartman froze at the words, but quickly melted, hiding any emotion behind his pudgy smirk.
"A sixth grader told me if you touch a girl unprotected you get cooties. And they can get all over your lips and wiener if you aren't careful," Cartman explained. Shelley bit her lip trying to stop her grin.
"I see, Turd," Shelley finally said as she regained her composure. "So, this is what you believe then? That if you don't protect against 'cooties' you'll get infected?"
"I could get deathly ill. Or worse my wiener could fall off."
Shelley was nodding her head sympathetically now. "I guess that is a concern."
"Hell yeah it is!" Cartman said, stuffing another mouthful of lasagna into his mouth.
"Would you like me to teach you a way to prevent cooties?" Shelley said her face now an impassable mask. Eric looked at her skeptically.
"There's a way to prevent cooties?"
"Isn't there a way to prevent most diseases? Didn't your grade get the flu shots last year?"
Cartman rubbed his many chins.
"Yeah, we did…."
"Well, there's also a way of preventing cooties. It's pretty expensive though," Shelley explained, pretending to show concern. Cartman had forgotten his food, now intrigued.
"Why's it so expensive?"
"They haven't worked out all the tests for it yet. But that's the mainstream preventative shot doctors are working on, but I can teach you a much cheaper, natural way to get rid of cooties."
Cartman eyed her carefully. "It ain't some kind of hippie thing is it?"
Shelley waved her hands back and forth.
"Oh no, it's more of a family recipe type thing — er — passed down from mother to daughter for generations."
"What is it?" Cartman pressed, dropping his fork and leaning closer towards Shelley. Relishing in her trick, the girl moved forward confidentially.
"I can show you, if you want?"
"…okay."
"Do you have any paint brushes? Or ink?"
Cartman sat back in his seat.
"How will that stop cooties?"
"Trust me, Turd and just go get what I asked for. Doesn't your mom paint calligraphy? Go get me one of her brushes and paints. I promise you'll thank me."
Stan and his best friend Kyle Broflovski sat side by side on the swing set in the large South Park Elementary schoolyard. Kyle, a thin faced boy with narrow green eyes, sported a mop of bushy red curls that he kept constantly covered by a lime green ushanka.
Kyle glanced sideways at his friend, who, for the past ten minutes, had been staring dejectedly at the snowy ground. Sitting to the left of Stan, Kyle had full view of the black haired boy's black eye. The swelling had gone down, but the shading around Stan's blue eye still consisted of a nasty mixture of blue and purple. Other bruises covered Stan's face, and Kyle frowned sadly, not sure what to say to comfort his friend. Having tried all morning recess to cheer up the other boy, Kyle had grown flustered with Stan's renewed apathy towards the world in general. No matter how Kyle tried to breach the conversation, reassuring his friend he was no less of a man for being beat up by a girl or that Wendy would still want him despite the lack of Valentine's Day card, Stan refused to lighten up. Finally, Kyle gave up and decided if he could not talk his friend out of his funk, he'd just sit and wait it out with him.
Rocking back and forth in the swing, Kyle watched their classmates participate in a schoolyard-wide football game. Clyde Donovan, a boy with a wide face and stocky body, had the football tucked under his arm and pelted towards the fence post for touchdown. Reaching almost the halfway mark, Clyde was tackled from behind by the poor kid Kenny McCormick, who took the ball and hurtled for the opposite goal. Unfortunately for Kenny, the rest of Clyde's team tackled him under a pile of bodies until not even his orange parka could be seen. Meanwhile on the sidelines, Bebe Stevens gathered a group of girls together to cheer. However, the girls appeared more concerned with their actual dance routine than actually cheering on any of the boys.
"Want to play football, Stan?" Kyle asked, nudging Stan in the side with his elbow. Stan shook his head. Kyle sighed.
"Why not?"
"I'm not stopping you from playing, dude," Stan murmured. "Go play if you want."
Kyle frowned.
"I don't want to play with just them. I want to play with you, Stan."
"I don't feel like playing anything today. "
Kyle opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when he caught sight of Eric Cartman dragging a large cardboard box to the opposite side of the playground. The fat boy paused, casting his eyes about, looking for apparently the right spot. Finding it, he dropped the box and opened the lid. He pulled out a large bottle of what appeared to be black paint and several paint brushes. Kyle narrowed his eyes, confused as he watched Cartman upturn the box and set out the paint and brushes atop it. Last, Cartman unfolded a small sign and taped it to the front of the box. From where he sat on the swing, Kyle couldn't make out any of the words.
Nudging Stan again, Kyle pointed to Cartman.
"Dude, what's he up to?"
Stan glanced up and squinted. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Who knows?"
"Let's check it out."
"You can do that, I want to stay here," Stan sighed, his eyes on his sneakers. Kyle frowned and turned his gaze back to Cartman. Several other children had ventured over to Eric's little stand.
"I bet he's up to something racist and illegal again," Kyle continued, giving Stan a sideways glance, hoping for reassurance. But when Stan kept his gaze firmly on the ground, Kyle threw himself out of his swing and grabbed a hold of Stan's arm.
"Stan, get the fuck up, we're going over there to investigate!"
Allowing himself to be yanked forward, Stan followed silently behind his friend. When the boys reached Cartman's little stand, he gave both of them a cordial wave. Kyle eyed him warily. Their friends Craig, Jimmy, Token, Tweek, and Timmy were already clustered around the box too, each one reading a small slip of paper that Cartman had handed out to them. A small stack of these leaflets rested at Eric's elbow.
"What are you up to, Fatass?" Kyle said as his form of greeting. Cartman mocked a look of shock.
"Oh my, Kahl, why so pissy? Is it that time of the month again?" the heavyset boy asked with a wide grin. Token and Craig sniggered.
"H-hey, E-Eric, is this all t-true?" Jimmy asked, holding up his little piece of paper.
"Of course it is, Jimmy! Why would I lie about something as serious as this?"
Kyle snatched up one of the papers and scanned the top. He rolled his eyes and slapped the leaflet down upon Cartman's cardboard box.
"Cartman, what is this?"
"An information sheet on the dangers of STC's, Kahl. It's a very serious issue for our generation," Cartman explained, opening the jar of paint he had and dipping a slender calligraphy brush into the black liquid.
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "STC's?"
"Sexually Transmitted Cooties. It's very serious."
"What?"
"Sexually Transmitted Cooties, Kahl! If you have unprotected contact with a girl you get cooties," Eric explained, leaning forward confidentially.
The other boys began murmuring amongst themselves. Stan lifted his head. Kyle was already shaking with pent up rage.
"That's retarded!"
"No, Kahl, it's STC's and it's very contagious. I'm seriously. Didn't you see the pamphlet?" Cartman waved the paper in Kyle's face.
Snatching it away, Kyle pointed a finger at Eric's chest. "Yes, I saw it. And it's stupid. Your wiener cannot fall off if some girl kisses you! And you will not break out in hives or puke your guts out or die either, Fatass. You made all this bullshit up!"
Craig raised his hand. "I don't know. Girl's can be pretty germ ridden. I mean they are smelly."
"Yeah," chorused the other boys.
Kyle gave Craig a look and then turned back to Cartman.
"You're an idiot. You realize that, don't you?"
Eric just shook his head and dipped a paint brush into the black paint. He turned and addressed Craig and the others.
"Alright, it's ten bucks for just the shot, but fifteen if you want it 'everywhere'. Who's first?"
Clutching a Styrofoam cup and his left eye twitching, Tweek Tweak stepped forward and offered his arm. He rolled up his sleeve, his fingers shaking.
"Oh, Jesus, I don't want to die! GAH!" He fished in his pocket and dropped two fives on Cartman's box.
"Well, Tweek, I'm glad you're at least doing the right thing and getting yourself vaccinated. Now, just hold out you hand like here."
Still shaking, Tweek offered his forearm. Delicately Cartman touched the paintbrush to Tweek's arm. For a moment the jittery blond flinched as the cold paint met his flesh, but relaxed when Eric drew a small circle and then another. Next he turned back to his paint, dipped the brush in once more, and then added two dots right below the circles. He dropped the brush into a small bowl of water and then fanned his fat hand over Tweek's 'shot.'
"There you go! Though if you want it to protect you for a little longer it'll cost extra," Cartman noted conversationally, linking his fingers together and resting his hands upon his box in a professional looking manner. Kyle stood gaping first at Tweek and then at Cartman. Stan had finally brought his attention back to the world. He stared at Tweek's arm with polite puzzlement.
"Does that really work?" Stan asked, pointing at the paint.
Kyle whipped around to face him.
"Of course it doesn't work! This is so stupid. All he did was doodle on Tweek's arm. There's no medical element to it at all. It's a scam!"
Cartman gave Kyle a pitying look.
"I think you need to lie down, Kahl, if those period cramps are starting to act up."
The other boys chuckled. Craig stepped forward next and offered his arm while holding out fifteen dollars in his small fist.
"Do it all over, Cartman. I don't want to have to deal with this shit again for a long while."
Eric obliged. He picked up his paint brush and proceeded to draw a similar design on Craig's lower right arm. After finishing up both little dots, he drew a large square around the entire design. He connected the square with a flourish and flick of his wrist. Cartman smiled at the crowd.
"Who's next?" Eric's eyes landed on Stan. "What about you, Stan? Want to make sure Wendy doesn't give you any STC's?"
Stan shook his head and gave a forced laugh.
"Dude, you really don't expect me to believe cooties exist, do you?"
Kyle nodded in agreement, crossing his arms.
"There are no such things as cooties, Fatass. This is just another harebrained scam you invented to get idiots like Craig and Tweek to give you money," Kyle spat, jerking his thumb at the two aforementioned boys.
Craig blinked; realizing he'd been insulted, he flipped Kyle off. Tweek just buried his face in his cup of coffee. Jimmy and Token exchanged looks.
"I have to agree with Kyle," said Token. Jimmy nodded. "Where's your proof that cooties exist? I don't know anyone who's ever gotten them."
Cartman straightened his little leaflets.
"It's a fairly new discovery, Token. Not all the research is in yet."
"M-me and m-my girlfriend have done it l-loads of times, and I don't have any cooties," informed Jimmy proudly pulling himself up to his full height. He wobbled a little on his crutches, smiling lopsidedly. The other boys gave him odd looks, but didn't comment on the absurdity of his statement. Even Timmy, sitting in his wheelchair a few feet off from the group, managed to roll his eyes at his friend.
"Yeah, Cartman, Wendy and I have held hands and kissed, and I don't have any cooties," Stan added. Eric gave him a concerned look.
"Well, then you need the shot the most, Stan. Here, I'll even give you a discount since you're my friend." Cartman loaded the brush with black paint and held out his pudgy hand for Stan to give him his arm.
Stan shook his head taking a step back. Kyle glared at Cartman.
"Come off it, Fatass. This isn't going to work. Cooties don't exist!"
Cartman set down the paintbrush and stomped around his little box. He stood face to face with Kyle, staring him down. Neither boy said a word, just glared daggers at the other. Finally, Cartman smirked.
"You want proof, Kahl? Fine, I'll get you proof."
Cartman turned on his heel and marched over to Bebe and the other girls crowded around the football field. A brief conversation was held between the girls and Cartman. After a minute, Eric headed back to his cardboard box with Stan's girlfriend Wendy and her best friend Bebe trailing behind him.
At that moment Butters and Kenny appeared at Stan's elbow.
"Hey, fellas, what's goin' on?" Butters asked, peering at the paint jar and leaflets. Kenny gave everyone a silent wave.
"Cartman's trying to dupe people out of money again," Kyle stated without missing a beat. Stan nodded.
Craig huffed. "Better safe than sorry. I don't want no fucking cooties."
"GAH! He's right. They might exist! Like the Underpants Gnomes."
Butters looked between Kyle and Stan to Craig and Tweek; finally he glanced at Kenny to see his reaction. Kenny just giggled into his hood and mumbled something incoherent.
Stan blinked, confused at his friend's muffled words. "What does clapping have to do with touching girls, Kenny?"
Kenny made some odd gestures with his hands around his waist and added another round of mumbled sentences. Butters scratched his head, and Kyle looked disgusted.
"How can a bunch of crabs fit in a girl's underwear?" the redhead questioned the orange hooded boy. Kenny just continued to howl with laughter.
Cartman returned with Wendy and Bebe just then, and the girls glanced around the group of boys with polite confusion. Tweek let out a strangled sob and ducked behind the cardboard box. Even Token, Jimmy, and Timmy gave the girls a wary look, before discreetly stepping away from them. Kyle continued to fume, and Stan smiled sheepishly at his little girlfriend.
Wendy reached out a hand and touched Stan's cheek.
"Does it still hurt?"
Stan shook his head.
Kyle rolled his eyes and pointed at Cartman.
"Okay, they're here, now what?"
"What's this about, Eric?" Wendy asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was a wiry young girl with straight black hair and a calculating look. She appeared to be the exact opposite to her bouncy, curly blonde friend beside her.
"It's very serious, Wendy. Stan and Kyle here aren't convinced cooties exist. They don't want my shot," Cartman explained, showing the girl's his marked up arm. For a moment Wendy and Bebe studied the circles, dots, and squares. Then without warning both threw back their heads and laughed.
Cartman started, taken aback.
"What the hell?"
Wendy wiped at her eyes and pointed at the mark.
"That's nothing, Cartman. That isn't any real shot. It's just something girls make up for fun," she explained. The boys looked at Cartman, who continued to hold his ground. Kyle smirked triumphantly.
"W-what do you mean, Wendy?" Jimmy asked. "Did you make up the cootie shot?"
Bebe and Wendy giggled.
"No, no," Bebe said, "it's like an old thing. Something girls have been doing for ages. Like jump rope rhymes or our fortune telling papers."
The boys gave each other nervous looks at the mention of the last item. Butters hid behind Kenny. Kyle cleared his throat.
"So it's like a game? The cootie shot?"
Bebe nodded.
"Pretty much."
Kyle spun around to face Cartman.
"AH HA! I knew you were up to something."
Cartman didn't seem the least bit upset. Instead, he just shook his head and retreated behind his little box. He wiped off his paint brush and placed the lid back on top of his jar of paint.
"Well, if you guys won't believe me then there's nothing I can do. And here I was, wanting to protect my friends from the horror of STC's," Eric said sadly. Kyle exchanged a look with Stan, who shrugged. Cartman continued, sniffing slightly. "I just wanted all my friends to be safe. I didn't want them to get sick."
"Bullshit," Kyle snapped.
Cartman gave him a pitying look.
"It's true, Kahl, and I can prove it, but I don't want to risk anyone's health…."
"There's no such thing as cooties," Wendy said, standing at Kyle's side. The two tended to share the same exasperation when it came to their fat friend.
Cartman extended his hands out, palms up in a pleading manner. "Then just let me ask you to participate in a little experiment to see who's right."
"We're right, Fatass," Kyle said. Wendy nodded in agreement.
"Okay, then you won't mind making out with Bebe to prove you can't get cooties from her," Cartman suggested without missing a beat.
"EWW!" both Kyle and Bebe shouted in unison. The two gave each other a sideways glance and then stepped further apart. Kyle stood closer to Stan while Bebe hid behind Wendy.
"I don't want to make out with her!" Kyle said, pointing to the blonde girl. He added hastily, "Not that you aren't, uh, nice, Bebe. I just don't want to kiss you."
"Same here," agreed the girl. "I don't care how fine your ass is."
An awkward pause followed that statement, but Cartman cleared his throat and regained attention.
"So, you're afraid of getting cooties, Kahl." Eric smirked. "I knew it."
"I am not! Cooties don't exist! I just…," he paused and gave Stan a pleading look to which Stan returned with a confused shrug. "I just don't want to kiss Bebe. I already kissed her before anyway. Like a year or two ago, and I didn't get cooties! So we proved you wrong."
Cartman shook his head, and twirled the paintbrush between his fat fingers. "This breakout of STC's is new. It wasn't around two years ago."
Wendy gave out a strangled sigh.
"You are so stupid!"
"Dude, just kiss her or something to get Fatass to shut up," Stan finally spoke up. Both Kyle and Bebe glared at him.
"I'm not kissing someone just because Cartman told me too," Kyle snapped.
"Yeah me too!" Bebe agreed.
"Then play Ookie Mouth," suggested Kenny, stepping amongst the group and drawing back his hood.
"Play what?" asked Stan.
Kyle paled. "Dude, gross"
"What's Ookie Mouth?" Bebe asked, looking between the boys.
"We try to say 'Ookie Mouth' while one of us spits in the other's mouth," Kyle explained. Bebe didn't seem disturbed by this; in fact she tapped her chin and looked off to the side with great thought. Wendy grimaced behind her back.
"Okay. I'll spit in your mouth. That way I don't have to kiss you," Bebe smiled, clapping her hands cheerfully. She turned to face Kyle and began sucking in her spit. Kyle freaked and darted behind Stan.
"Fuck no! You are not spitting in my mouth!"
Bebe pouted. She tried to speak around her spit. "But this way we don't kiss or even touch lips! I just spit in your mouth!"
"Yeah and that's gross."
Wendy stepped forward. "Just do it, Kyle."
"Or are you afraid to get cooties?" Cartman sneered.
"I am not!"
Kyle marched up to Bebe and stopped, his mouth clamped tightly shut. He sighed and then closed his eyes. Opening his mouth wide, he waited. Bebe grinned, reeled back her head, and spat quite gracefully into the boy's mouth. Kyle tripped backwards and sputtered. Bebe brushed off her mouth and turned to Wendy who just rolled her eyes.
Kenny frowned. "You forgot to say Ookie Mouth, Kyle."
Kyle snapped open his eyes and glared at his orange-coated friend. Cartman had fallen to the ground and was rolling in the snow laughing at the top of his lungs. He kicked out his legs and wiped at his eyes.
"So — great — so fucking — funny. Oh God. So beautiful!" He gasped between chuckles. Kyle fumed, still sitting on the cold ground. He clenched his hands into fists and shook. Stan knelt beside him, giving Cartman his own glare.
Stan rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing Kenny. "Dude, that wasn't really the point of this experiment."
"Are you happy now, Fatass?" Kyle said through gritted teeth.
Cartman managed to sit up.
"Oh yes."
Jimmy, Token, and Butters stepped forward to examine Kyle. Wendy and Bebe rolled their eyes at the boys' curiosity. Wendy stepped forward and touched Stan's hand.
"I'll see you later, okay?"
Stan nodded and allowed the girl to give him a swift peck on the cheek, before she grabbed hold of Bebe's hand and dragged the other girl away from the 'stupid' boys.
Kyle was still sitting on the ground, allowing Jimmy to kneel in front of him and stare down his throat.
"I d-don't see anything w-wrong with him, E-Eric."
"Well, it won't happen right away will it?" Cartman said, getting to his feet and straightening his cardboard box. "We have to wait and see how he feels tomorrow."
"I feel fine, Fatass," Kyle scoffed. Stan offered his friend a hand up. Craig seemed to have lost interest in the exchange and was walking off towards Clyde and the rest of the kids playing football. Tweek gave a nervous shutter and then scampered after him. Token and Jimmy swept their eyes over Kyle once more and then retreated to the football game with Timmy in tow. Butters and Kenny remained behind, still curiously staring at Kyle.
Stan discreetly checked Kyle for anything odd. Not that he believed Cartman's claims about cooties, but having someone spit in your mouth probably isn't the best thing that can happen to you. Especially given Kyle's aversion to any bodily fluids that weren't his own, Stan was concerned his friend might not seem too well.
Cartman packed away his paintbrush, leaflets, and jars into his box. The bell rang announcing the end of recess, and the fat boy gave his friends a smarmy wave as he jogged towards the school entrance. Butters and Kenny followed after him. Stan glanced sideways at Kyle who seemed to be sticking his tongue out a lot. Stan suppressed a chuckle and placed a hand on the other boy's shoulder.
"Don't worry, dude, we'll show everyone tomorrow what a big fat liar he is," Stan reassured.
Kyle gave him a weak smile.
"I know," he agreed. "But this is Cartman, Stan, when has the universe not given him his way just to fuck with me?"
The answer was: never.