The Universal Law of Gravitation and Other Stories
Chapter 2: Vivsection Now! — Jersey Rising
written by SleepySheep683 - illustrated by FriggingodessKyle was dimly aware of his phone vibrating somewhere in his pants, but he was too busy to deal with it right now.
"Look, I really, really need 10 nanograms of tacrolimus, like, right now," Kyle repeated.
"I can't just give you that over the counter," the leathery-skinned technician said. Kyle slammed his fist on the counter; he could feel his rage boiling over.
"I don't have my prescription with me; I got stuck here and I don't have my medication. I need that medication; you're a technician, I'm sure you can figure out why!" He folded his arms and began to stare out the old man behind the counter.
"I'm sorry." He reached for a telephone. "If you can give me your doctor's details I can have him fax me a copy—"
"No!" Kyle yelled. "I... He's out of town!"
The technician frowned at him in suspicion. Kyle couldn't exactly blame him; what was he supposed to say? 'Sorry, but I'm on the run from the cops right now and I'd rather you didn't alert anyone as to my whereabouts.'?
"There has to be something you can do," Kyle pleaded. While he tried to argue his point and also wondered if God would let it slide were he to sneak into the back and take what he needed — he'd leave the money, obviously — three muscle-bound men with orange tans entered the store; their slicked-back hair glinted under the fluorescent lights.
The technician tensed. Kyle felt his temples start to throb wildly. The greasy haired guys shoved him out of the way and leant casually on the counter.
"Mr Miller, how you doin' today?" one of the guys enquired while another tapped a baseball bat menacingly against the palm of his hand.
Mr. Miller's milky eyes widened in fear as he backed away. "Now Frankie, I don't want no trouble."
Frankie laughed and gestured to his companions. "Hear that? He don't want no trouble. We don't want no trouble either; do we, boys?"
Another of the meatheads grabbed Mr. Miller by the shoulder. Normally this would have been Kyle's cue to quietly leave and call the police, but for some reason, today his body didn't want to comply.
His vision blurred, he started to see an almost literal red mist descend. His heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The last thing he clearly remembered was grabbing a container of hair gel from the shelf in front of him before...
"Hey, grease balls!"
The three guys stopped threatening the technician and turned to face Kyle.
"You talkin' to me?" Frankie asked, clearly stifling sniggers. It only served to enrage Kyle further.
"You see anyone else around here? Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, you piece of trash!" He walked up to the guys and drew himself up to his full height, leaving him face to shoulder with Frankie.
Frankie brushed down his jacket as though trying to brush away Kyle.
"Oh, so you wanna get all up in this, punk?" He poked a manicured finger at Kyle's chest
"I'm getting so far up in this, I'm going to rip out your colon!" Kyle snarled, shoving Frankie hard and making him lose his footing. Frankie laughed, albeit a little more nervously.
"Lookie here, half-pint's got some lip. Pity he ain't got the balls to back it up!" As he said this, one of his cronies grabbed Kyle by the neck of his t-shirt and hoisted him into the air. Without thinking, Kyle brought the back of his heel down hard into the guy's crotch. He whimpered and fell to the floor, wheezing. His baseball bat rolled out of his hand and rested at Kyle's feet. He picked it up.
"You took my place in line, you fuckin' piece of garbage!" He wielded the baseball bat like he did this every day of his life.
"Oh, I'm garbage? You no-good wannabe, you're goin' down!"
There was a lot of yelling as Kyle swung the bat and managed to make it connect with Frankie's knee, dead-legging him and putting them face-to-face. Kyle smacked him in the face — because that's what fucking line-jumping pieces of trash like him deserved.
Frankie moaned and covered his nose with his hands. Kyle leant over him menacingly.
"You know what you are?" he ground out, nostrils flaring. "You're muff cabbage. Now get the fuck out of her before I finish what I started."
Frankie's cohorts helped him up and the three stumbled out of the store. Kyle walked back to the counter, baseball bat still in hand.
"Right, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted; I need..."
Mr. Miller put a tiny case of pills down on the counter with a shaking hand. Kyle smiled.
"Finally, thank you." He reached for his wallet and Mr. Miller jumped out of his skin.
"N... No!"
"Here!" Kyle handed him his one and only twenty-dollar bill, which he shook his head at.
"It... It's... it's seventy dollars," he stammered out, quivering.
"What the fuck?" Kyle snapped. Goddamn, medication was expensive.
Mr. Miller shook once again. "Don't... Don't worry about it. Just take it!"
"Really?" Kyle looked at him warily.
"Of course, of course! Take it!" He jammed at the till anxiously, and slammed the drawer shut without making a transaction. Kyle stared at the pot of tablets in his hands and smiled.
"Wow; thanks, sir. I'll pay you back; my dad's insured. Good night," Kyle called as he left the store with the baseball bat, as Mr Miller sank down onto the floor and start taking deep breaths.
As he stepped out into the cold night, he wondered what to do next. It was then that he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored windows of the nearby gym.
Holy fuck, what had he done to himself?
The sleeves of his t-shirt had been ripped off, his hair was blow-backed to within an inch of its life and where the hell had he got that gold chain? Or that knuckleduster?
Oh God — he hadn't been sleep-deprived at all. He had turned Jersey. Again.
He really didn't fancy going to the fatass in this state; he'd never hear the end of it. He felt a sudden urge to hit the gym and do some reps.
Stan threw his phone against the bed. "Damn it!"
"Stan, he'll be okay," Wendy soothed, rubbing his shoulders gently. He sighed and leant against her.
"Sorry, babe," he said wearily. "I just... I've seen what happens to Kyle when he's around Jerseyites. It's not pretty."
He felt Wendy's eyes bore into him. "Stan! I can't believe you could say such a thing! You're talking about people from New Jersey as though they're some kind of infection you can catch!"
"Well, they are!" he spluttered. "Kyle's mom's from New Jersey. It's in him. And when he gets around other people from New Jersey..."
He felt Wendy let go of him as though he had electro-shocked her. He sighed heavily.
"Look, babe; trust me on this." He gently grabbed her arm. "New Jersey is no place for Kyle, okay?"
Wendy still sat ramrod straight on the bed, her body turned away from him as though on defensive lock-down. Despite this, he stood up and grabbed his phone.
"What are you doing?" Wendy's eyes had narrowed to slits as Stan started frantically searching AirTran's webpage.
"Finding the next flight to Newark." He didn't look up from his phone.
"Why are you going to all this trouble for him?" she demanded icily, her back still turned on him
"Because, dude, it's Kyle!"
Wendy rolled her eyes. "Wow; you know something, Stan? All my friends go on about what a sweet, caring boyfriend you are, and they're totally right! Kyle's such a lucky guy!"
Stan gawped at Wendy as she folded her arms grumpily. "Jesus Christ, Wendy; quit being so childish," he said, using her stock insult for him against her. "He's in deep shit!"
"And it's his own fault!"
"No, it's those stupid MYOPIA people's fault," Stan shot back.
Wendy stood up and faced him, her nose almost touching his as she glared. "They're not stupid, they want to stop animal cruelty! Kyle was the one who got us caught!"
"They set us up!" Stan argued back angrily.
"Kyle deliberately wound them up!"
"Well what do you expect?" Stan snapped. "He's on immune-suppress... something to keep his body from rejecting that goddamn kidney of Cartman's..."
"What?" Wendy looked horrified, and Stan swiftly remembered that she wasn't supposed to know; that nobody was supposed to know. He felt a stab of guilt deep in the pit of his stomach.
"Look, Kyle doesn't like people knowing, okay. So... So you don't know, alright?"
Wendy nodded dumbly.
"Anyway, of course he's going to believe in medical research..."
Stan stopped mid-flow as another horrible realisation hit him. No way would Kyle have carried his medication on him when he wasn't expecting to stay over anywhere. He even hated having to take his pills in front of Stan if they'd had a sleepover; he always used Stan's room to avoid any of their other classmates seeing his little kite-decorated pill box labelled with days of the week that he'd had since he was eight.
Wendy was staring at the floor.
"He doesn't have them with him, does he?" she asked quietly. Stan shook his head. He hung his head in his hands and allowed Wendy to take his phone.
"There's a flight in a couple of hours that looks like it has some cancellations," she said after a few moments. "I'm sure we can make it." She squeezed his shoulder.
"I love you, babe," Stan said, without considering anything except that it was a dumb thing to say and that he meant it.
Wendy kissed the top of his head, but said nothing in response.
"Oh, Jesus!" Vinnie said in dismay as Kyle potted the black and cleared the table. He slammed his pint glass down and his companions groaned.
"Hey, mind the baize!" Kyle ordered, rubbing his fingers together in the international gesture for cash. Vinnie rolled his eyes and pulled his wallet out of his too-tight stone-wash denim jeans. He shoved a handful of cash into Kyle's hand, who counted each bill and checked it against the light.
"Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen," he said, pocketing the cash. He raised his pool cue. "Anyone care for a friendly round?"
The other grease-slicked guys mumbled incoherently and wandered off to the bar. Vinnie picked up his pool cue and grinned.
"Sure thing, half-pint," he replied. "I want to learn from the ultimate hustler..."
"Hey!" Kyle snapped. "I ain't no hustler, you got that?"
Vinnie raised his hands. "Sure, sure. No drama, no drama." He took the triangle from underneath the pool table and began to set up the next game. "It's just... I'm looking for something else. Boxing's for the young, I ain't got it in me no more."
Kyle nodded sympathetically. "There's got to be better ways to make a living than hustling."
He chalked his cue and was about to break when the door to the bar flung open, making a loud slamming noise as it hit the wall.
The room went silent. Kyle looked up to see a very angry Cartman — no, wait; Irene — hands on his hips and what looked like a fur coat draped over his shoulders. Kyle caught a glimpse of his furious expression and... and found himself strangely distracted by Cartman's orange face, dark-lidded eyes and bright red smeared lips. He was wearing make-up that looked shockingly well applied. Where Cartman had got this stuff from, God alone knew.
He staggered down on heels that he must have had to wedge his fat feet into and grabbed Kyle's arm, forcing them both face-to-face.
"This is where you've been? You don't come home all night because you've been hanging out in some no-good dive?" he demanded in a low, indignant voice.
Kyle shrugged. "So, what of it?"
Cartman grabbed him by his t-shirt and pulled him up to his height.
"I've been waiting for you, you no-good asshole" he raged.
"Alright, I'm sorry. I had stuff to do," Kyle said in a dismissive tone, pushing Cartman off him. Cartman still appeared enraged and almost hurt, to Kyle's utter incomprehension.
"You're gambling our money away and you're 'sorry'? How are we meant to eat?"
"You could afford to skip a few meals," Kyle retorted as he took his shot.
Cartman turned dramatically on his heel and folded his arms.
"What would you have me do, huh? Go back on the game?" He whirled around and grabbed Kyle's arm. "I'm pregnant with your baby, Kyley! Am I just going to have to abort it? I mean, there is a fifty per cent chance it'll be born ginger. It's probably the kindest thing."
Vinnie stared in utter amazement. Kyle merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop it, you aren't pregnant!"
Cartman raised an eyebrow. "That's a low blow, Kyley. You accusing me of lying?"
Kyle felt the rage build up inside him; goddamn Cartman and his stupid games. He glanced up at Vinnie's horrified, yet fascinated expression. Well, fine. If Cartman wanted to play games, he'd pick up the dice and shove them right up his nose.
"You told me you'd had a hysterectomy. So either you were lying then, or you're lying now, dame."
Cartman's face contorted into genuine bewilderment. Kyle took his chance and cupped his face with his free hand, the other still gripping his pool cue.
"Hey; no broad of mine's going on the game, alright?" He grabbed a handful of his winnings and tucked them down the enhanced cleavage of Cartman's man boobs.
"Go get yourself something nice, doll," he replied, smacking Cartman hard on the buttocks before continuing his efforts to break. Cartman gawped at his, his mouth opening and closing like a startled goldfish. Satisfied, Kyle potted two stripes off the bat and began to line up his next shot, only to feel clammy hands reach around his stomach.
Soon enough, Cartman's breath was fanning over the back of his neck and it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. "What do you say we forget this silly pool game and go back to the hotel? I promise to make it up to you," he added in a breathy tone, pouring his words straight into Kyle's ear. He grimaced and pulled away.
"Hey, Kyley; you show the lady a good time," Vinnie said, putting down his cue. "You got a diamond there." He winked at Cartman.
Just as Kyle was wondering exactly how much brain damage Vinnie had endured from his days as an amateur boxer, Cartman grabbed his hand and tugged on it coquettishly.
"Come on, Kyley; don't make mamma wait any longer," he teased, twisting his foot into the beer-sodden carpet. Feeling as though there was little choice, Kyle reluctantly followed Cartman out of the pool bar and back to their hotel room; stopping off just long enough pick up some Chinese take-away that looked to be equal parts lard and chicken skin.
They sat on the double bed in their room, the static-laced TV blaring out some documentary about Greenpeace.
"You're the most unbelievable asshole," Kyle grumbled through a mouthful of kung-pao chicken.
"What? I'm on the lam in disguise; I do whatever it takes to survive," Cartman insisted. Kyle rolled his eyes.
"Whatever." He eyed Cartman's three noodle boxes with interest.
"Forget it, kosher boy. I got pork."
"Dick."
Cartman looked at him; If Kyle didn't know better he would have thought it was with concern. "I didn't know you could play pool."
"Neither did I," Kyle replied. "It's just physics, really."
"We've got to get out of here," Cartman said through a mouthful of Singapore noodles. "I think the Jersey in you is going to stick if we stay holed up here. We've not even made it through twenty four hours and you've practically got your Guido membership card."
"Watch your mouth, you mook," Kyle spat back, before covering his mouth in shock. Cartman was right. He curled up into a ball on the bed and moaned.
"I can't take much more of this!" he hissed. He felt the bed groan under Cartman's weight as he shifted position to kneel behind him.
"You need to sleep, Kyley," he whispered into his ear. "Let me help."
"I really don't want you to—"
"Shh," Cartman said soothingly against his ear, his nylon wig tickling Kyle's neck. Soon, Kyle felt Cartman's chubby fingers kneading his neck muscles.
"Just relax, honey. Let Irene take good care of you."
Kyle felt all the rage and tension start to leave his body. It felt amazing; not in a remotely sexual way, but in a soothing way that made him want to stretch out his cramped body and just fall asleep.
"This is fucking weird..." Kyle let out a yawn. "But, you know, it feels pretty good. Peaceful."
"See? You should trust me more," Cartman said, as he continued to rub Kyle's neck and shoulders. "I learned this from watching Mom through the crack in her bedroom door; she does it all the time to people who come over. I heard her explain how it helps them relax just the other day."
"Mmm huh," Kyle grunted, letting his head flop down as the tension slowly drained from his knotted muscles.
Cartman's hands slid down to the waistband of his trousers. Kyle felt a fat finger gently run up and down the scar there.
"How does it feel to have me inside you?" he asked. Kyle felt his forehead pucker into a frown until he realised what Cartman was talking about.
"Shut up, asshole," he said, trying not to smile.
Cartman began to sing. "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you..."
Kyle couldn't help it; he started to giggle.
"You'd better be taking good care of that kidney," Cartman said. "I might need it back some day."
"Fuck off, fat boy — it's mine now," Kyle mumbled. He felt his eyelids droop with the sudden need for sleep.
In fact, he was so relaxed and close to the land of nod, he didn't even register Cartman unzip his pants and pull out his penis until he was physically pumping it.
Suddenly, every relaxed muscle knotted up tenfold.
"Cartman! What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get off me!" he roared in horror.
"What? It's a happy ending!" Cartman seemed genuinely offended at Kyle's reaction. "You rub the guy's neck and shoulders, then you rub their dick. It's a happy ending; it helps them relax. I saw my Mom do it to some Japanese business man, and he was super sleepy afterwards..."
"Cartman, you do know what your mom does for a living, right? Like, we're not just ripping on you for the sake of it, it's based in truth."
"It's Irene, asshole," Cartman said sulkily, until he looked down at Kyle's crotch and smiled. "Anyway, it looks like Little Kyle was enjoying it."
Kyle glanced down at his half-hard cock and rolled his eyes. "Cartman, I'm thirteen. I get hard whenever the school bus goes over a pothole."
"Whatever. You love it, isn't that right, Little Kyle?" He put on a falsetto voice and wiggled Kyle's penis like a puppet. "Oh yes, Irene, you've got such nice hands. They make me feel safe..."
-Friggingodess-
"Cartman, if you don't stop using my dick as a marionette this second, I swear to Abraham I will end you."
Cartman let go of Kyle's penis and shrugged. "God, you are so frigid. If it's good enough for Ben Affleck and Leonardo DiCaprio..."
Kyle stared at him momentarily. "Dude, you are fucked up beyond the art of telling it."
Stan woke from a vivid dream about lying naked on satin sheets to find his head on Wendy's shoulder, her hair fanned around him and drool caked on his chin.
"Sleep well?" Wendy asked fondly from the seat next to him. She took a tissue from her bag and wiped away his spittle.
"Are we in Newark yet?" he asked, glancing up the aisle of the plane in a vain attempt to find any air stewardesses.
"Almost." Wendy pointed at the window. Stan peered around her and was just about able to see land from between the clouds; from this high up it looked more like a relief map than actual land.
He glanced across at Wendy and smiled. He couldn't help but think about his dream and how much more awesome it would have been if she had been there too. Preferably naked. Or in the frilly stuff in his mom's catalogues that he and Kyle had giggled over when they were seven. Not the stuff he saw in Kenny's magazines — that was a little too scary for him. Wendy didn't seem into that sort of stuff, though; Stan had caught a peek when he shouldn't have in the commune. It had been completely accidental; she had squealed and blushed, he had closed his eyes, spewed apologies and blushed. Nevertheless, there had been a few precious seconds between seeing her in the middle of undressing and covering his eyes. The upshot of this was that Stan now knew what sort of underwear Wendy wore — all fairly utilitarian but brightly coloured. He also knew what her small but perfectly formed breasts looked like encased in a bra. He knew the dip of her back and the curve of her ass. He knew how pale and untouched her skin was underneath her clothes...
"Umm, Stan? Were you... Were you thinking about something else?" Wendy stared steadfastly out of the window. Stan looked down and saw, to his embarrassment, he had pitched a tent in his black combat trousers.
"I was thinking about you!" he blurted out in protestation, but if anything, it seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. He tried to kiss her but she kept her head turned away, allowing him to only managed a chaste peck on her jawline. She folded her arms defensively.
"I'm not touching it," she said firmly, just as the announcement for them to fasten their seatbelts echoed through the plane.
"What?"
An air stewardess pointed at his undone seatbelt, carefully avoiding looking anywhere below his chest. Stan buckled up.
"I'm not touching it, okay!" Wendy insisted, more loudly this time. The air stewardess stopped dead in her tracks and walked back over to them.
"Is this gentleman bothering you?" she asked, glaring at Stan as though he were some sort of sex pest; the kind that used to sit on the Greyhound to Denver and offer you sweets if you sat in his lap. Cartman always asked what kind of sweets they had before loudly proclaiming, "I ain't wiggling on your dick for goddamn Tootie Rolls, you pervert!"
He'd made about three of them cry.
"I'm not doing anything!" Stan protested, and the stewardess gave him one last revolted look before walking away.
"Wendy, I'm not expecting you to do anything with it. It's just there and kind of embarrassing and I just want to ignore it. Okay, babe?"
Wendy nodded, but kept her eyes on the view from the window. She did hold his hand until the plane landed, however, so he assumed he was forgiven.
Suddenly, the plane doors opened and scores of police officers in riot gear flooded the plane. The other passengers started to scream and panic.
"Don't move! Police!"
One of the armed officers stormed over to Stan and Wendy.
"They're here!" he said, grabbing Wendy's arm.
"Hey, let go of her!" Stan demanded angrily.
"We need you to come with us," the officer said.
"No way! We've got to find our friend!" Stan replied. The officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, Marsh."
"How do they know your name?" Wendy whispered to Stan, who shrugged.
Whatever the reason, Stan figured it couldn't be good.
The moonlight illuminated the rock-strewn path to the ramshackle tent; Cartman adjusted his ten gallon hat and glanced around. He could see scores of sheep nestled on the grassy ground, their wool shifting with the breeze.
Man, was it ever freezing without that fire.
The tent was pulled open; Kyle popped his head out. "Get in here," he said, irritation leaching into his voice. Cartman hurried over and tied the tent closed behind him. It wasn't much warmer here but there was at least some body heat trapped in the confined area.
"They're still there. All thirty-five of them," Cartman commented. Kyle nodded, biting his lip. They stared at each other for a while, Kyle's eyes big and bright in the lamplight.
"I'm cold," he said eventually.
"What do you want me to do about it?"
Kyle looked away and made no reply. Cartman took off his Stetson and tossed it casually against the side of the tent. Kyle was clad in a white half-buttoned night shirt tucked into his worn jeans, the shirt and one of his braces sliding off his shoulder. Cartman leant over and propped himself up on his elbows, his body hovering mere inches over Kyle's.
"Better?"
"A little," Kyle replied breathlessly, his puny chest rising and falling dramatically.
Cartman smirked cruelly. "That's because I make you hot, isn't it?"
Kyle looked away, his cheeks flushing crimson.
"I make you really fucking hot, you dirty little slut. Isn't that right?"
All Kyle did was grab his wrist with a trembling hand. It was enough; Cartman wasn't so cruel as to deny him what he'd needed ever since they came out here herding those fluffy little casseroles on legs. He pulled away from him and stood up.
"Get on your knees," he ordered, delighting as Kyle eagerly complied. Dropping behind him, he took a weighty arm and pushed down on Kyle's shoulders. He buckled and fell onto his forearms, gripping at the grass as his ass poked up in the air like a cat in heat. Silently, Cartman reached around and unbuckled his belt, tugging Kyle's trousers and underpants down sharply with one swift movement. Feeling a sense of urgency he couldn't fathom, he unbuttoned his own fly, spat into his hand and gripped his dick.
"Beg for it, you filthy little Jew," he whispered into Kyle's ear, seeing him shudder.
His lips parted, he gasped audibly. "Please," he croaked.
"Please what?"
"Please, Cartman... Do it in my butt like Larry Craig in an airport!"
Cartman gripped his thighs and thrust into him, as hard as he could. He wanted it to fucking hurt. He wanted it to fucking burn.
Kyle cried out in a weird mingling of pain and pleasure, which made Cartman's dick even harder.
"Oh yeah? You like that, don't you? You filthy little girl." He smacked him hard on the ass, delighting in yet another scream.
"Oh, God!" Kyle moaned. "Oh God, yes... Fuck, I hate you!"
Cartman laughed and smacked him again. "You wish. You can't hate me. You love my cock too much, you sick fuck." He thrust harder and faster, watching Kyle's fingers dig into the dirt.
"You're so big and manly," he moaned. "I don't think I can take it..."
"Oh, you'll take it," Cartman hissed into his ear. "Unless... you want me to stop?"
"No! No, please, no! I need your totally hot and not at all fat body smacking against my ass!" Kyle was near tears; Cartman relished it.
"Thought not. You're fucking disgusting. What are you, huh?"
"I'm... I'm a filthy fucking Jew."
"That's right." Cartman patted his ass affectionately; his reward for Kyle's admission of a truth he had been denying for years. "And what does my filthy fucking Jew need?"
"I... God! I... I want you. I want your sweet ball juice in my mouth."
Cartman bit down on Kyle's shoulder; he sobbed from pain or something else, Cartman didn't know. Or care.
"It tastes like that little creamy bit in Twinkies," he moaned. "So fucking good."
Steadying one hand on Kyle's outer thigh, Cartman grabbed a fistful of his red curls and yanked his head back so he could stare at Kyle's big, ever darkening eyes. "Wow; you're such a little whore for me, huh?"
Kyle turned his head further towards Cartman; he could now see his flushed cheeks, damp with tears. "But I'd pay you, Cartman; I'd pay you for your massive cock."
"Of course you would, my little Jew slave. Be patient; I don't want you to gargle on my jizz just yet." He let go of Kyle's head. "I'm not done with your tight gay-doh fun factory yet!" He kept his one hand firmly on Kyle's thigh and reached around with his other to fondle Kyle's tiny penis, delighting when Kyle's whole body thrummed from his touch.
"I'm going to make you cum all over your tits," Cartman hissed, just as Kyle started to sob and moan...
Cartman woke up with a jolt, feeling completely disorientated. He felt someone shove his side and roll him over onto his back.
"Were you spooning me, fatass?" Kyle's voice was far too close. He looked around and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he remembered. He was stuck in a goddamn double bed in a goddamn shitty hotel room in goddamn Newark with goddamn Kyle. And if he had been spooning him, it wasn't by choice.
Kyle shifted next to him on the mattress.
"What the... Eww! What the hell did you do? Did you pee on me, you sick fuck?" Kyle sounded positively apoplectic with rage.
"What the fuck? No!" Cartman protested, just as he noticed his underpants were soaking wet. Maybe he did? How embarrassing. It didn't seem right, though; he hadn't done anything like that since he was seven years old, apart from that one time he had a nightmare about hippies in his fridge.
Kyle sat up suddenly.
"Eww! Eww!" he practically squealed.
"Stop being such a girl; it's just some pee and I'm sorry," Cartman said wearily.
"Cartman; it's not pee," Kyle said quietly.
"What else could it be, fucking space rain?" Cartman snapped.
Even though it was effectively pitch black, Cartman could still feel, if not see, Kyle's eyes burn through him. He could think of nothing to say except, "Well, that's never happened to me before. Guess that makes me a man now."
He heard a rustling of sheets.
"I'm going to take a shower," Kyle mumbled, rushing to the en suite bathroom. "There are spare sheets in the closet."
The door slammed shut; Cartman heard the lock click. Discarding his soiled underwear, Cartman reached over and snapped on the lights. He stared at the sheets. What the hell did Kyle mean, 'spare sheets in the closet'? What the hell was he meant to do with that information?
"Eww, Cartman! It nearly touched my ass crack!" Kyle whined from the bathroom.
By the time he emerged wrapped in a towel with red, bleeding skin, Cartman had found the sheets but was at a loss what do to next. Didn't they just call a maid or something?
"Goddamn it, Cartman." Kyle pulled the sheets off the bed in one quick movement. He handed Cartman one end of the clean bed sheet.
"Here, put that in the corner like this..."
Within five minutes, Cartman had been shown how to make a bed for the first time in his life. He watched in amazement as Kyle stripped the cover from the duvet and put a fresh one on single-handedly.
"Wow, you're going to make a terrific wife for someone," he replied in genuine awe. Kyle glared at him.
"Shut the hell up!" he spat through gritted teeth. "Just... just go and get cleaned up."
Cartman, for once, didn't want to start another argument — Kyle he could deal with, but Kyley B was a step too far. As he meekly went over to the bathroom he felt something soft hit the back of his head. He grabbed the offending missile and discovered it consisted of three pairs of pants and a pair of pyjama bottoms he didn't recognise — he assumed they had been left by previous visitors.
"I'm not going through that again," Kyle said simply. "And get that make-up off your face, too!"
Cartman didn't bother locking the door and started up the shower.
"That Jew bastard had better not have used up all the hot water," he thought to himself as he stood under the faucet. He washed himself absently. Had he really just had a wet dream? It seemed kind of screwy — but then, he always got off on seeing his friends humiliated, and what could be more humiliating that Kyle on all fours with his pants round his knees taking it up the ass?
By the time he had failed to get rid of the make-up, dried off anyway, put on his several protective barriers and entered the bedroom again, Kyle was busying himself with some cotton wool balls and some weird pink cream.
"What's that?" Cartman asked as he sat next to Kyle on the bed. Kyle squeezed a dollop of the pink stuff onto a cotton wool ball and wiped it over Cartman's face.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, grimacing at the slimy wet sensation.
"It's lotion," Kyle replied. "Says it removes make-up. Found it in the drawers." He wiped the offending lotion off Cartman's face in firm strokes.
"Why thank you, Mother. Are you going to tuck me into bed and read me a story next?"
Kyle stopped. "Hey; if you want that shit all over your face for the next three days, be my guest."
Cartman kept quiet and let Kyle continue. Eventually, Kyle brought the conversation round to somewhere Cartman had fervently hoped it would never reach.
"So, what did you dream about?" he asked.
"Umm... Bebe's tits jiggling in my face," Cartman lied. Kyle nodded as though this explained everything.
"Why are you such a little housewife, anyway?" Cartman asked, taking any opportunity to change the subject. "Is it because you get cranky and have periods?"
Kyle's eyes narrowed in irritation; it was a look Cartman was used to seeing. "I have a little brother," he replied. "Sometimes it's just easier than getting Mom involved and freaking her out. Like the time I found Ike playing with her make-up and high-heels... Better?" he asked, dropping the cotton wool ball into the nearby waste paper bin.
Cartman actually felt much better, but he was damned if he was going to tell Kyle that. Instead, he picked his wig up from the floor and pulled it onto his head.
"You've such gentle hands, Kyley," he simpered, taking Kyle's hand in his. "A girl could get used to this kind of... tenderness."
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Are we back to this again?"
"I can't help it; no man's ever treated me right before. They've all been assholes; fighting over me, using my hot body for sex. They've never cared, Kyley. Not like you."
"I don't care, Cartman," Kyle replied.
"Yes, you do," Cartman replied, reaching out and stroking Kyle's cheek. Kyle flinched.
"Come on, baby," Cartman coaxed. "Give Irene a kiss."
"No way, fatty!"
"Just one little kiss. Just a teeny, weeny kiss?"
"Fuck off!"
"You're just like the others," Cartman yelled dramatically. "They all wanted to pound my super tight snatch, but they never wanted to love me! They never cared about me as a woman!"
"Cartman, shut up! The whole fucking block will be able to hear you! What if someone calls the police?"
Cartman raised his volume even higher. "Perhaps I should just go, walk out the door, don't turn around now, 'cause I'm not welcome anymore..." He clenched his fists and started to punch the partition wall repeatedly; it echoed and shook.
"Dude!" Kyle actually looked worried. "Just chill. And be quiet!"
"Will you kiss me goodnight?" Cartman asked, looking up at Kyle hopefully. Kyle rolled his eyes, shrugged and shuddered, all within the space of ten seconds. "All right, if it'll shut you up."
Kyle wrinkled his nose and leant forward, his lips slightly puckered. Cartman made a great show of pursing his and closing his eyes, unable to believe it when he felt a damp mouth touch his for the briefest of seconds. He opened his eyes to see Kyle's disgusted expression.
It had to be done.
He leapt off the bed and pointed at Kyle. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha-ha! You're totally gay!" he sang.
"What? You asked me, fat boy!" Kyle raged.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha-ha. You kissed a boy and you liked it!"
"Shut the hell up, Cartman; it was gross!"
"Dance, then, wherever you may be,
Kyle is the Lord of the Gays, said he,
And he'll lead you all to the shopping marquee,
Because Kyle is the Lord of the Gays, said he!"
This shit was so funny, Cartman didn't even care that Kyle was flexing his fingers as a vein appeared to throb at his temple.
"So, let me get this straight..." Stan stopped staring at the obvious two-way glass in the tiny interrogation room and focused on the young officer in front of him. "You want us to find that MYOPIA chick? We don't know where the hell she is!" he fumed. Wendy looked positively terrified sat next to him, hands in her lap.
The blonde officer smiled genially; the name badge pinned to his breast pocket read 'Sergeant Roberts'. "We know where she is," he replied, pushing a set of documents across the desk to Stan. Wendy peered over and clutched Stan's arm.
"Newark?" she queried, her previous apprehension suddenly replaced with curiosity. Stan could see it in the way her eyes glinted.
"Right," Sergeant Roberts replied. "She and that band of merry men have set up some kind of camp around this building here." He pointed to the document in Stan's hand — an annotated aerial photograph — and jabbed his finger at a skyscraper on the periphery of a park.
"Lars Newark Enterprises? Who are they?" Stan asked.
"They're known as Lars N.E," Roberts answered.
"Yeah, but who are they?"
"They're an investment bank; they pour money into Harrison Life Sciences," Wendy replied.
Stan stared at her in amazement. "How did you know that?"
Wendy rolled her eyes. "I actually read the pamphlet they handed out, Stan."
"All we need you to do is get them to come out and talk to you; then all this breaking and entering business can disappear," Roberts said, flashing a smarmy smile Stan didn't like the look of.
"So, we get her to come out and talk — then what happens?" Stan asked warily.
"You kids get to go home and all this will be over. That includes your little friend who must really be in need of his medication." Roberts looked at Stan pointedly. He felt impotent rage bubble up inside him, though he held his tongue.
"Okay, okay! We'll-" Stan stopped as he saw another piece of paper beneath the aerial photograph. He lifted it up and saw the same photograph but with an overlay of arrows, stick figures with batons and biro drawings of fires over the photographed tents. It bore the legend 'Operation Get the Soap Dodgers'.
"Wait, what the hell is this?" Stan demanded. Roberts hastily cleared away the papers.
"That? Oh, that's nothing. Just doodles. Forget them." He put on a pair of sunglasses and pressed down on the top of his pen. A bright white flash filled the room.
Stan sighed heavily. "Dude, you can flash lights at me all you want, I'm not going to help you beat up a bunch of protesters."
"Who said anything about beating up protesters? I didn't, did you?" Roberts turned to one of his men for support, before looking at his pen in dismay. "Why didn't it work?" he said to himself. "Will Smith managed it..."
"Yeah, because that was a film, douchebag!" Stan shouted, feeling close to losing his temper. He absently wondered how Kyle found the energy to be in an almost permanent state of irritation; Stan personally found it exhausting.
Wendy perused the files.
"Fine," she said eventually. "You give us — and I mean all of us — immunity from prosecution for everything, and ensure we have clean records. Then we'll do it," she said, folding her arms.
"Wendy!"
"What? You said it yourself, MYOPIA set us up. Plus, I don't want a criminal record; it could hurt my college applications!" She fixed Roberts with a steely glare. "But we won't move even a finger until get that in writing and signed by two commanding officers."
Roberts blinked, clearly surprised. "I'll... I'll get that printed up," he said, somewhat lamely, before scraping his chair back and leaving the room.
As he left, Stan stared at Wendy. "Dude!"
The journey to the park was a boring one; once you'd seen one riot van, you'd seen them all in Stan's opinion.
"Wait, what about Kyle?" Stan asked. "And Cartman," he added as an afterthought.
"We'll pick them up on the way," the cheerful and portly driver explained. "We've taken eye-witness accounts and analysed spending patterns; we've narrowed it down to this location.
He stopped the van and Roberts stood up.
"Come on, men! We've got to find those kids!" he announced. The officers, all decked out in riot gear, clambered out of the van and started scouring the area.
"They could be anywhere," Roberts said grimly. "Spread out! If we have to comb every inch of this neighbourhood, we'll do it, got that?"
Suddenly, Stan heard scuffles and screams.
"I'm going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck!"
"I think someone's in denial..."
"Fuck you!"
"You wish — ow!"
Stan poked Roberts in the arm. "They're over there," he said casually. Wendy grabbed his hand.
"Come on!" she insisted, running in the direction of the yells.
By the time Stan and Wendy reached the squealing mass of limbs, Roberts had reached them and instantly attempted to separate Kyle and Cartman. He eventually succeeded but Kyle managed to land a final punch on the back of Cartman's neck.
"What the hell happened?" Stan demanded, surveying the damage. Kyle looked like a 'Dragon Ball Z' character, Cartman was wearing ladies' clothes... The whole situation generated too many questions that Stan didn't want the answers to.
"Kyle's totally gay!" Cartman sang gleefully.
"What?" Stan thought it explained a few things — Kyle's utter lack of interest in girls, for one. He couldn't help but feel very insulted that Kyle hadn't told him first, however.
"Bullshit!" Kyle said in an accent that sounded worrying similar to his mom's. "This mook has been up in my face all day, ends up begging — begging! — me for a kiss. So, I say to him, I says, 'If it'll shut you the fuck up, I'll work my magic...' It's a Jersey thing, you know?" He casually brushed his t-shirt down; the knuckle-duster on his hand didn't shock Stan, mainly because he had seen the imprint of it on Cartman's face.
"You did...? Urgh, whatever. It's you two; nothing surprises me."
Wendy stared, wide eyed, from Kyle to Cartman and back again.
"Can you do it again?" she asked eagerly.
"What? No way, Wendy, you fucking freak!" Cartman spluttered.
"Dude! Don't call my girlfriend names!"
Kyle nonchalantly slung his arm over Wendy's shoulder. "I ain't interested in putting on a show, Princess; but if you meet me down Tribecca's tonight, maybe I can be persuaded to show you just what happened one-on-one." He gently caressed Wendy's chin with his thumb and winked at her.
"Dude! What the hell?" Stan gasped in horror. Kyle turned a deep shade of crimson and hastily dropped his arm from around Wendy.
"Sorry, Dude. It's the Jersey. It's too strong..."
One of the riot police approaching Roberts stared at Kyle in horror. "My God, he's almost full Jersey!" he said.
"What can we do?" Stan asked. The officer shook his head.
"Nothing, I'm afraid. I've seen this before; there's no power great enough to counter this level of change."
"Wait, you mean I'm stuck like this?" Kyle asked in a quivering voice that Stan knew to signal the onset of ultimate rage. Roberts clearly mistook it for tears, for he put a comforting arm around Kyle.
"It's okay, little man," he said in soothing tones. "Plenty of people learn to manage it. Now, we really need you to be a brave little soldier and —"
Kyle pulled away and grabbed a baseball bat seemingly out of nowhere.
"Where are those lanky dregs of muff cabbage?" he raged, wielding the bat like he meant business. "I'll show them fucking vivisection!"
"What I don't get," Stan mused as the riot van pulled away from the burnt out remains of the protestors' encampment in the park, "is why they were even out here in the first place?"
"They're trying to stop Lars Newark Enterprises from investing in Harrison Life Sciences," Kyle replied, stroking the burn marks on his baseball bat. "No investment means no more research. Only it won't work because these companies have so many funds and investment arms, twenty people with placards aren't going to mean shit when stacked up against hundreds and thousands of pension providers, insurance companies and conglomerations who want to spread their risk. They want to stop animal research? They should invent a viable alternative and, like, fucking contribute to scientific progress instead of trying to hinder it. Then you might get closer to a decent balance between ethics and development." He jiggled his foot. "Is there a gym near here? I need to work on my abs."
Stan looked at Kyle sadly. "Is there really nothing we can do?" he asked.
Roberts put a hand on Stan's shoulder. "This level of Jersey can only be countered by intense levels of hickdom.
The other officer nodded. "I can't think of anywhere that would come close to having the concentration required."
Stan smiled. "I think maybe I can." He touched Kyle's arm. "Hang on, buddy. We're going to be okay. We're going home."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "Where's home?"
"South Park," Wendy replied.
"South Park, Colorado?"
Stan nodded. The officer's lips formed a pink 'O' of surprise.
"Oh, he'll be back to normal in a week," he replied confidently.
Cartman was still giggling.
"Wow, we beat up hippies, burned down their tents and we found out Kyle's a flaming Gay Lord! This is, like, the best day ever!"
"One more word, Cartman, and this is going right up your ass," Kyle said through gritted teeth, gripping the baseball bat menacingly.
"Really? I totally figured you'd prefer to have stuff shoved up your ass than the other way around..."
Stan sighed; it was going to be a long journey home.